It's the heart of the problem, and we all know it. Human society has no place for openly omega women, no framework for understanding their needs or providing for them. The alternatives to claiming are medication, suppression, or slow death from unfulfilled biological imperatives.
"The Thorn Court has already proven this model works," I continue. "Rosalind Whitmore has become a powerful queen who bridges both worlds. My own mate rules beside me as an equal partner. These aren't victims—they're women who've found their true nature."
"Through force," Lord Blackwood insists.
"Through necessity," Elise corrects. "Because your world offers no other path to discovery."
The debate continues for hours, but I can see the underlying fear in their arguments. It's not really about consent or coercion—it's about losing control. About the reality that their daughters might have needs they can't meet, natures they can't suppress, destinies that lead away from human society.
"There's something else," Edgar says during a break in formal proceedings. His voice is quiet, uncertain. "Something the palace healers discovered during recent examinations."
I feel Elise tense beside me, knowing what's coming.
"She's pregnant," Edgar announces, the words carrying across the silent hall. "Twins. The heirs to the Frost Court throne."
The political implications hit the delegation like a physical blow. If Elise is carrying royal heirs, if she's already transformed beyond redemption, if the bond has progressed to the point of creating new life... their position becomes impossible.
"This changes everything," Lord Hartwell murmurs.
"It changes nothing about the fundamental issue," Lord Blackwood insists, but his conviction is weakening.
"It changes everything about the practical reality," Edgar says, his voice carrying new strength. "She's not just my daughter anymore. She's a Fae queen carrying royal heirs. The mother of the next generation that will inherit both worlds."
I watch his face as he speaks, seeing the complex emotions playing out. Pride at his daughter's status, fear of what she's become, love that transcends understanding.
"And how do you feel about that?" I ask him directly.
Edgar considers the question seriously, his eyes moving between his transformed daughter and the life growing inside her.
"Terrified," he admits. "Proud. Confused. Grateful that she's alive and... and radiant in ways she never was before." He pauses. "I don't understand it. I probably never will. But I can't deny that she's become something magnificent."
"Even knowing what it cost?" Lord Hartwell presses.
"Even knowing that the alternative was watching her die slowly in a world that had no place for what she actually was," Edgar replies.
The formal conclusion takes another day of legal maneuvering, but the real decision has been made. They can't challenge bonds that have already produced royal heirs, can't demand the return of women who've become queens of foreign courts.
Instead, they negotiate new protocols. Consent procedures for future claimings, evaluation processes, diplomatic frameworks. It's not the protection they wanted, but it's the accommodation they can live with.
That night, as we settle into bed with the political crisis temporarily resolved, I allow myself to process what the day hasbrought. Validation that our bond can survive external scrutiny. Confirmation that the pregnancy is progressing normally.
And the knowledge that six more courts are watching, learning, preparing their own approaches to claiming the daughters they need.
"Any regrets?" I ask, echoing the question from months ago.
She considers it seriously, her hand resting on her stomach where our children are growing.
"Only that we had to fight so hard for something that feels so inevitable in retrospect," she says. "But no. No regrets about choosing this life, this bond, this future."
"Even knowing it means war if the other courts follow our example?"
"Especially knowing that," she replies. "Because the alternative is letting omega women continue to die slowly in worlds that refuse to acknowledge what they are."
I pull her closer, marveling at the fierce protectiveness in her voice. Not just for herself, but for the unknown daughters who will face similar choices in the coming years.
"The prophecy requires eight bonds," I murmur against her hair.
"Two down," she replies. "Six to go."
