The first rule of power is this: never let them see you bleed.
The second? Never let them see you want.
And right now, I want Birch with a hunger that claws at my ribs, sharp and relentless. Not just because the bond demands it—though it does, a constant thrum beneath my skin, a fire banked low but never extinguished. No. I want her awake, unguarded, *mine* in something deeper than magic. I want her to stop fighting me. To stop pretending this fire between us is anything but inevitable. I want her to look at me and see not the monster, not the tyrant, not the dying king clinging to stolen power—but the man who’s been waiting centuries for her.
But I can’t show it.
Not here. Not now. Not with the gala still echoing in my ears, the scent of blood and glamour clinging to the stone, the body of the chambermaid cooling in the east wing, the sigil of the Eastern Coven still clutched in her lifeless hand.
Nyx struck again.
She left her dagger behind—*mine* this time, not hers, but close enough to the design to fool the weak-minded. She wanted us divided. She wanted the bond to fracture. She wanted Birch to turn on me, to accuse me, to *believe* I’d let Lyra back into my chambers, that I’d let her whisper poison in my ear, that I’d let her wear my shirt like some trophy of conquest.
And for a moment—just a moment—I saw it in Birch’s eyes.
Doubt.
Not of the bond.
Of *me*.
But then she danced with me.
Not because I pulled her.
Because she *chose* to follow.
Her body arched into mine. Her thorns bloomed. Her breath hitched when I touched her. And when I whispered in her ear, when I told her the truth—that I hadn’t slept with Lyra, not since the bond, not since *her*—she didn’t pull away.
She *believed* me.
And then Nyx came.
And then we fought.
And then I kissed her.
Not to claim. Not to control.
Because I *needed* to.
Because if I didn’t feel her lips on mine, if I didn’t taste the fire in her blood, if I didn’t hear her breath catch as the thorns wrapped around us, I thought I might burn from the inside out.
And she kissed me back.
Not because of the bond.
Because she *wanted* to.
And deep beneath the palace, in the vault where the Heartroot rests, its pulse stirred—*stronger now*—and for the first time in years, it *burned*.
Not in fear.
Not in warning.
In *approval*.
But that was hours ago.
Now, I stand in the war room, the torchlight casting long, jagged shadows across the obsidian table. Maps of the Wilds are spread before me, sigils etched into the stone, troop movements marked in blood-red ink. Kael is at the door, silent, watchful. Birch is in the inner chamber, resting—or pretending to. The bond hums between us, a low, steady thrum beneath my ribs, like a second heartbeat keeping time with hers.
She’s not asleep.
I can feel her—her pulse, her magic, the way her breath hitches when she thinks of Lyra, when she remembers the way the woman touched her, when she wonders if I’ve ever looked at anyone else the way I look at her.
I haven’t.
But I can’t tell her that.
Not yet.
Because there’s something else.
Something worse.
“The ritual must be performed at the next moonrise,” I say, voice low. “The bond is destabilizing. The Council demands proof of its strength. And the Heartroot—”
“—is reacting,” Kael finishes. His amber eyes are sharp, unreadable. “I felt it when we returned. A pulse. A *song*.”
I nod. “It’s not just a grimoire. It’s alive. And it’s choosing.”
“Choosing *her*,” Kael says.
“Yes.”
“And if it chooses her, what happens to you?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
We both know.
The Heartroot is keeping me alive. Without it, I’ll die in six months. But if it chooses Birch—if it *transfers* its power to her—then I die now.
And I don’t care.
Because if she’s strong enough to carry it, then she’s strong enough to survive without me.
And that’s all that matters.
“You’re lying,” Kael says, stepping closer. “You don’t just want the ritual to stabilize the bond. You want to know if she’s strong enough to survive you.”
My jaw tightens. “I want the truth.”
“The truth is, she’s already stronger than you think.” He studies me. “You’ve never hesitated before. Not for anyone. Not for anything. But you hesitate for her. You *break* for her. And if the Council sees that—”
“—they’ll move against me,” I finish. “I know.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because the bond is a weapon,” I say. “And if we don’t learn how to wield it, Nyx will use it against us.”
He doesn’t argue.
He knows I’m right.
But he also knows I’m lying.
Because the ritual isn’t just about control.
It’s about *connection*.
It’s about blood.
And blood is the most dangerous magic of all.
—
I find her in the library, where else?
She’s kneeling beside a shattered glass case, her fingers brushing the edge of a scorched grimoire, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, her lips moving in silent recitation. The air is thick with old magic, dried herbs, and the faint, metallic tang of blood. Her scent—thorn and fire—wraps around me the second I step inside, sharp and wild, like a forest after lightning.
She doesn’t look up.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I say, voice low.
“You’re supposed to be planning war,” she counters, not turning.
“I was.” I step closer, the bond flaring—heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. “Now I’m here.”
She glances at me then—dark eyes sharp, guarded. “Why?”
“Because we need to talk.”
“About?”
“The ritual.”
Her breath stills.
She turns fully, rising to her feet. The thorned mark on her palm glows faintly—black veins pulsing beneath the skin. “The blood-sharing ritual. To stabilize the bond.”
“Yes.”
“And what does it involve?”
I don’t answer right away.
I study her—her face pale, her lips still swollen from our kiss, the faint glow of the bond-mark on her collarbone. She’s beautiful. Fierce. Unbroken. And she’s mine.
But not like this.
Not yet.
“It requires blood,” I say. “Yours. Mine. Shared.”
“How?”
“Mouth to mouth.”
Her breath hitches.
“Like a kiss,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
“And the bond?”
“It will deepen. The connection will strengthen. The pain of separation will lessen. But—” I hesitate. “—if the bond is broken during the ritual, the magic will turn on us. It could kill you.”
Her eyes narrow. “And you?”
“I’ll die anyway,” I say, voice rough. “The Heartroot is failing. Six months, maybe less.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just watches me, her gaze sharp, searching. “And if the Heartroot chooses me?”
My throat tightens.
She knows.
Of course she knows.
“Then it will transfer its power to you,” I say. “And I’ll die.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I’m not *okay* with it,” I snap. “But if it means you live, then yes. I’ll die for you.”
She stares at me. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I do.” I step closer, the air between us thickening. “Because it’s true. Because I’d burn the world for you. Because I’d let the Veil collapse if it meant you walked away alive.”
“And what about *us*?” she demands. “What about the bond? What about the fire between us? You think I want to rule alone? That I want to carry the Heartroot while your body turns to ash?”
My breath stills.
“You think I don’t see it?” she continues, voice breaking. “The way you look at me. The way your heart stutters when I’m near. The way your magic *answers* mine. You think I don’t feel it? The bond isn’t just magic. It’s *us*. And if you die—” Her voice cracks. “—then I die too.”
The bond *screams*.
Heat rolls through us, sudden and overwhelming. My magic flares. Her magic answers. The thorns on the walls *come alive*, black vines spiraling down, wrapping around our arms, binding us together.
I reach for her.
Not to control. Not to claim.
To *hold*.
My hands cup her face, my thumbs brushing her pulse points. Her breath hitches. Her eyes darken. The thorns on her spine *erupt*, black vines blooming across her skin, wrapping around my arms, feeding on the clash, the heat, the *desire*.
“You don’t get to leave me,” she whispers.
“I don’t want to.” My voice is rough. “But if it’s the price of your survival—”
“Then I won’t pay it.” She grabs my wrists, her grip fierce. “You hear me? I won’t let you die for me. I won’t let the Heartroot take you. I’ll burn it to ash before I let it steal you from me.”
My chest tightens.
“You came here to kill me,” I say, voice low.
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know what I want.”
“Then let me tell you what you *need*.” I press my forehead to hers. “You need to stop fighting me. You need to stop pretending the bond is a curse. You need to stop running from the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?”
“That we’re not enemies.” My thumb drags across her lip. “That we never were. That the fire between us isn’t hate. It’s *destiny*.”
She trembles beneath my touch.
Not from fear.
From power.
From the heat still burning between us.
From the truth we both know now:
This isn’t just a bond.
It’s a declaration.
And war just changed sides.
—
Later, I stand in the vault.
The Heartroot rests in the center of the chamber, a living grimoire of twisted bark and pulsing veins, its surface etched with ancient sigils that shift and writhe like serpents. The air is thick with power, old and deep, the scent of blood and earth and something darker—*magic*, raw and untamed. Torches burn with cold blue flame, casting long, jagged shadows across the stone.
I press my marked palm to the Heartroot’s surface.
It *responds*—a pulse, deep and strong, like a heartbeat. A whisper.
She is coming.
“I know,” I murmur.
You will die for her.
“Yes.”
And if she dies for you?
My breath stills.
“Then I’ll burn the world to bring her back.”
The Heartroot hums—warm, restless, *alive*.
And I know what I must do.
The ritual isn’t just about stabilizing the bond.
It’s about *sacrifice*.
It’s about proving we’re worthy.
And if I have to bleed for her, if I have to die for her, if I have to let the fire in my blood turn to ash—
Then so be it.
Because she’s not just my queen.
She’s my *fire*.
And I will not let her burn alone.
Outside, thunder rolls.
And deep beneath the palace, in the vault where the Heartroot rests, its pulse stirs—*stronger now*—and for the first time in years, it sings.
Not in fear.
Not in warning.
In preparation.
Queen Nyx, watching from a scrying pool in the Summer Court, smiles.
“Good,” she whispers. “Let them burn for each other.”
“And when they do?” asks a shadowed figure beside her.
“Then we take everything.”
She turns from the pool, her golden eyes glowing with malice.
“The real game has just begun.”