Page 161 of Run Little Omega

"Exactly." Cadeyrn turns to the assembled nobles, his voice shifting to the unmistakable command of the Winter Prince—the authority he's wielded for centuries now focused entirely on protecting what's his. "Double the visible guards at the birth chambers. Make it obvious. I want every court spy to see us reinforcing what appears to be our last defensive position."

The nobles snap into motion, cillae brightening across ceremonial armor and formal attire as they rush to execute his orders. I watch them move with military precision—these aristocrats who once would have viewed me as nothing but breeding stock now responding to strategies designed to protect me and my unborn children.

Life is fucking strange sometimes.

"What about the other omegas?" Flora asks, her practical mind already calculating ripple effects. "Those awakening throughout the palace? And Mira?"

"They need to know what's coming," I say before Cadeyrn can answer. "They deserve the chance to choose whether to stay and fight or seek safety."

He studies me for a moment, something like pride flickering behind his ice-blue eyes. "I agree. Lady Lysandra has prepared evacuation routes through the ancient tunnels beneath the palace. Those who wish to leave can be guided to sanctuary beyond court territories."

"And those who stay?" Flora presses, her violet eyes reflecting genuine concern for her fellow omegas.

"Will be given whatever protection we can offer," Cadeyrn promises, "and whatever training can be compressed into the time remaining." He glances toward a set of maps on the far side of the table—older, hand-drawn renderings showing tunnels that don't appear on the official palace plans. "No omega who wishes to escape will be forcibly kept here for defense."

Flora nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "I'll help spread the word through the servant networks. The awakened omegas have already established their own communication channels through the palace." She hesitates, then adds with quiet fury, "And I'll make sure they know to watch for The Collector specifically."

As she departs on this mission, I turn my attention back to the shattered remains of the communication token in my palm. My skin has already begun healing from the summer magic burns, cillae knitting together damaged tissue with visible efficiency. Another gift of my transformation—accelerated healing that would have been useful during my blacksmith days when burns and cuts were daily currency.

"Do you think destroying this was enough?" I ask Cadeyrn, closing my fingers around the token's remains. "Or has the damage already been done?"

"The damage was inevitable," he replies with the pragmatism born from seven centuries of court strategy. "But now we control when and where it manifests."

I can't argue with his assessment, though it does little to ease the knot of anxiety taking up permanent residence between my ribs. The quadruplets respond to my emotional state with increased movement, four distinct magical signatures flaring beneath my skin—warmth, solidity, lightness, and flowing coolness intertwining as they mirror ancient elements.

"The Collector doesn't just want information," I say quietly, voicing the fear Flora's words planted. "He wants a trophy. Something for his collection."

Cadeyrn's cillae darken to nearly black at my words, temperature around him dropping so rapidly that ice crystals form in the air, floating like deadly stars. "He will never touch you or our children," he promises, his voice carrying the same deadly certainty I heard when he executed Lord Frostbaine before the entire court. "If he attempts it, what I did to the Raveling Brothers will seem merciful by comparison."

The memory of what he did to those Autumn Court twins during the Hunt—their dismembered remains arranged in a warning pattern—should disturb me. Instead, I find dark comfort in the promise of violence against anyone who would threaten our children. Something primal and protective in me responds to his vow with savage agreement.

"Come," Cadeyrn says, offering his hand. "Let's see what progress has been made in the throne room."

The throne room has continued its transformation since our claiming two days ago. What was once the perfect expression of Winter Court isolation—all precise angles and sterile surfaces—now pulses with vibrant life. The walls breathe. The ceiling opens partially to the sky above, revealing an expanse of arctic blue pierced by sunlight that wouldn't have penetrated the original structure. The floor ripples subtly with magic that responds to our footsteps like thin ice over deep water.

I feel the transformation in my bones, the resonance between my altered body and this awakening space. The ancient magic that flows through me—enhanced by the four distinct signatures of the children I carry—reaches outward to connect with the palace's awakening consciousness.

The throne itself has changed most dramatically. No longer the stark symbol of singular Winter power, but something wilder, truer. Ice veined with living color that shifts like slow lightning beneath the surface—spring green, summer gold, autumn amber all flowing through winter frost in perfect balance. The manifestation of what our children represent—the unification of magic that hasn't occurred in millennia.

Lysandra meets us at the entrance, her formal healer's robes replaced by more practical attire that allows freedom of movement. The traditionalist court physician I first met has gone, replaced by someone who moves with newfound purpose, cillae visible along her temples where none existed before.

"The preparations advance well," she reports, leading us toward the dais where the throne awaits. "The ancient containment patterns have been restored according to the original specifications we found in the archives."

I can see what she means. The floor surrounding the throne bears elaborate cillae that weren't there yesterday—concentric circles of magical formulae etched into the ice itself, spiraling outward from the central seat of power. These aren't the rigid geometric designs of Winter Court magic, but something older, more organic in form. Circles that resemble the rings of ancient trees, spirals that echo patterns found in nature, flowing lines that suggest movement like rivers returning to their source.

"Will it work?" I ask, unable to keep the doubt from my voice as I study the complex patterns. "The failsafe hasn't been tested in what—centuries? Millennia?"

"Wild Magic remembers," Lysandra answers with surprising confidence for a woman trained in court medicine. "The patterns respond to your presence already. See how they brighten as you approach?"

She's right. The frost designs pulse with increasing luminosity as I step closer to the throne, responding to the quadruplets' magical signatures like a predator scenting prey. With each step, the patterns grow more defined, colors deepening within the ice—green, gold, amber, and blue intertwining in fractals that mimic the patterns spreading across my skin.

"And Cadeyrn's blood will activate the stasis field," she continues, gesturing to specific symbols within the larger pattern. "Creating a protective bubble around you and the children during the most vulnerable moments of birth. The magical discharge will be contained and channeled rather than exploding outward destructively."

It sounds perfect in theory. In practice...well, magic rarely follows neat theoretical models, especially Wild Magic that exists specifically to counter court control. The last time Wild Magic surged uncontrolled was during our first claiming beneath the blackthorn tree, when reality itself seemed to warp around us, flowers blooming out of season and the forest bending to impossible shapes.

"And if something goes wrong?" I press, needing to hear contingencies spoken aloud. "If The Collector makes it past our defenses? If the courts attack before labor begins?"

Lysandra and Cadeyrn exchange a glance that does nothing for my confidence.

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