Page 160 of Run Little Omega

My blood turns to slush, cillae flaring along my arms as the quadruplets respond to my alarm with protective magic. The birth chambers—our elaborate decoy, the public plan designed to misdirect court spies while we prepare the throne room as the true birthing location. If Nessa has reported their defenses, their vulnerabilities...

"We need to find Cadeyrn. Now." I crush the communication token in my fist, frost magic shattering the crystal at its core.

Golden light spills between my fingers like pus from a lanced wound, dissipating in wisps of summer-warm magic that leave blisters on my winter-transformed skin. The sensation is like plunging a heated metal rod into cold water—the violent reaction of opposing elements, the release of energy as balance reasserts itself.

Flora follows as I stride from the chambers, frost trailing in my wake across the floor, walls responding to my agitation with answering patterns that pulse with warning. The palace itself seems to understand the threat, corridors reshaping subtly to speed our passage, doors opening before we reach them.

"The birth chambers were already a decoy," I explain as we hurry through corridors that seem to rearrange themselves to speed our passage. "But if she's reported their specific defenses, the allied courts will know exactly how to breach them. What counter-spells to prepare."

"The Collector wouldn't just send her for information," Flora says, her voice tight with knowledge born from generations of selective breeding for court preferences. "He never lets go of what he considers his. He sent her to find something worth adding to his collection."

The implication sends a wave of nausea through me, bile rising in my throat as instinctive protective fury surges through my blood. "Me. Or more likely, one of my children."

My hand moves to my belly where the quadruplets shift restlessly, each responding differently to my emotional state—one settling as if trying to comfort, another pushing outward as if preparing to fight, the third turning rapidly as if seeking better position, the fourth going ominously still as if hiding. Already individuals despite sharing the same womb, already developing distinct responses to threat.

Flora's silence is confirmation enough. The palace walls pulse with answering rage, cillae spiraling outward from where my fingertips brush against them, the entire structure responding to my emotional state like some massive, wounded beast preparing to defend its territory.

We find Cadeyrn in the grand strategy room surrounded by court nobles and military advisors. Maps cover the central table—detailed renderings of the palace, the surrounding territories, the positioned forces of all four courts. Intelligence reports stacked in neat piles at various points mark enemy troop movements, infiltration attempts, supply lines.

He looks up as we enter, cillae along his jaw pulsing in immediate response to my agitation. Seven centuries of perfect control still evident in how quickly he masks his initial reaction, but the bond between us transmits what his face doesn't show—alarm, protective rage, and beneath it, something I've rarely sensed from him: fear.

"What's happened?" he asks, stepping away from the war council without ceremony.

I hold out my frost-burned palm, the shattered remains of the communication token still smoking with conflicting magic. "Nessa. She was carrying this. Hidden under concealment magic in her quarters. She's gone."

His expression shifts from concern to cold, calculated rage in an instant. Frost patterns across his transformed body flare with deadly intensity, the temperature around him dropping so rapidly that nearby glasses of water freeze solid. The nobles retreat a step, unconsciously giving space to an apex predator preparing to strike.

"The Collector's mark," he observes, recognizing the stylized hand-and-bone sigil immediately. "She was his."

"And she toured the birth chambers yesterday," I add, watching the implications sink in. "Studied the guard rotations, the defenses, everything."

Instead of the explosion I half-expected, Cadeyrn's face reveals only a fleeting smile—predatory and knowing. Like a hunter watching prey walk into a perfectly laid trap.

"Good," he says, turning back to the strategy table. "Then everything proceeds as planned."

I blink, momentarily thrown by his response. "Good? She's betrayed us, revealed our defenses, potentially compromised everything we've been preparing for."

"She's revealed exactly what we wanted court spies to see," he corrects, gesturing me closer to the maps. "The elaborate defenses around birth chambers that are nothing but an attractive target, designed to draw enemy forces exactly where we want them."

He traces a finger along one map, indicating troop positions I hadn't noticed before—Winter Court forces strategically positioned in seemingly unrelated locations that suddenly form a coherent pattern when viewed in relation to the birth chambers.

"A killing field," I murmur, understanding dawning like ice forming on still water. "You were expecting this."

"I expected one," he confirms, cillae settling into more controlled rhythms. "The courts would never allow omegas to escape without at least one carrying a method to report back. Especially not The Collector, who's known for his possessiveness. What I didn't anticipate was how quickly she would make her move."

"The courts are desperate," Flora offers, keeping a respectful distance from the strategy table. "The omega awakenings are spreading faster than they can contain. Our escape was one of many in recent weeks."

She drops her gaze momentarily, a gesture of deference from court training she hasn't fully shed. "From what I overheard before escaping, the Summer Court alone has lost nearly thirty omegas in the past month. The Autumn Court closer to fifty."

Cadeyrn nods, his attention returning to the detailed map of the palace. "We need to accelerate our timeline. If Nessa has already fled with information about our defenses, the allied forces will attack sooner than we anticipated."

"How much sooner?" I ask, one hand automatically moving to my belly where the quadruplets shift with growing strength, one particularly active one—the fire-aligned one, I suspect—kicking against my palm as if eager for battle.

"Tomorrow," he says simply. "Perhaps the day after if we're fortunate."

My breath catches. The babies aren't due for another day and a half according to Lysandra's last examination. Not that Wild Magic has respected any natural timeline so far, but still—cutting it close enough to make my skin crawl with anxiety.

"Then we need to strengthen the throne room preparations," I decide, focusing on practicalities rather than fear. "And continue making the birth chambers look like our primary focus."

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