Page 186 of Run Little Omega

The wall dissolves entirely, revealing a hidden passage I never knew existed. From the darkness emerges a figure so covered in blood and frost that I barely recognize him at first—body transformed by battle, by wounds that should have been fatal, by Wild Magic fighting to keep him alive against impossible odds.

Cadeyrn.

The sight of him hits me like a hammer strike to the chest, driving air from my lungs in a gasp that sounds like his name but feels like salvation. He stands—barely—in the newly formed opening, his massive frame transformed beyond even the changes Wild Magic had already wrought.

Blood coats him in layers that freeze and melt with each labored breath, silver-blue rather than mortal red. One side of his chest bears a wound that should have killed him instantly—a gaping hole where green corruption spreads in geometric patterns, fighting against the Wild Magic that keeps his heart beating. Court binding magic trying to unmake him, to force him back into the box he's broken.

His eyes no longer merely ice-blue but swirling kaleidoscopes of all four seasonal courts, pupils expanded to eclipse almost all color. Frost patterns spiral across his skin in chaotic formations rather than the rigid geometries of Winter Court tradition—patterns that match mine, that connect to the ones adorning our newborn son.

The emptiness where our bond existed flares painfully, connection struggling to reestablish across magical interference. Like a limb gone numb suddenly flooded with returning blood, the sensation hovers between agony and relief.

"Cadeyrn," I whisper, disbelief and desperate hope warring within me.

The room blurs as tears fill my eyes—not the few reluctant drops I'd allowed myself earlier, but a torrent held back by a dam that suddenly breaks. My throat closes around words I can't form, emotion too vast to compress into language. Three months of resisting him, of fighting our bond, of gradual surrender and unexpected need culminate in this moment of impossible return.

"Briar," he gasps, my name emerging as frost on the air between us. Each syllable clearly costs him physical agony, his wounds reopening as he forces himself forward.

He takes one stumbling step forward, then another. Silver-blue blood streams from his chest wound, freezing on contact with the floor only to melt again as his uncontrolled magic fluctuates. The effort it costs him to remain upright is visible in every line of his transformed body—in the trembling of limbs that never showed weakness before, in the rigid set of shoulders that bear the impossible weight of his own survival.

"I felt you die," I say, voice breaking on each word. I clutch Ember closer, his tiny warmth the only thing anchoring me to reality. "I felt the bond... just... gone."

Ember stirs against my chest, tiny hands reaching toward his father as if sensing their connection despite never having seen him before. The movement unlocks something in me—rage and relief tangling together into something sharp enough to cut.

"You fucking died," I accuse, tears streaming freely down my face now. "You left me alone. You promised?—"

"Never by choice," he rasps, staggering closer. Each step leaves bloody footprints that freeze instantly against the ancient stone. "They had... specialized weapons. Designed to sever bonds."

The loyal omegas part before him, their cillae brightening in recognition as he approaches the throne. There's awe in their expressions, and something deeper—the stunned reverence of witnessing the impossible made manifest.

"The child," he manages, his gaze finding Ember, recognition and wonder breaking through the battle-madness that grips him. "Our son."

He collapses to his knees before the throne, legs finally giving out beneath him. Even kneeling, his transformed frame looms large, broader and more powerful than the perfect Winter Prince who once governed with cold precision. Wild Magic has remade him as thoroughly as it has remade me—breaking and reforming, like metal in a forge that emerges stronger from the fire.

"I thought I'd lost you," I whisper, free hand reaching for him despite the fury still smoldering beneath my relief. "I thought I'd have to do this alone."

Our fingers touch, and the bond flares between us—damaged but rekindling, like a fire catching from scattered embers. Sensation floods the connection from both directions. His pain becomes mine; my labor becomes his. The strain of his desperate battle to reach me, the terror of my capture and escape, the shared determination that has kept us both alive against impossible odds—all of it flows through the reestablishing connection between us.

"Never," he promises, blood-stained fingers closing around mine with desperate strength. "Death itself couldn't keep me from this moment."

His eyes—those kaleidoscope eyes swirling with the colors of all four seasonal courts—find mine with an intensity that strips away court formality, battle strategy, everything but the naked truth between us. The Winter Prince who hunted me in the forest, who claimed me against a blackthorn tree while crimson sap rained down upon us, is gone. In his place kneels my mate—transformed by Wild Magic, by choice, by love that neither of us expected to find in the brutality of the Hunt.

"The protection," I remind him, heart racing with renewed hope as I shift Ember to one arm. "Before the next child comes."

He nods, understanding flowing between us despite the damaged bond. With painful deliberation, he places his palm against the throne's armrest, where ancient runes carved into the ice begin to glow in response to royal blood.

"With my blood freely given," he recites, voice steadying as he connects with magic older than court divisions, "I activate the throne's protection. For my mate, for my children, for the Wild Magic reborn through our union."

The runes flare brilliant blue-white, absorbing the silver-blue blood that flows freely from his wounds. The entire throne room resonates in response, ancient magic awakening after centuries of dormancy. The protective dome created by the omegas' combined power merges with this older, deeper magic, creating a barrier that encompasses the entire chamber in pulsing layers of light.

Then he does something I don't expect. Still kneeling, still bleeding, he presses his forehead against my knee—a gesture of such vulnerability that it steals my breath completely. His shoulders shake with emotion too powerful to contain, silver-blue tears freezing against his transformed skin.

"I thought I wouldn't reach you in time," he admits, voice muffled against my skin. "I could feel you through the bond, feel the labor beginning, feel your grief when you thought me dead—and still the distance between us seemed impossible to cross."

My hand finds his hair, fingers tangling in frost-crusted strands. "But you did reach me. You're here now."

Another contraction begins, the second child preparing to enter the world. Wren returns to her position, professional focus momentarily softened by the reunion she's witnessing.

"Your timing is impeccable, my prince," she says, a hint of dry humor entering her voice. "The next child approaches."

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