Page 169 of Run Little Omega

We reach a junction where the servant passage branches in three directions. Lysandra hesitates, her head cocked as if listening to something beyond physical sound. Her cillae brighten as she extends her heightened senses through the palace's structure.

"What is it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"The palace is changing its shape," she explains, cillae brightening as she reaches out to touch the wall. The ice responds to her touch, revealing patterns I can't fully interpret—older than court runes, more fluid than human writing. "The direct route to the throne room has been compromised. We need to take the western passage instead."

Before I can respond, a section of wall slides open beside us, revealing a passage that shouldn't exist according to any palace blueprint I've seen. The Wild Magic infiltrating the very architecture, creating new paths where none existed before. The opening pulses with inviting light, cillae swirling in entrancing spirals that seem to beckon specifically to me.

Instinct rises within me, powerful and inexplicable. I feel the palace's intention as clearly as if it had spoken aloud—this path is meant for me alone.

"Go," I tell Lysandra, suddenly certain. "I'll follow this route. You take the eastern passage and gather any stragglers you find. Make sure Flora and Mira reach the throne room safely."

She hesitates, clearly torn between her duty to me and the practical sense of my suggestion. The healer in her wants to protect the pregnant omega carrying four precious lives; the strategist in her recognizes the importance of ensuring all awakened omegas reach our final sanctuary.

"Lady Briar, I was ordered to?—"

"I know what Cadeyrn ordered," I interrupt, my tone hardening with the authority I've earned through suffering and survival. No longer just a village blacksmith masquerading as nobility, but someone transformed by Wild Magic and hard choices. "But we need everyone we can get for what's coming. The palace is guiding me." I gesture to the newly formed passage with its softly glowing cillae that seem to beckon like a waiting hand. "I'll be fine."

Another distant explosion punctuates my words, followed by the unmistakable sound of magical combat—the sizzle-crack of court spells colliding with Wild Magic defenses, the crystalline shatter of ice walls giving way, voices raised in battle cries and pain.

"Go," I repeat, more forcefully this time. "We have minutes, not hours."

Lysandra nods sharply, decision made. "The throne room. Don't deviate from that destination, no matter what you hear or see. The ancient magic won't work anywhere else."

Then she's gone, disappearing down the eastern passage with silent efficiency, cillae fading from view as distance swallows her form.

I enter the newly formed corridor, cillae brightening on my skin as I pass the threshold. The passage closes behind me with the soft sound of settling ice, sealing me into a route known only to the awakened palace. The finality of that quiet closure sends a momentary chill through me—I'm alone now, separated from all allies except the ancient consciousness of the palace itself.

The air feels different here—older, charged with magic that predates court divisions. My pointed ears pick up whispers that aren't quite voices, intentions rather than words flowing through the living ice around me. The palace guiding me, protecting me, creating a safe path to the throne room where ancient magic awaits activation.

I move as quickly as my pregnant body allows, one hand braced against the wall both for support and connection. The cillae beneath my fingers pulse with reassurance, the same way Cadeyrn's patterns synchronize with mine when our skin connects. The sensation is strangely intimate, as if the palace itself wants me to know I'm not truly alone.

The corridor curves gently downward, following a path that shouldn't be possible according to my understanding of palace architecture. We're moving deeper, beneath the formal levels, into foundations that must predate even the Winter Court's establishment here. The ice looks different—not the cultivated crystal clarity of upper chambers but something wilder, more organic, formed by natural processes rather than court precision.

Halfway down the corridor, the palace shudders again—more violently this time. Cracks appear in the ceiling above me, thin fissures that widen as I watch, golden light spilling through like pus from an infected wound.

Summer Court magic, burning through winter ice.

The realization sends a spike of fear through me. The courts aren't just attacking the obvious targets but methodically destroying the palace's very structure—including these hidden passages that shouldn't appear on any official blueprint. Someone with intimate knowledge guiding them. Someone who watched the awakened omegas move through these secret ways.

Nessa. The betrayal burns fresh again, even as I quicken my pace. Fear pushes exhaustion aside, sending fresh energy coursing through my system. The quadruplets respond with synchronized movement, almost as if they're bracing themselves for what's coming, small lives already prepared for battle they haven't been born into yet.

The fissures spread faster, golden light intensifying as Summer Court magic melts through layer after layer of palace defenses. I can feel the heat now, unnaturally focused, burning through ice that should take centuries to melt. The palace responds with its own defenses, cillae brightening to combat the invasion, but the golden light pushes inexorably downward.

I'm twenty feet from the end of the passage when the ceiling finally gives way entirely, collapsing in a shower of ice shards and blinding golden light. I throw myself forward, frost magic instinctively forming a protective shield over my belly as I fall. The impact jars every bone in my body, but I manage to land on my side rather than my stomach, protecting the little ones from the worst of the fall.

Pain flares through my hip and shoulder, dazing me momentarily. When my vision clears, I find myself sprawled in a widened section of corridor, surrounded by glittering ice fragments that reflect golden light from the hole above. I struggle to push myself upright, one hand automatically moving to my belly where the quadruplets respond with reassuring movement. Still safe, still protected.

Before I can fully recover, a figure drops through the newly created hole above me. The movement is graceful, controlled—not a fall but a deliberate descent. Tall and imposing with skin that seems perpetually sun-bronzed, as if summer itself had been captured and bound within flesh. Amber eyes containing flecks of actual gold catch the light like predatory jewels. Black hair grown in unnatural patterns forms whorls resembling ritual markings across a face of such perfect symmetry it approaches the uncanny.

The Collector.

My blood freezes in recognition. This is no random encounter, no coincidental breach. He has been hunting specifically for me, tracking my path through the palace with the precision of a predator who never loses his chosen prey.

"Little copper wolf," he says, his voice warm and terrifying in its gentleness. No rage, no snarling domination—just cultured appreciation, as if encountering a particularly fine artwork in an unexpected location. "How marvelously you've changed since our brief chase in the forest."

I scramble backward, frost magic gathering at my fingertips as I try to put distance between us. The narrow passage works against me, limiting my movement while allowing him to approach with unhurried confidence. Each backward shuffle feels painfully slow, my pregnant body uncooperative in its ungainliness.

"Those ears," he continues, gaze fixed on the pointed tips that mark my transformation. His appreciation feels worse than any threat—the patient assessment of someone selecting precisely which parts to remove and preserve. "Those lovely fangs. And your scent... extraordinary how it's evolved. More complex now, layered with Wild Magic and the Winter Prince's mark and those remarkable vessels you carry within you."

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