Page 148 of Run Little Omega

Several courtiers shoot me scandalized looks. I'm supposed to stand silently at court proceedings—a pretty vessel on display. Three months ago, they'd have presented me as property, not as having opinions about military strategy.

Cadeyrn doesn't silence me. Instead, he nods. "Lady Briar's assessment is accurate, if bluntly stated. The courts want to study what they cannot understand and control what they cannot predict."

The throne room itself seems to agree. What was once perfect geometric ice—precise angles and sterile surfaces—now pulses like something alive. The walls ripple with subtle movement, cillae similar to those marking my skin spreading across floors and columns, growing more intricate by the day. The building itself is waking up, just like everything else touched by Wild Magic.

"The Autumn Court approaches from the east," continues a third noble, an older female with silver streaks in her frost-white hair. "They've brought their diviners. We've detected attempts to scry our defenses, particularly..."

She hesitates, eyes flickering toward my belly as though looking at it directly might summon what grows within.

"Particularly the birth chambers," Cadeyrn finishes for her. "They seek to predict when Lady Briar will be most vulnerable."

The blatant discussion of my impending labor makes my teeth clench. These fae have spent centuries viewing omegas as elegant breeding vessels, and old habits die hard—even among those who've aligned with our cause.

"Do they think I'll just lie down and wait for them to carve me open like a solstice feast?" I ask, voice carrying further than intended in the throne room's crystalline acoustics.

The female noble blanches. "My lady, I didn't mean to suggest?—"

"I know exactly what you meant," I snap, cillae brightening across my skin as heat rises in my chest. "I'm the vessel. The container. The temporary housing for what they really want."

A tense silence falls over the gathering. Even Cadeyrn turns to me with mild surprise. The little ones respond to my emotional state with synchronized movement, four distinct magical signatures pulsing beneath my skin like embers catching fire.

"All four courts underestimate Lady Briar," Lysandra says, stepping forward from where she's been observing. "A mistake they've been making since she entered the Hunt wearing another's face."

The reminder of my deception—entering the Hunt disguised as Willow—makes several nobles shift uncomfortably. Good. Let them remember I wasn't born to court protocol or bound by their expectations. Let them remember I survived their Hunt through cunning while they lounged in safety.

"Our defensive strategy must account for all possibilities," Cadeyrn redirects, his voice carrying the weight of seven centuries of command. "The birth chambers have been prepared according to ancient specifications, with additional protections added by our loyal mages."

"Our loyal forces are outnumbered," admits the guard captain, cillae mirroring military insignia across his temples. "But the palace defenses have strengthened beyond anything in recorded history. The walls themselves reject those whose intentions threaten the Wild Magic."

This much is true. The Winter Palace has developed consciousness since our claiming in the throne room—corridors rearranging themselves to create barriers against threats, doors refusing to open for those harboring betrayal. Like a massive body developing an immune system against disease.

"What of the awakened omegas?" asks a younger noble, one of the few who've embraced change rather than merely tolerating it. "Their cillae grow stronger daily. Many have begun manifesting actual abilities."

Another topic that makes the traditional court squirm. Since the solstice ritual, omegas throughout the palace have developed cillae similar to mine, dormant magic awakening after centuries of suppression through careful breeding programs. The Winter Court has never had to consider omegas as anything but vessels before. The idea of them wielding actual power disrupts everything these bastards have built for millennia.

"The omegas will defend what is theirs," I answer before anyone else can speak. "Their freedom. Their potential. Their right to be more than breeding stock."

My words hit like hammer blows on heated metal, ripples of discomfort spreading visibly across noble faces. But I spot several servants along the walls—omegas with newly manifested cillae partially hidden beneath formal attire—standing straighter, eyes brightening with something like hope.

"Reports from the border villages suggest similar awakenings," adds another noble, this one younger with less rigid posture than his elders. "Particularly in Thornwick, where the Wild Magic has apparently accelerated healing of the wasting sickness."

Willow. My heart constricts at the mention of my friend, the one whose place I took in the Hunt. The purification plants spreading from the Vale of Culling must have reached the village water supply, reversing the contamination that caused her illness. At least something good has come from all this blood and magic.

"What of our evacuation routes?" Cadeyrn asks, returning to practical matters. "If the defenses fail, we must have contingencies for the most vulnerable."

"Prepared as ordered, my prince," confirms a court mage with elaborate cillae spiraling down both arms. "The ancient tunnels have been cleared and provisioned. Guides have been assigned to each group, with priority given to the awakened omegas and children."

I watch the proceedings with growing weariness. My body feels simultaneously weightless and impossibly heavy, the little ones draining my energy faster than I can replenish it. Lysandra estimates less than two days until the birthing, the Wild Magic accelerating what should have been a nine-month cycle into just over three.

A wave of discomfort washes through me, different from the magical surges I've grown accustomed to. Something sharper, hotter. I shift my weight, trying to focus on the military reports while a tingling sensation spreads from my core outward.

"The specialized containment equipment concerns me most," Cadeyrn is saying, his attention fixed on the elaborate model of our territories spread across the central table. "These are designed for capturing rather than killing. For study rather than execution."

"They want to understand the Wild Magic," says an elderly noble, his cillae faded with age. "To learn how to control what they now fear."

"Wild Magic cannot be controlled," Lysandra interjects, her formal healer's robes replaced by more practical attire that allows freedom of movement. "That is precisely what they refuse to understand. It can be channeled, directed, harmonized with—but never dominated or contained."

The heat building beneath my skin intensifies, sweat beading along my hairline despite the perpetual winter chill of the palace. What the hell is happening to me? The little ones have settled somewhat, their movements less frantic than before, yet my temperature continues to rise like a forge coming to life.

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