Page 181 of Run Little Omega

"Stop him!" The cry goes up as I slip through the newly formed passage, walls flowing closed behind me to seal my hunters away. The makeshift corridor leads upward at a steep angle, a direct route to the upper levels that bypasses traditional pathways.

I climb swiftly, ignoring the strain on my transformed body. Through our weakened bond, I feel Briar's labor progressing—waves of pain and determination reaching me through the increasingly tenuous connection. The contractions come faster now, the four little ones responding to danger by hastening their arrival.

Hold on,I send through our bond, unsure if the message penetrates interference.I'm coming.

I feel something—not words but raw emotion—flowing back through our connection. Determination. Fear. The fierce, protective instinct of an omega protecting unborn children. She's fighting, continuing forward despite whatever horrors Elder Iris subjected her to in that birth chamber.

Halfway to my destination, disaster strikes. Something punches through the palace wall beside me—a specialized weapon that erupts in a bloom of summer gold and autumn amber. Not court-created but something newer, experimental, developed for this very conflict.

Pain unlike anything in seven centuries of existence tears through me—not surface agony but something deeper, more fundamental. As if every cell in my transformed body suddenly fights against itself, Wild Magic warring with my very essence.

I stagger, cillae across my skin flickering erratically as the weapon's magic spreads through my system like poison in a wound. Not killing—that would be too simple, too clean—but disrupting the connection between vessel and magic, between form and function.

Blood wells from the wound—silver-blue and glittering with frost that melts almost immediately upon contact with stone. My transformed body betrays me, its changes destabilizing as the weapon's magic spreads. Not returning completely to what I was before, but caught between states, unstable and weakening.

Through the makeshift passage wall steps The Collector—Summer Court alpha notorious for his obsessive trophy-taking. His bronzed skin bears ritual scars marking successful Hunt claims, dark hair falling to his shoulders in intricate braids interwoven with small bones and scraps of clothing—physical records of breeding history that suddenly seem obscene rather than impressive.

"Winter Prince," he greets, voice carrying the perfect mix of formal respect and utter contempt. "How far you've fallen. From the court's perfect example of control to this... wild thing."

Another wave of pain washes through me as the weapon's disruption spreads deeper. I fall to one knee, Wild Magic pouring from my skin in chaotic bursts as my transformed body fights to maintain itself.

"She escaped us below," The Collector continues conversationally, examining the specialized weapon with proprietary satisfaction. "But it matters little. My hunters intercept her in the upper corridors even now. The vessels she carries will make perfect additions to my collection." He gestures to the small bones woven into his braids. "I have a space waiting specifically for your spawn."

The trophies in his hair—I recognize them now with sickening clarity. Not just animal bones or trinkets from willing conquests. These are fragments taken from claimed omegas, from their offspring. Some appear too small to have survived extraction—tiny finger bones that could only have come from unborn children. Seven centuries of Winter Court discipline, and this is what finally makes me want to vomit. Progress.

Rage burns cold and sharp beneath the agony. This creature dares to claim our children as trophies, to view Wild Magic as something to be possessed rather than respected. I want to tear him apart slowly, savor each moment of his suffering. But I also need him dead quickly, efficiently. Seven centuries of Winter Court precision battling against primal instinct newly awakened.

"You will never touch them," I promise, cillae stabilizing briefly as I gather what remains of my fractured power. "Never see them. Never come within a realm's distance of what is mine."

The Collector smiles, the expression never reaching his amber eyes. "Bold words from a prince who kneels. Your mate escaped one trap only to enter another. Elder Iris may have failed, but I never do." He leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'll tell you something special, Prince. I only need one vessel for my collection. The rest will be... processed for their magical components."

He withdraws from his robes another weapon—this one more refined than what struck me initially. A crystal blade that pulses with unnatural light, its structure designed not to kill but to sever magical connections permanently.

"This severs claiming bonds," he explains, turning the blade so light refracts through its facets. "Developed specifically for you. Once the connection between you is broken, your mate will be easier to control. The shock alone might trigger full birth."

The bond. Our connection—the magical link that formed between Briar and me during our first claiming in the forest, strengthened through subsequent joinings, deepened as Wild Magic awakened within us both. More than just alpha-omega biology now; it carries parts of our consciousness, our shared transformation.

"I've studied your kind for centuries," The Collector continues, inspecting the crystal blade with professional interest. "The vessels you call children are simply containers for power—easily harvested, easily processed. What makes this batch special is the Wild Magic they contain. Such a shame they must be separated for proper evaluation."

He raises the weapon again, aiming for my heart to complete the disruption. Winter Court tradition would demand strategy here—careful calculation of odds, precise application of countering magic, tactical retreat if necessary. But Winter Court tradition would never have led me to Briar in the first place, would never have awakened Wild Magic through our claiming, would never have created the children now fighting to be born amid battle and betrayal.

I abandon tradition entirely, embracing instead the primal instinct that has guided me since first scenting Briar in the forest. Wild Magic responds not to formal training but to raw need, erupting from my wound in a concentrated blast that takes The Collector entirely by surprise.

He staggers back, weapon discharging wildly into the ceiling as frost crawls up his arm with unnatural speed. Perfect bronzed skin blackens with frostbite, ritual scars cracking as ice invades flesh beneath. His scream echoes through the makeshift passage, primal and terrified in a way that satisfies something dark within me. The sound carries the metallic tang of panic, a scent I've never permitted myself to enjoy until now.

"My collection," he gasps, watching frost consume his trophy-marked arm. "You can't?—"

"I already have." I watch dispassionately as ice reaches his shoulder, then crosses to his chest where it accelerates, heading straight for his heart. Not Winter Court's precision frost—this is Wild Magic's primal ice, not just freezing but unmaking what it touches. "You should have feared me more."

The effort costs dearly. My vision darkens at the edges as the weapon's disruption spreads further through my system. The wound in my side gapes wider, silver-blue blood pouring faster now, cillae across my transformed body flickering like dying stars.

But The Collector pays a higher price. Ice consumes his chest, reaching the heavily scarred skin where ritually carved marks of his "conquests" spread across his torso. As frost touches each scar, the tiny bones woven into his hair emit faint light—the last remnants of the omegas and children he claimed as trophies finally finding release.

"You destroy everything the courts have built," he accuses, voice weakening as frost reaches his throat. "Centuries of careful cultivation and control."

"Good." I force myself upright, legs threatening to buckle beneath damaged power flows. "What you built was wrong from the beginning."

The Collector has no response beyond a final, gasping breath as ice claims his heart. His body falls, frozen into a statue of grotesque trophy-taking suspended forever in crystalline death.

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