Page 176 of Run Little Omega

The iron manacles around my wrists and ankles weaken but don't break entirely. I strain against them as another contraction builds, the four little ones responding to my panic with erratic magical pulses. Frost spirals across the chamber in chaotic patterns, black walls cracking beneath the pressure of uncontrolled Wild Magic.

"Extract them now!" Elder Iris commands, maintaining her spell against the surging magic. "Before she breaks free!"

Two hunters converge on me, iron nets raised. I channel the four little ones' power through my half-free hands, barely conscious of what I'm creating. Ice erupts from my fingertips—not with winter's precise geometry but with feral, untamed force—forming a jagged spear that pierces the first hunter's throat. His blood freezes before it can fall, suspended in crimson droplets that hang in the air like morbid jewels.

The second hunter hesitates, reassessing the threat I present despite my restrained position. That moment of indecision costs him everything as frost crawls up his legs, encasing him in ice that cracks with the sound of breaking bones.

"Enough playing at cooperation," Elder Iris snarls, her gentle mask discarded completely. Vines growing from her hair coil and writhe like agitated snakes. "If we cannot control this birth, more direct measures become necessary."

Green energy gathers around her hands—not growth magic but its perversion, designed to wither rather than nurture. Death disguised as natural order. I recognize the pattern from court execution rituals—magic that desiccates from within, turning living tissue to dust.

Another contraction coincides with her attack, pain and fear triggering instinctive defense. Wild Magic erupts from me in a form I've never created before—a swirling vortex incorporating all four seasonal powers in perfect, primal balance. Winter's ice, spring's growth, summer's fire, autumn's decay—not separated as the courts divide them, but interwoven as they were meant to be.

Our magics collide with a sound like the world breaking. Her attack shatters against my raw defense, green energy dissolving into the more powerful Wild Magic that courses through me and my unborn children.

Elder Iris retreats, genuine terror contorting her perfect features. "What are you becoming?"

I manage a smile through the grip of another contraction. "What I was always meant to be. What the courts spent centuries trying to breed out of us."

I pour every ounce of remaining strength into breaking the weakened manacles, Wild Magic responding to desperate need rather than controlled direction. The iron finally gives way, freeing my limbs as I roll from the table onto unsteady feet.

Elder Iris backs away, green magic gathering for another attack. The remaining hunters form a barrier between us, iron nets raised.

"You cannot escape," she warns, her voice steadier than her trembling hands. "The palace is overrun. Your prince fights a losing battle above. This chamber remains the only place these vessels might survive birth."

Through our bond, I feel Cadeyrn's struggle to reach me—fighting through overwhelming forces, his determination blazing like a beacon. But distance and enemies still separate us, and the contractions come faster now, the four little ones responding to danger by hastening their arrival.

Wren steps to my side, her professional instinct overcoming fear. "The first little one descends," she whispers, steadying me as another contraction hits. "Birth waits for no one, court plans or otherwise."

I stagger backward, one hand pressed against my belly where four lives prepare to enter a world that tried to prevent their existence. No time to reach the throne room. No chance of accessing its ancient protection before labor progresses too far.

I press against the chamber's far wall, Wild Magic swirling in protective currents around us. Frost spiderwebs across the floor with each step, spreading in patterns that pulse with the combined rhythms of four distinct magical signatures—fire, earth, air, water.

"I don't need to escape," I tell Elder Iris, bracing against the wall as another contraction builds. "The Wild Magic makes its own path."

As if responding to my words, the black stone behind me shifts—not cracking but flowing like water, creating an opening where solid wall stood moments before. The palace itself, awakened by our transformations, responds not to court commands but to primal need.

"Impossible," Elder Iris breathes, watching centuries-old architecture remake itself. "These chambers were designed to contain Wild Magic, not channel it."

"They were built when Wild Magic still flowed freely," I counter, backing toward the newly formed passage. "Before the courts forgot what true balance feels like."

Another contraction hits, driving me to my knees. The four little ones' magic flares in response, cillae across my skin brightening until they're painful to look at. Through our bond, I feel Cadeyrn's renewed determination as he senses my movement through the palace depths.

"After her!" Elder Iris commands, green magic gathering around her hands. "She must not reach the throne room!"

I turn and flee through the opening, Wren close behind me. The passage seals itself as we pass, stone flowing like liquid to cut off pursuit. Ancient corridors illuminate with our passage, cillae across my skin aligning with those etched into the walls millennia ago.

The palace guides us upward, creating the shortest path toward the throne room. But labor progresses relentlessly, contractions coming faster, the first babe—the one whose magic burns like forge fire—moving inexorably downward with each painful step.

"We must hurry," I gasp to Wren between waves of pain. "I need to reach the throne before the first little one comes."

Through our claiming bond, I reach once more for Cadeyrn, pushing past distance with desperate need. Hurry. The babes come soon. I try for the throne room.

His response comes as fierce determination tinged with something new—pain? His presence in our bond suddenly wavers, his signature flickering like a flame in high wind.

Then nothing.

The bond goes silent. Not stretched thin, not muffled, but completely, terrifyingly absent. As if severed with a single stroke.

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