Page 158 of Run Little Omega

For tonight, at least, we are not alone.

CHAPTER53

POV: Briar

Morning light fracturesthrough ice walls like shattered promises, casting prismatic shadows across my chambers. I trace cillae across my swollen belly, watching them pulse with four distinct rhythms. Each beat corresponds to one of the little ones growing within me—these impossible lives that shouldn't exist according to centuries of court doctrine.

That's when I notice it again—the whispering.

Since our claiming in the throne room, the Winter Palace has developed a voice. Not words exactly, but intentions that vibrate through crystalline surfaces. Warning. Welcoming. Watching. Alive in ways that defy explanation. I press my palm against the nearest wall and feel it respond like a living thing, ice warming beneath my touch in a way that contradicts natural laws.

"What are you trying to tell me?" I murmur.

The wall pulses beneath my fingers, cillae spiraling outward in response to my question. A connection I would have dismissed as impossible before Wild Magic rewrote everything I thought I knew. The patterns form a trail leading down the corridor, fading and reappearing like breadcrumbs guiding me forward.

I follow, one hand cradling my belly where the four little ones stir restlessly. Their magic mingles with mine, separate yet connected, each already showing distinct affinities that shouldn't manifest until birth. The Wild Magic flows through all of us, binding us together while simultaneously asserting their individuality.

The palace guides me through frost-adorned corridors toward the omega wing where Flora, Mira, and Nessa have been housed since their arrival yesterday. Their quarters connect to the servants' section where other awakened omegas reside—a deliberate arrangement on Cadeyrn's part. Proximity spreads the Wild Magic like a controlled contagion, each awakened omega strengthening those around them.

The ice wall pulses more insistently as I approach their chambers, cillae spiraling outward with unmistakable agitation. Something's wrong. The warning crawls across my skin, raising gooseflesh along my arms. It reminds me of the forge when metal heats beyond its tolerance point—that moment before catastrophic failure when everything goes too still.

I hesitate outside their door, pressing my ear against the surface. Silence. Too complete to be natural. The absence of sound in a palace that has recently discovered its voice feels like a void where life should exist.

"Flora?" I call, rapping my knuckles against the frame. "Mira?"

Nothing answers but the hollow echo of my own voice.

The door swings open at my touch, releasing a complex bouquet of scents that my transformed senses parse instinctively. Unfamiliar omega. Fear—acrid and sharp. Determination—a bitter undertone like burnt metal. And beneath it all, something I recognize from the Hunt—the faint, distinctive musk of a Summer Court alpha.

The common area appears meticulously ordered—beds made, personal belongings arranged with the precision of people accustomed to regular inspections. Everything placed just so, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for someone to notice what's wrong.

I move methodically through the space, checking each bedchamber in turn, muscle memory from forging complex pieces guiding my search pattern. Flora's room contains precisely folded court-provided clothing and a small notebook filled with magical theory written in an educated hand—her violet eyes translating to careful, analytical script. The organized chaos of someone who thinks deeply, connects disparate elements, and records those connections for future reference.

Mira's chamber bears witness to her youth despite everything she's endured. Childlike attempts to recreate cillae decorate scraps of paper, drawn with charcoal that's smudged her fingertips. Her innocence somehow preserved like a pressed flower between the pages of uglier truths. The Hound's claiming marks still stand livid against her throat, but she's made herself something here—a space of her own within the cold walls of the Winter Palace.

Nessa's room is different. Bare. Too bare. Like someone intentionally removed all personal traces. No sign of the practical farm girl whose strength helped her survive The Collector's brutal claiming. No sign of the omega who miscarried in that haven, her thighs painted red with blood and loss as I walked past, too caught up in my own survival to offer comfort. No sign of the woman who thanked me with tears in her eyes when I gave her an iron token in the tent before the Hunt began.

A faint shimmer catches my eye—a distortion in the air near her perfectly made bed. Most would miss it entirely, but my altered vision picks up the subtle wrongness, like heat rippling above metal fresh from the forge. I reach toward it, and my fingers encounter resistance, like pushing through congealed blood. Magic. Not just any concealment spell, but something far more sophisticated than the crude glamour I used to disguise myself as Willow.

Court-level concealment.

I press harder, forcing my hand through the barrier. The magic fights back, cold then scorching hot against my skin as it recognizes me as intruder. My fingertips brush something cold and metallic. I close my hand around it and pull, breaking the spell with a sound like shattering bone.

A communication token.

The size of my palm, intricately etched with Summer Court sigils—stylized rays of golden light surrounding a central crystal that pulses with warm, golden light. Court alphas use these to track their claimed omegas, to communicate across distances, to maintain control even when physically separated. I've only seen them in use once before, when a noble Summer Court alpha used one to call others to join in claiming a young girl from my village seven years ago.

The Collector's mark is unmistakable—a stylized hand clutching a small bone—etched into the metal with sickening precision. His personal signature, confirming ownership. Branding his claimed property even when it's out of sight.

"Fuck," I breathe, turning the token over in my hands.

The crystal at its center throbs with increasing urgency, as if aware it's been discovered. I close my fingers around it, feeling the heat of summer magic fight against my winter-cool skin. Like grasping a coal fresh from the forge, it burns—not with physical heat but with magical antipathy, two opposing forces recognizing their natural enemy.

Frost spreads from my fingertips across the surface of the token, fighting against its summer nature. The metal groans under the conflicting magics like stressed metal about to fracture. The quadruplets respond inside me, their magic surging in protective waves that concentrate around my hands, strengthening my frost against the Summer Court magic.

The door opens behind me. I whirl, token clutched in my fist, to find Flora standing in the doorway. Her violet eyes—marker of generations of selective breeding for visual perfection—widen at the sight of what I'm holding.

"Briar," she says, her voice carefully neutral despite the alarm flaring in her scent. "I was looking for you."

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