Page 177 of Run Little Omega

I stumble to a halt, a new agony worse than any contraction tearing through me. This pain has no location, no rhythm—it's everywhere, nowhere, shredding me from inside out.

"What is it?" Wren asks, steadying me with concern.

"Cadeyrn," I whisper, clawing desperately at emptiness where our bond should pulse. My fingers find only my own skin, the cillae dimming as if in mourning. "He's gone. The bond is silent."

Understanding darkens her eyes. "Perhaps only wounded," she offers without conviction. We both know what a severed bond means.

Dead. My mate is dead.

The truth hits me like a hammer blow to the chest, stealing breath more effectively than any contraction. My legs give way completely, knees striking stone with bone-jarring force I barely feel through the greater pain. A scream builds in my throat—not of physical agony but soul-deep loss—escaping as a sound barely human.

Wild Magic responds to my grief, exploding from my skin in violent, chaotic bursts. Ice erupts across walls and ceiling, forming jagged spikes that mirror the shattered pieces of my heart. The corridor fills with swirling frost as my control shatters completely.

The four little ones within me respond to their father's absence with frantic movement, magical signatures flaring in panic. The first babe—the fire child, whose signature pulses like forge flames—moves lower still, preparing to enter a world where one parent already lies cold.

I curl forward, arms wrapped around my belly as sobs tear through me. Cadeyrn. Gone. The bond that formed between us in the forest, strengthened through claiming after claiming, deepened through transformation and shared purpose—now just empty space. A wound that will never heal.

I think of him standing beside me before the winter throne, defying centuries of court tradition. Of cool hands touching my belly with reverence. Of ice-blue eyes warming with emotions a Winter Prince should never feel. All gone now, taken by enemies who feared what we were becoming together.

"We must move," Wren urges, kneeling beside me. "Your little ones still live. They still need their mother."

She's right. Practical. Focused on what remains rather than what's lost. The midwife's perspective—new life takes precedence over death, always.

I force myself upright, one hand braced against the wall, the other cradling my belly where the four little ones' magic continues to pulse despite everything. The way forward seems impossibly long, each step a battle against both physical labor and crushing grief.

But I move anyway, because that's what survival has always meant—continuing forward when curling up to die seems the only rational option. One foot before the other. One breath after the next. One heartbeat following another though each feels like betrayal of the one who no longer breathes.

"The throne room," I tell Wren, voice raw from screaming. "We need to reach it before the first little one comes."

The corridors blur together as we move, each step guided more by magic than sense. The palace creates a path for us—walls opening, staircases shortening, stone floors warming beneath my bare feet. It recognizes us not as intruders but as something older, more primal than the court that claimed ownership.

"Your wolf pup is engaged," Wren informs me after examining my progress during a brief pause. "Fire magic. First borns often carry the element of destruction and renewal."

My first tears. Our first. The thought brings fresh pain, grief nearly overwhelming the building contraction. How can these little ones enter the world without their father? How can I do this alone?

You're not alone, something whispers through the stones beneath my feet. The palace itself, speaking without words. We are with you.

"More court hunters behind us," Wren warns, glancing back. "The Elder has found another path."

No time to rest. No time to mourn. Only forward motion, each step bringing us closer to the throne room and whatever slim protection it might offer. The contractions come relentlessly now, barely a minute apart. The fire-child presses downward with each wave, eager to meet the world that tried to prevent their existence.

I stumble to my knees as particularly brutal contraction hits, a scream tearing from my throat that's equal parts physical pain and soul-deep grief. Without the bond, without Cadeyrn's strength flowing into mine, the labor feels impossibly harder, as if my body recognizes what's missing.

"Almost there," Wren encourages, helping me up. "I can see the throne room doors ahead."

Through tear-blurred vision, I make out the massive ice doors carved with ancient symbols—the same patterns that now mark my skin. The doors stand slightly ajar, frost pouring from the opening like fog across the floor. Voices drift from within—the sounds of combat, of magic striking magic.

"Someone's already there," I gasp, leaning heavily on Wren. "The hunters may have beaten us."

"No choice but forward," she replies, her arm steady around my waist. "Your first babe comes now, regardless of who waits."

She's right. I feel the fire-child moving inexorably downward, responding to my body's commands despite grief and fear. Ignoring the pain, ignoring the emptiness where the bond should be, I force myself toward those doors.

We're ten paces away when shapes emerge from a side corridor—three more court hunters, their masked faces turning toward us with predatory focus.

"The breeder escapes," one calls, lifting an iron net. "Secure her before the vessels arrive!"

Instinct takes over. With the last of my strength, I reach for Wild Magic, expecting nothing with the bond severed, with grief hollowing me. Instead, I find the four little ones' magic waiting, ready to protect themselves and their mother.

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