Page 166 of Run Little Omega

"Do you think they know?" I ask after a comfortable silence, my mind returning to practical concerns despite our intimate position. "The allied courts—do you think they've guessed our true plan with the throne room?"

His fingers trace idle patterns along my spine, frost magic trailing in pleasant tingles. "Their spies have reported exactly what we wanted them to see—all preparations focused on the birth chambers. Visible reinforcements, supplies delivered, protective spells openly cast."

"While the throne room appears abandoned after our claiming transformed it," I finish, remembering the elaborate misdirection we've constructed. "Everything of value supposedly moved to the birth chambers for better protection."

"Elder Bloom is clever," he acknowledges, his knot still firmly joining us together, "but even she is predictable. The courts have spent centuries creating and enforcing rulebooks they themselves cannot think beyond."

"And we've burned the rulebook," I murmur, feeling the four little ones stir gently within me, as if responding to the mention of their potential enemies.

"Incinerated it," he agrees, hand moving to cover my belly where our children grow. "The allied courts expect defense of the birth chambers because that's what their own protocols would dictate. They cannot conceive of using the throne itself as protection rather than symbol."

I consider the ancient magic Cadeyrn discovered within the transformed throne—protection magic designed before the courts divided, meant to shield royal offspring during moments of greatest vulnerability. Magic that responded specifically to balanced elemental signatures rather than single-court bloodlines. Our secret weapon against the combined might of three allied courts.

"And if it doesn't work?" I voice the fear that's been growing alongside my pregnancy. "If the ancient magic fails, or only works for pure-blooded royalty?"

His arms tighten around me, protective even as the knot begins to subside. "Then we fight until we can't. We protect our children with every weapon at our disposal. We trust the Wild Magic that's transformed us both beyond what should be possible."

The practical assessment should terrify me, but instead I find it oddly comforting. No false reassurances, no empty promises—just honest evaluation and shared determination.

The knot softens, though neither of us moves to break the connection immediately. These quiet moments—intimate and honest amid the gathering storm—feel increasingly precious as tomorrow approaches.

"I love you," he says, the words still new enough to catch me off guard. Seven centuries of Winter Court protocol, and these simple words seem to cost him more effort than elaborate battle strategies.

I meet his gaze in the soft glow of our synchronized cillae. "And I love you. Not because of magical transformation or biological imperative or court protocol. Just because you're you, beneath all the Winter Prince nonsense."

His smile transforms features I once thought incapable of genuine warmth. "Such reverence for your mate's royal status."

"Earned through detailed assessment," I assure him with mock solemnity, finally shifting to find a more comfortable position as our bodies separate. "Seven centuries of perfect control hiding a surprisingly decent person beneath the ice."

As we settle into more comfortable positions for what little sleep we might manage before tomorrow's challenges, I feel the continued movements throughout the palace. Awakened omegas maintain vigilant watch, their cillae visible even through walls to my transformed senses. Loyal guards positioned at strategic intervals move with synchronized precision, their training evident in every practiced step. Most remarkable of all, the walls themselves shift subtly, creating additional barriers around our chambers, the palace responding to the threat like a living organism preparing its defenses.

The Wild Magic flows through ice formations that once knew only winter's touch, preparing for what tomorrow will bring. In the darkness, I sense fracture lines spreading through centuries of rigid tradition. The court system trembles on the edge of transformation more profound than mere political realignment. Magic itself remembers what the fae have spent generations forgetting—that true power comes from balance, not dominance; from connection, not control.

Tomorrow, those fracture lines will either shatter the courts completely or force them to rebuild along patterns the Wild Magic remembers but court hierarchy rejected. The thought should terrify me, and part of me still fears what's coming—the violence, the potential for loss, the high stakes of our gamble.

But as I drift toward sleep, Cadeyrn's protective warmth surrounding me, the quadruplets' gentle movements beneath my hands, I find myself strangely calm. At the center of the breaking stands a blacksmith who once faked her way into the Wild Hunt and a prince who abandoned perfect control for messy, complicated love. Between us grow four lives who shouldn't exist according to centuries of court doctrine.

Not the traditional fairy tale ending, but perhaps the beginning of something far more interesting.

I wake to darkness and the sensation of something wrong.

The palace walls pulse with urgent warning, cillae flaring with unprecedented brightness. Beside me, Cadeyrn is already rising, his movements precise despite being woken from deep sleep. The synchronization of our responses speaks to how much we've both transformed these past months—no longer separate entities but parts of a whole, moving in instinctive harmony.

"They're coming," I say, feeling the truth in the palace's warning pulse. "Earlier than we expected."

"Yes." He's already reaching for the clothing we laid out in preparation, his movements economical, focused. "The eastern perimeter has been breached. Summer Court forces leading the vanguard."

I stand, my body feeling strangely light despite the advanced pregnancy. Another gift of the transformation—where human omegas would be bedridden and weak, my altered physiology grants strength and mobility even in this late stage. As I dress in the specially prepared garments Lysandra designed—fabrics that stretch to accommodate my form while providing surprising protection—I feel the quadruplets responding to the tension with increased activity.

"How much time do we have?" I ask, focusing on practical matters rather than fear.

"Less than an hour before they reach the palace proper." Cadeyrn fastens ceremonial armor modified to accommodate his transformed body—pieces that once symbolized Winter Court authority now reinvented as practical protection. "The diversion at the birth chambers will buy us perhaps another twenty minutes after that."

Not enough time. We needed at least another day for the throne room preparations to be completed. I feel momentary panic before forcing it down, replacing fear with determination forged in Thornwick's fires.

"Then we work with what we have," I say, checking the small emergency pack we prepared for exactly this contingency. "The evacuation?"

"Already underway." Frost patterns pulse along Cadeyrn's jaw as he extends his senses throughout the palace. "Lysandra is guiding the first group through the eastern tunnels. The awakened omegas who chose to stay are moving into defensive positions."

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