Page 162 of Run Little Omega

"Then we improvise," he says finally, cillae pulsing along his jaw. "The Wild Magic has guided us this far. We trust it will continue to do so."

Trust. Such a small word for such an enormous leap of faith. I trace one hand over my swollen belly, feeling the quadruplets respond with gentle movement. Four lives depending on ancient magic, untested theories, and our desperate hope that we've interpreted everything correctly.

"There's something else you should see," Lysandra says, guiding us toward a side chamber that opens directly off the throne room—a space I hadn't noticed during previous visits.

Inside, I find something unexpected. Omegas—at least a dozen of them, palace servants judging by their attire—practicing. Not serving or cleaning or any of the tasks traditionally assigned to their caste, but actually practicing magic. Frost patterns spiral across their skin as they concentrate, some managing to crystallize air into small ice formations, others creating protected spaces with defensive frost barriers.

"They've been training since the solstice," Lysandra explains, watching my stunned expression with satisfaction. "Those who showed the strongest awakening responses. They've volunteered to help defend the throne room during your labor."

My throat tightens as I watch a young woman—barely more than a girl—create a perfect sphere of protective frost around herself, her expression intent with concentration. The effortless authority with which she manifests what should be impossible according to court doctrine makes something flutter in my chest—hope, mixed with fierce pride.

"This is..." Words fail me as I struggle to articulate what I'm witnessing.

"Revolution," Cadeyrn finishes for me, his voice carrying a note of wonder I've rarely heard from him. "The beginning of what the courts have feared for centuries. Omegas reclaiming power that was rightfully theirs."

I move among them, watching their practice with growing amazement. Their cillae brighten noticeably as I approach, Wild Magic recognizing itself across vessels, strengthening through proximity. Several demonstrate abilities that would have been considered impossible according to court doctrine—frost shields capable of deflecting magical attacks, controlled ice formations that respond to emotional direction rather than rigid formulas.

One creates frost daggers that dissolve and reform at will. Another weaves a complex barrier that ripples like silk while remaining hard as steel. A third—perhaps the most impressive—manipulates a sphere of pure crystalline ice between her palms, compressing and expanding it without a word or gesture, controlled by thought alone.

Mira stands among them, her hazel eyes brightening when she spots me. Unlike the other omegas whose affinity aligns with winter, her cillae incorporate hints of spring green—her natural court alignment showing through even as she works with borrowed magic.

"Briar! Look what I can do now!" she calls, creating a tiny ice blossom that actually maintains its form rather than immediately dissolving. "The other omegas have been teaching me. I'm not very good yet, but?—"

"You're doing beautifully," I tell her, genuinely impressed by her progress in just one day. Her natural spring affinity should make working with winter magic more difficult, yet the delicate ice flower in her palm shows remarkable control. "Have you seen Flora?"

Her expression clouds slightly. "She came by earlier, said something about Nessa being gone. Is everything okay?"

I hesitate, torn between protecting her innocence—what little remains after everything she's endured—and being honest about the danger we face. She notices my hesitation, straightening her spine with determined dignity despite her youth.

"I'm not a child, Briar," she says, the flower in her palm crystallizing into something sharper, more defined. "Not anymore. Not since The Hound claimed me."

My chest tightens at her words—the truth in them, the resignation and hard-won maturity they contain. She deserves honesty, not protective lies.

"Nessa wasn't who she claimed to be," I say finally, watching understanding dawn in her young eyes. "She was still connected to her alpha. The Collector."

Fear flashes across her face—the terror of every omega who's heard whispers of his obsessive trophy-taking, his elaborate collection of items from claimed omegas arranged in disturbing shrine at Summer Court. Then her expression hardens, cillae along her arms brightening with defensive magic.

"He's coming, isn't he?" she asks, her voice suddenly small despite her attempt at bravery. "For us. For you."

"The courts are coming," I correct, not wanting to focus on just one threat when we face so many. "But we're preparing. That's what all this is for." I gesture to the practicing omegas around us.

Her fear transforms into something harder, more determined. "Then I need to practice more," she says, her cillae brightening with renewed purpose. "I want to help protect the little ones."

Her simple courage humbles me. This girl—barely seventeen, pregnant with an alpha's child she never asked for, powers awakening she never expected—thinks not of her own safety but of protecting my children.

"Will it be enough?" I ask quietly, returning to Cadeyrn's side as we watch the practicing omegas.

"Against the combined might of three allied courts?" He doesn't sugarcoat the reality. "No. But it doesn't need to be. We only need to hold long enough for the failsafe to activate, for the birth to complete."

"And after?"

His hand finds mine, cillae synchronizing where our skin connects. The familiar sensation of our bond strengthening floods through me—the warmth beneath the cold, the undercurrent of belonging that even my anger at the Vale of Culling couldn't permanently sever.

"After, everything changes. One way or another."

We return to the throne room proper, where preparations continue with increasing urgency. The ancient patterns etched into the floor glow brighter as more magic is channeled into them. The throne itself seems to pulse with anticipation, responding to the quadruplets' magical signatures as if recognizing its own purpose after centuries of dormancy.

"It's really going to happen," I murmur, the reality finally settling into my bones. "Tomorrow or the next day."

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