Page 179 of Run Little Omega

The bond stretches thin between us, distance and magical interference weakening what should be unbreakable. I push raw determination through the connection, hoping she feels my resolve even as the divide between us grows. I sense her captured, then escaping again—the second attempt to take her from me failing as the first did. Her resilience burns bright through our bond despite the interference.

An explosion rocks the northern wing, magic that smells of spring blossoms and fresh soil billowing through shattered ice walls. Spring Court's elite hunters, using specialized breaching spells designed to counter Winter Court defenses. The very air weeps as ancient ice dissolves into mist, leaving century-old protections in ruins.

I race toward the breach, frost trailing in my wake like a winter storm. Three Autumn Court elites block my path, their leaf-pattern camouflage shifting to match the corridor's crystalline surfaces. They move with perfect synchronization—trained specifically to counter Winter Court fighting techniques.

"Winter Prince," their leader acknowledges, ritual scarring across his amber-hued face marking him as a veteran of many Hunts. "The Council of Nine has deemed your actions treasonous against court balance. Surrender now, and we'll allow your mate to birth the vessels before extraction."

Vessels. The word ignites something primal in my chest—rage so cold it burns. Seven centuries ago, I might have used the same clinical term, viewing unborn children as mere containers for magical power. Now, the dehumanization in their language fuels the Wild Magic surging beneath my skin.

"You've forgotten what balance truly means," I reply, cillae darkening across my transformed flesh until they appear almost black against my skin. "What the courts divided was meant to be whole."

The Autumn Court leader's eyes narrow, autumn-gold magic gathering around his fingertips. "Sentimental attachment to breeding stock has compromised your judgment. The Council will cleanse this corruption from your system once the vessels are secured."

They attack as one, moving with the synchronization that makes Autumn Court so deadly in combination. Amber magic weaves between them in complex patterns designed to entangle and immobilize Winter fae. Under normal circumstances, against a normal Winter Prince adhering to court-separated magic, their techniques would prove effective.

But I am no longer bound by Winter Court limitations.

Wild Magic erupts from my transformed body not as precise frost weaponry but as primal force—raw winter fury untamed by protocol or tradition. The corridor temperature plummets so dramatically that moisture in the air solidifies instantly, forming diamond dust that slices through the Autumn Court's protective magic like countless tiny blades.

The three elites stagger back, blood welling from a thousand minuscule cuts across exposed skin. For the first time, genuine fear replaces calculated confidence in their eyes. They face not a Winter Prince bound by court limitations, but something older, more dangerous—a vessel for magic that predates their training and protocols.

"What are you becoming?" the leader gasps, amber magic flickering weakly as he attempts to stem the bleeding.

"What I always should have been." I advance, each step leaving frozen footprints that spread outward in living patterns. "What the courts have suppressed for centuries."

I don't waste energy on elaborate combat. These elites deserve warrior's respect under normal circumstances, but nothing about this day remains normal. My mate labors somewhere in the palace depths, our children—bearers of Wild Magic that might restore balance to fractured realms—hunted before they've drawn first breath.

Frost explodes from my outstretched hands, encasing all three in ice that preserves their expressions of horrified recognition. They'll live—suspended in magical hibernation rather than killed outright. Despite the Wild Magic transforming me, I retain enough of my former self to avoid unnecessary death.

Through our bond, Briar's terror spikes suddenly—a wave of pure, animal panic that staggers me mid-stride. Not battle fear but something deeper, more primal. The sacred chamber. Forced labor. The collar's suppression. The connection between us stretches painfully thin, distance and magical interference muffling what should be crystal clear.

"My Prince!" A voice cuts through the cacophony—Lady Lysandra, her healer's robes discarded for practical battle attire, cillae spiraling down both arms as she fights her way toward me. "The northeastern defenses have fallen. Court hunters approach the inner sanctum."

"Numbers?" I ask, already calculating counterstrategies as I slice an attacking Spring Court hunter from shoulder to hip, his blood steaming where it spills across freezing floors.

"At least thirty hunters. They carry iron nets and suppression collars. The Collector leads them personally." Her voice drops lower. "They speak of extracting the vessels before natural birth."

Specific tools for capturing rather than killing. For taking Briar. For stealing our children from her womb through unnatural magic. My mate has already endured one capture and escape today—I will not allow a third attempt to succeed.

Rage crystallizes within me, cillae darkening across my transformed body until they appear almost black against my skin. The temperature around me plummets so drastically that the very air solidifies, falling as diamond dust that slices exposed skin of friend and foe alike.

"My Prince," Lysandra warns, raising a protective barrier of frost around herself. "Control. Remember what we discussed. Wild Magic responds to emotion, but unchecked?—"

"I know the risks," I cut her off, reining in the deadly cold with effort that makes my transformed frame tremble. Wild Magic thrives on primal emotion, draws strength from unleashed instinct, but unconstrained, it consumes its vessel as readily as its targets. Seven centuries of perfect control now fights against instinct screaming to protect my mate and unborn children.

"The throne room," I tell her, cillae stabilizing as I bring the Wild Magic back under tenuous control. "Make certain it's prepared according to our contingency. The birthing chamber may be compromised."

Her eyes widen slightly. "The ancient protection hasn't been used in?—"

"I know precisely how long," I interrupt, the weight of seven centuries pressing against my shoulders. "I was there when it was sealed."

Lysandra nods once, sharp and efficient. "I'll ensure the throne room is prepared. But you?—"

"I need to reach Briar," I say, already turning toward the interior passageways. "She carries Wild Magic that could remake everything the courts have twisted. They will kill her to prevent the transformation."

"Then go," Lysandra replies, cillae brightening across her skin as she draws on her own awakening abilities. "We'll hold the approaches to the throne room."

I move deeper into the palace, each step carrying me closer to where I feel Briar's presence through our strained bond. The palace responds to my urgency, walls flowing like liquid ice to create the most direct path to the sacred chamber where I sense she's been taken.

---