Page 168 of Run Little Omega

"Too well." His mouth curves into a smile that carries no warmth, only the predatory satisfaction of a trap successfully set. "They expected token resistance disguising a trap but found elaborate defenses instead. It's convinced them they're targeting the right location." His ice-blue eyes meet mine, momentarily softening despite the chaos erupting around us. "You need to get to the throne room immediately. I've ordered the loyal omegas to meet you there."

"And you?" The question catches in my throat even though I already know the answer. The same way I know this moment was always coming—the inevitable separation when our enemies force us to divide our strength. Still, my hands reach for him instinctively, cillae intensifying where our skin connects.

"I need to coordinate the defense, draw their forces toward the birth chambers and away from the throne room." His hand cups my face, cillae synchronizing with mine where our skin connects. The familiar sensation of our bond strengthening floods through me—not the oppressive claim of an alpha over an omega, but something mutual, something we've forged together through blood and magic and stubborn survival. "I'll join you as soon as possible."

A sharp knock at the door interrupts us before I can argue. Lysandra enters without waiting for permission, her healer's robes replaced by battle attire that hugs her lithe form in a way that emphasizes functionality over court appearance. Frost patterns pulse across her exposed forearms, far stronger than when I first met her. Another omega awakening to power long suppressed.

"We need to move now," she says, glancing between us with the efficient assessment of a battlefield medic. "The palace defenses are activating, but they're encountering resistance. Someone tainted the central ward stones."

"Nessa." I can't keep the betrayal from my voice. The farm girl I once helped, trying to save her from The Collector's brutal hands. Now repaying that kindness with poison in our sanctuary's heart. Fury rises in me, hot and bitter as burnt metal. "The birth chambers?"

"In chaos," Lysandra confirms, her typically composed features tight with controlled fear. "Spring Court entered through the eastern passage, but we have reports of Summer forces approaching from the south corridor. They're coordinating in a way I've never seen before—not just allied attacks but genuinely integrated strategies. Court magics that should repel each other flowing in harmony."

Cadeyrn's face hardens into something ancient and terrible, cillae darkening to nearly black across his jaw. "Get her to the throne room. Take the servant passages. I'll create a diversion to draw attention away from your route."

"Cadeyrn—" I start, reaching for him.

He silences me with a kiss so fierce it steals my breath. Not gentle, not comforting, but claiming—a reminder of the bond that ties us across any distance. His mouth is cold fire against mine, frost magic singing along my nerves, the sensation burning away fear and leaving only determination in its wake.

"You carry our future," he says against my lips, one hand pressed protectively against my belly where the four little ones respond to his touch with synchronized movement. "Trust the Wild Magic. Trust what we've built. I will find you."

Then he's gone, striding from the chamber with the deadly grace of a predator unleashed. The door closes behind him with a finality that makes my chest ache like a punched bruise.

Lysandra doesn't waste time on sympathy. Her practical nature asserts itself as she moves directly to the wardrobe, pressing specific points on its ornate carvings. "We need to move. Now."

The servant passages are hidden behind a panel that slides open at her touch—narrow corridors originally designed for omegas to move invisibly through the palace while serving Winter Court nobility. Pathways built for the bound and broken, now serving as escape routes for their awakened descendants. There's a bitter poetry in that I don't have time to appreciate.

The passage beyond is barely wide enough for my pregnant form, the ceiling low enough that Lysandra, taller than me, must stoop slightly. Blue-white light emanates from cillae in the walls, pulsing with a rhythm that feels deliberate, like a heartbeat.

"The loyal omegas?" I ask as we hurry through dimly lit passages, our way illuminated only by our cillae casting eerie blue light against ancient ice.

"Already moving toward the throne room from different routes," Lysandra replies, her voice hushed despite the thick walls that separate us from the main corridors. Her movements are precise, practiced—she knows these hidden ways intimately, having navigated them as a court physician for decades. "Flora is leading one group through the western approach, Mira another from the north. Fourteen omegas total, all showing significant manifestation of frost abilities."

"And the evacuation?" My hand brushes the wall as we walk, feeling the subtle vibrations of magic flowing through the palace's structure. No longer inert ice but living entity, responding to threat with ancient consciousness.

"Progressing as planned. Thirty-seven omegas have already made it to the southern tunnels with supply caches." Her voice carries grim satisfaction. "Several managed to take court documents with them—evidence of the cullings, breeding programs, unauthorized experimentations. Things the courts would prefer remain buried."

Truth as weapon. Exposure as revolution. The awakened omegas aren't just fighting for survival but for justice—ensuring that even if we fail, evidence of court atrocities will spread beyond controlled borders.

The palace shudders around us, the walls themselves responding to the assault with awakened consciousness. What was once static ice architecture now pulses with living magic, corridors reshaping to block invaders while opening safe passages for those it recognizes as allies. I feel the strain through my heightened senses—the structure fighting against invasive magic seeking to corrupt or destroy.

We've barely made it halfway to the throne room when the first explosion rocks the foundations. The blast sends us staggering against the narrow walls, dust and ice crystals raining down from the ceiling like frozen tears. The sound hits a moment later—not just physical but magical impact, different types of court magic colliding with catastrophic results.

"What the hell was that?" I gasp, one hand automatically moving to protect my belly where the four little ones have gone momentarily still, as if holding their breath.

Lysandra's face tells me everything before she speaks, a healer's knowledge of destruction evident in her tightened features. "Court magic. Destructive force spells meant to collapse sections of the palace's outer defenses. They're not just trying to enter—they're willing to bring down entire wings."

"They're insane." The reality of their desperation hits me like a hammer to the chest. "They'd risk destroying everything just to prevent the little ones from being born?"

My hand moves protectively over my belly, feeling the small lives within responding once more with anxious movement. These aren't just my children but vessels of ancient power that threatens the very foundation of court authority—living proof that balanced Wild Magic is possible, that the artificial divisions maintained for centuries are exactly that: artificial. Constructed to maintain power rather than enhance it.

"They fear what they cannot control," Lysandra says grimly, urging me forward again with one hand supportive at my elbow. "And what your children represent cannot be controlled by court systems. Four elements in perfect balance, born of Winter Court lineage but carrying Wild Magic that predates the court divisions. A living challenge to everything they've built."

Another explosion, closer this time. The walls around us groan as the ancient structure absorbs the magical assault. Frost patterns race across the ceiling like lightning seeking ground, the palace's own defenses activating in response to the attack.

"We need to hurry," Lysandra urges, her usual composure fracturing under the immediacy of threat. "These passages won't hold against targeted court magic for long."

We move faster, my pregnant body protesting with every step. The quadruplets shift restlessly within me, their individual magical signatures flaring in response to the chaos around us. I feel them like four distinct heartbeats beneath my skin—fire's quicksilver rhythm, earth's steady pulse, air's constant motion, water's flowing presence. Each responding differently yet somehow in harmony.

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