Page 170 of Run Little Omega

His assessment makes my skin crawl worse than any threat. He studies me like an interesting specimen, head tilted with genuine curiosity as he notes each change in my appearance. The kind of detached interest that allows one to dissect a living creature without malice, which is somehow more monstrous than outright hatred.

"My collection has never included anything quite like you," he says, taking another step forward. Light from above catches on a slender knife secured at his belt—not a weapon for combat but for precise, delicate cuts. A collector's tool. "I've claimed copper-haired omegas before, of course. Even a few with frost affinities. But never one carrying four vessels of ancient magic."

I bare my newly sharpened teeth, frost exploding from my fingertips to form jagged barriers between us. The magic flows easiest when fueled by protective instinct, my transformation enhancing abilities that should have taken years to master. "You'll never touch my children."

He smiles, the expression reaching his eyes with disturbing sincerity. "Oh, I don't want all four. Just one. Preferably the fire-blessed vessel—a perfect counterpoint to my winter-born treasures. Balance in all things, you understand."

The casual way he discusses taking one of my children sends rage coursing through me hot enough to melt the ice beneath my feet. He speaks of them not as lives but as specimens to be catalogued and displayed, objects to be possessed rather than beings to be nurtured. Everything the courts truly represent beneath their veneer of tradition and protocol.

Frost patterns flare across my skin with blinding intensity, the four little ones responding to my fury with synchronized magical pulses that actually create visible waves beneath my tunic. I feel their individual signatures merging in shared purpose—fire's heat, earth's solidity, air's movement, water's flow combining into something greater than their separate elements.

"The only thing you'll collect today is scars," I snarl, channeling wild magic through my transformed body in a way I've never attempted before. Ice spikes erupt from the floor between us, not with winter's geometric precision but with feral, chaotic patterns that incorporate elements from all four courts. The constructs surge upward with lethal intent, aiming for vulnerable points with uncanny precision.

The Collector doesn't flinch. He simply waves one hand in a dismissive gesture, and the magical constructs shatter like glass, falling to the ground in useless fragments. The display of power is disturbingly casual, centuries of experience overwhelming raw talent without apparent effort.

"Untrained," he observes, almost disappointed. "Raw power without proper shaping. Fascinating, but ultimately ineffective." His gaze sharpens, focusing on my belly where the little ones still pulse with agitated magic. "The vessels, however, are developing quite nicely. I can sense their individual signatures already distinctive. The fire one is particularly strong—takes after his father in that regard."

His intimate knowledge of my children sends a wave of nausea through me. Has he been watching us all along? Monitoring my pregnancy's progress through Nessa's reports? The thought of his attention focused on my unborn children makes my skin crawl with revulsion.

Before I can attempt another attack, the passage behind me collapses in an explosion of ice and stone. I'm thrown forward by the blast, landing painfully on my hands and knees. Dust and ice fragments swirl through the air, momentarily obscuring vision with a glittering cloud that reflects golden and green light in disturbing combinations.

When I look up, coughing against the crystalline dust, the route to the throne room is completely blocked by rubble. My only escape path cut off with deliberate precision.

And through the newly created opening behind me comes another figure—this one wearing Spring Court colors, her movements graceful despite the destruction around her. Elder Iris Bloom. The Spring Court emissary who has participated in Hunt ceremonies across generations, her seemingly youthful features belying centuries of careful political maneuvering.

Where The Collector exudes predatory appreciation, Elder Iris radiates cold calculation. Her placid expression and soft features disguise a mind that has engineered countless diplomatic accords and breeding programs. Gentle in appearance only, like poisonous flowers that kill with exquisite beauty.

"You've damaged palace property, Lord Collector," she observes mildly, as if discussing a minor social faux pas rather than the systematic destruction of ancient architecture. Her voice carries the cultivated softness of someone accustomed to being listened to without needing to raise her volume. "The agreed approach was capture without structural compromise."

The Collector shrugs, massive shoulders rising and falling with elegant indifference. "The little wolf was escaping down a passage that shouldn't exist. Improvisation became necessary."

Elder Iris turns her attention to me, those deceptively gentle eyes studying my transformed appearance with clinical detachment. Not a person evaluating another person, but a scientist examining an unexpected mutation in an experiment.

"How remarkable," she murmurs, approaching with measured steps that make no sound against the ice-strewn floor. "The Wild Magic has progressed further than our reports indicated. The pointed ears, the fangs... and the cillae incorporate elements from all four courts." Her gaze lingers on the swirling designs visible on my exposed forearms, where spring green and summer gold twist through winter blue and autumn amber in ever-changing configurations. "Full integration rather than mere surface adoption. Fascinating."

I push myself back to my feet, one hand automatically moving to support my belly. The quadruplets have gone ominously still, as if sensing danger and instinctively trying to remain undetected. Their absence of movement frightens me more than their earlier agitation.

"What do you want?" I demand, though I already know the answer. The courts want what they've always wanted—control, containment, continuation of systems that benefit those in power at the expense of those deemed lesser.

"Balance," Elder Iris replies simply, as if the concept itself justifies any action. "Order. The continuation of systems that have maintained peace between the courts for millennia."

"You mean control," I correct, fury giving me strength despite my vulnerable position. "The suppression of Wild Magic. The breeding rituals that treat omegas as vessels rather than equals. The cullings that murdered thousands when they proved inconvenient to your precious balance."

"Such a limited perspective," she sighs, genuine regret coloring her tone. Not for the atrocities themselves but for my inability to appreciate their necessity. "You see only cruelty where we've created stability. Only oppression where we've established necessary order."

She approaches with the confidence of someone who has never needed to fear physical retaliation, her delicate features arranged in an expression of professional concern. "The Winter Prince has filled your head with simplified versions of complex realities. The court system preserved magic when it might have died out entirely. Created clear channels when chaos threatened to overwhelm both realms."

"I've seen the Vale of Culling," I spit back, the memory of mass graves rising in my mind with sickening clarity. "The burial sites of omegas deemed unsuitable. The poisoned rivers that caused the wasting sickness in border villages. Don't talk to me about your damned order when I watched my mother die from your 'necessary sacrifices.'"

Something flickers across her perfect features—not shame or guilt, but irritation. Like I'm a child who's misunderstood an important lesson rather than a woman who's witnessed atrocities done in the name of their precious stability.

"Necessary sacrifices," she says, voice hardening slightly though her expression remains placid. "For the greater good of both realms. Do you imagine magic would flourish without proper management? That power without direction leads anywhere but destruction?"

She gestures to the damaged passage around us. "This is what happens when Wild Magic awakens without discipline. Structural instability. Unpredictable manifestations. Emotions driving power rather than controlled intent."

The walls around us pulse with answering fury, cillae flaring across the ice in violent bursts of multi-colored light. The palace itself resonating with my rage, responding to emotional truth with awakened consciousness.

"This is precisely what we feared," Elder Iris observes, gesturing to the responsive architecture with a teacher's disapproving frown. "Wild Magic untethered from proper constraints. Responding to emotion rather than discipline. Chaotic rather than controlled."

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