Page 183 of Run Little Omega

"Do I have a choice?" The laugh that escapes me sounds feral even to my own ears, more wolf than woman. "Either I walk to the throne room or I birth four babes with Wild Magic in a bloody hallway while three courts hunt us down."

Her lips twitch—the ghost of a smile in a face too accustomed to witnessing pain. "You remind me of myself, before."

Before. That single word contains multitudes. Before the Hunt. Before claiming. Before everything changed. I wonder what Wren was like in her before-time, when she was just a village midwife whose hands brought new life rather than serving as instruments for courts that view omegas as vessels.

We reach an intersection where three corridors meet, and I halt, assessing each path with a hunter's eyes. Each pulses with different energy—the left crackling with combat magic, the center eerily silent like a sprung trap waiting for prey, the right humming with the whispers of awakened omegas.

"This way," I decide, choosing the right path with the tactical instinct that kept me alive in the forest when others fell.

We've taken five steps when they appear—a group of omegas rounding the corner ahead, cillae glowing across their skin in the controlled, rigid geometries of court magic. For a heartbeat, relief floods me. Allies. Safety in numbers.

Then I notice the silver collars around their throats, digging into flesh where they suppress Wild Magic. The flatness in their eyes, like frozen ponds with nothing living beneath. Court loyalists, bound to the old ways either by fear or conviction or simple survival calculation.

"The breeder approaches," one announces, her voice mechanical beneath the collar's influence. "Secure her for binding."

Breeder. The word strikes like a hammer blow on hot metal, reducing me to the function the courts assigned. A vessel. A womb with legs. The very thing I've fought against becoming since I discovered what being omega meant in this twisted world.

"Sisters," I address them, one hand braced against the wall as another contraction builds, pressure and fire intertwined. "Why fight for those who see you as things rather than people?"

The leader steps forward, silver collar glinting in the ambient light of the corridor. "Wild Magic brings destruction, not freedom. The courts maintain order."

"Order built on our backs," I counter, breath hissing through clenched teeth as the contraction peaks like metal reaching breaking point. "On our bodies. On our children."

Something flickers in the eyes of the youngest—doubt, perhaps, or recognition of a truth she's buried to survive. But the others maintain their positions, frost magic gathering at their fingertips despite the collars' suppression.

"The grief has broken her mind," the leader tells her companions. "Take her before the children are lost."

They advance in practiced formation—five court-trained omegas against one in active labor and a midwife without combat skills. The odds aren't just bad; they're bloody absurd, like fighting a forest fire with a bucket of spit.

But then, I've survived worse absurdities over the past three months.

I gather what remains of my strength, Wild Magic responding sluggishly to my depleted reserves. Frost spirals around my hands, no longer the delicate patterns of court magic but something feral and uncontained, like winter storms that kill without malice or mercy.

"Last chance," I tell them, voice steadier than I feel. "Step aside, or I'll show you exactly what the courts fear about Wild Magic."

The leader raises her hands, frost gathering despite the collar's suppression. "Your threats mean noth?—"

Movement erupts from the side corridor—a blur of silver-streaked hair and glowing cillae. Mira launches herself at the leader with untrained but devastating force, ice dagger materializing in her hand as she strikes. Her pregnant belly doesn't slow her attack, desperation making her movements swift despite her condition.

"Briar! Go!" she shouts, voice cracking with effort as she grapples with the older omega. "We'll hold them!"

More figures emerge behind her—Flora leading a contingent of awakened omegas, their cillae burning bright and unconstrained by silver collars. What began in the Hunt as desperate individuals helping each other survive has evolved into something more powerful: solidarity. Purpose. Rebellion forged in shared suffering.

"Sisters against sisters," I murmur, the bitter irony of it settling in my bones like winter chill as the corridor erupts into chaotic combat.

Frost magic fills the space—some wild and feral, some constrained by court limitations. I press myself against the wall, another contraction making offensive magic impossible as I focus purely on protecting my belly from stray attacks. The four little ones respond to battle chaos with agitated movement, the fire child pressing lower with each passing moment.

Flora fights her way to my side, cillae glowing like constellations across her transformed skin. "This way," she urges, supporting me toward a narrow side passage I hadn't noticed. "The others will hold them."

"Mira—" I begin, glancing back at the young omega still locked in desperate combat despite her pregnant state.

"Chose her side," Flora finishes, her violet eyes holding mine with unexpected fierceness. "As we all must."

The hidden passage twists upward through the palace depths, curved walls pulsing with ancient magic that responds to our passing. More than architecture, the very stones seem alive with purpose, guiding us toward the throne room through paths unknown to court maps.

"The loyalists found us too quickly," I observe as we climb, each step a negotiation between determination and physical limitation. "Someone's coordinating them."

Flora's expression darkens. "The Summer Court general. He's taken command since Elder Iris fell. They say he's using binding magic to direct their forces."

---