Page 131 of Run Little Omega

"Esteemed council," Cadeyrn's voice carries effortlessly through the vast chamber, cool and commanding. "I see you've begun discussions without me. How... presumptuous."

A female voice breaks the stunned silence. "Prince Cadeyrn." The words are clipped with barely restrained fury. "Your return is... unexpected."

"Clearly." Dry amusement colors his tone. "Yet here I stand, before my council and my throne." He moves aside slightly, revealing me to the assembled nobility. "And I bring with me something unprecedented."

This is my cue. With a deep breath, I raise my head and meet the gaze of the Winter Court council.

They're beautiful in the way natural disasters are beautiful—remote, perfect, deadly. Each noble bears the hallmarks of Winter bloodlines—pale skin that gleams like fresh snow, hair in shades of white or platinum, eyes in various hues of blue from palest ice to deepest midnight. Their clothing follows the same aesthetic—elaborate robes in white, silver, and pale blue, adorned with geometric patterns that echo the palace architecture. Fashion tip: if you can't decide what to wear, just pick "variations on ice" and you'll fit right in.

Cadeyrn reaches back and pulls my hood down in a single fluid motion. Gasps ripple through the chamber as my copper hair with its pronounced silver streaks is revealed. Then, with ceremonial deliberation, he removes the masking salve from my face and hands with a cloth pulled from his sleeve.

The cillae bloom across my skin, luminous and unmistakable. The children choose this moment to move, creating a visible ripple across the taut fabric of my dress.

"Impossible," someone whispers, the word echoing in the sudden hush.

"Abomination," hisses another, louder.

Cadeyrn's hand settles possessively at the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking once along my pulse point. "This is Briar Ellis of Thornwick," he announces. "My claimed mate, carrying the future of the Winter Court within her."

A tall, severe-looking fae with frost-white hair styled in an elaborate crown of braids steps forward, his long silver robe trailing behind him. "Prince Cadeyrn," he says, voice dripping with false concern, "your extended absence has clearly affected your judgment. This... omega shows signs of Wild Magic contamination. The council cannot possibly recognize such a claim."

"Lord Frostbaine," Cadeyrn acknowledges with a slight incline of his head. "Your concern is noted. And irrelevant."

I recognize the name from whispered conversations during the Hunt. Lord Frostbaine—the Winter Court enforcer specifically bred for Hunt participation, his bloodline ruthlessly culled over generations to produce the perfect stud specimen. Once Cadeyrn's lieutenant, now clearly positioning himself as replacement. Great. Just what we need—an alpha who considers genetic superiority a personality trait.

Without releasing his hold on me, Cadeyrn turns toward the far end of the chamber where an enormous throne sits on a raised dais. The Frost Throne is nothing like I imagined—not an ornate seat of power but something more primal. It appears to have been grown rather than crafted, crystalline formations spiraling upward to form a high back and sweeping arms, the entire structure glowing with a faint blue-white luminescence.

"The Frost Throne recognizes blood and birthright above council opinions," Cadeyrn continues, guiding me forward. "Shall we test its judgment?"

The nobles part before us like a reluctant sea, their faces masks of horror and fascination. I feel their stares like physical touches—some calculating, some disgusted, a few merely curious. And throughout it all, I maintain the dignity Cadeyrn instructed, neither cowering nor challenging, simply existing as if I have every right to be here. I've never felt more like a blacksmith's apprentice playing dress-up in my life.

As we approach the dais, I notice subtle patterns etched into the ice floor—frost whorls almost identical to those that mark my skin since Cadeyrn's claiming. The children grow restless again, squirming as if responding to something in the air.

"Prince Cadeyrn," a new voice interrupts, feminine but carrying unmistakable authority. "The throne has remained dormant since your departure. What makes you believe it will awaken for a human omega carrying contaminated offspring?"

I turn toward the voice and find myself facing a woman of such ethereal beauty it momentarily steals my breath. Her skin has the translucent quality of the finest ice, her hair falls in perfect platinum waves to her waist, and her eyes are the pale blue of a winter sky at dawn. Unlike the other nobles, she wears a simple gown of unadorned white, its only embellishment a silver chain bearing a snowflake pendant.

"Lady Lysandra," Cadeyrn greets her, and I recognize the name of his potential ally. "The throne awakens for Wild Magic, not contamination. Or have you forgotten the origin of our court's power?"

Something flickers in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or confirmation of a long-held suspicion. "The council has not forgotten," she replies carefully. "Merely... reinterpreted certain historical records for modern sensibilities."

"A diplomatic way of saying they've buried truths that don't suit current politics," Cadeyrn counters, then turns back to the assembled nobles. "The Winter Court was founded on Wild Magic—untamed, unbroken, flowing freely between realms. The seasonal divisions came later, a political convenience that has weakened us all."

The temperature in the chamber drops noticeably, frost creeping across the floor from several of the more powerful nobles. I shiver despite myself, and Cadeyrn steps slightly closer, his body shielding mine from the worst of the cold.

"Heresy," Lord Frostbaine declares, frost gathering at his fingertips. "The prince has clearly been corrupted by prolonged exposure to Wild Magic. The contamination has spread to his mind."

From the shadows near the western entrance, another figure emerges—a female alpha with skin so pale it's nearly translucent, her veins visible beneath like frozen rivers. "Perhaps," she says, her voice melodic yet cold, "we should remember what happened to those who challenged Prince Cadeyrn during this Hunt cycle."

A ripple of unease passes through the gathering. The news of Cadeyrn's unprecedented violence during the Hunt—his methodical execution of Lord Varen Halvesbain and other pursuing alphas—has clearly reached the court.

"Lady Midnight," Cadeyrn acknowledges with a slight nod. "Always the voice of practical consideration."

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "The Winter Court values survival above sentiment. A fact some seem to have forgotten."

Lord Frostbaine's jaw clenches visibly, but he offers no further challenge. The memory of his predecessor's fate—frozen from the inside out, his heart burst within his chest—seems to have dampened his immediate enthusiasm for confrontation.

"Test me, then," Cadeyrn challenges, gesturing toward the Frost Throne. "Let the seat of Winter Court power judge whether I speak truth or heresy."

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