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 trial about to begin, the moon rising over the Winter Court like a silver blade, the air thick with tension and the scent of blood and frost.
The Trial by Thorn.
An ancient rite, buried in the oldest scrolls of the Supernatural Council. A formal challenge for a bonded claim—rare, but binding. Winner takes the bond. Loser? Dies screaming as the magic turns on them, thorns erupting from within, tearing them apart from the inside out.
And Lyra has invoked it.
Not because she believes she can win.
But because she believes she can break us.
She stands at the edge of the arena now—a circle of black stone ringed by frozen oaks and thorned hedges that twist like sleeping serpents. Dressed in gold, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, her lips painted the color of fresh wounds. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just watches Birch with golden eyes that gleam with malice.
And Birch?
She’s a storm.
Standing across from Lyra, her back straight, her jaw clenched, her fingers curled into fists. She wears black leather—tight, functional, a blade strapped to her thigh. Her hair is pulled back, her face pale but fierce, her dark eyes burning with something I’ve only seen once before: the night I kissed her in the glade, and she bit me until I bled.
She’s afraid.
Not of Lyra.
Not of the trial.
Of what this means.
Of what she’s becoming.
The bond hums between us—warm, restless, *alive*. I feel her pulse, her magic, the way her breath hitches when she thinks of Lyra touching me, whispering in my ear, wearing my shirt like some trophy of conquest. I feel the jealousy, the rage, the *fire*.
And I don’t stop it.
Because this isn’t just a trial.
It’s a reckoning.
And if Birch doesn’t claim what’s hers tonight, she’ll never be free of the doubt. Never be free of the fear. Never be free of the mission that’s been poisoning her soul for ten years.
“The Trial by Thorn begins at moonrise,” Kael announces, his voice echoing through the arena. “The challenger and the challenged will duel using only thorn magic. No blades. No fire. No blood-rites. The bond will judge. The victor will claim the bond. The loser—” His gaze sweeps the crowd. “—will die.”
The Council watches from the stands—fae nobles in silver-threaded silks, vampire elders in tailored coats, werewolf leaders with frost-laced beards, witches in midnight robes, human observers with pens and notepads. Their faces are cold, their eyes sharp with suspicion. Some whisper. Some sneer. Some watch with something worse: *hope*.
Hope that the bond will break.
Hope that I will fall.
Hope that the Winter Court will burn.
But they don’t know.
They don’t see what I see.
They don’t feel what I feel.
Because Birch isn’t just fighting for the bond.
She’s fighting for *us*.
And if she wins?
Then the world will know—
She is not my prisoner.
She is not my pet.
She is not my mistress.
She is my *queen*.
—
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, stepping to her side as the moon climbs higher. “You could walk away. Let the bond break. Let her have me.”
She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps her eyes on Lyra. “And let her win? Let her humiliate you? Let her take what’s *mine*?”
My breath stills.
“Yours?” I murmur.
“Yes.” She turns to me then, her dark eyes blazing. “You think I don’t know what she’s doing? She’s not just challenging me. She’s challenging *you*. She’s trying to make you doubt. To make you wonder if I’m strong enough. If I’m *worthy*.”
“You are.”
“Then stop pretending I need your protection.” She steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Stop pretending this bond is a curse. Stop pretending you don’t want me.”
“I’ve never pretended that.”
“Then why do you keep holding back?” Her hand lifts, brushes my cheek. “Why do you keep acting like you’re the one in control? Like you’re the one who decides what this is?”
The bond flares—heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. My skin tightens. My core clenches. The thorns on my arm *bloom*, spreading like ink beneath my skin.
“Because I’m afraid,” I admit, voice rough.
“Of what?”
“Of losing you.”
“You won’t.” She presses her forehead to mine. “Not like this. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“And if you lose?”
“I won’t.”
“And if you do?”
She pulls back, her gaze sharp. “Then you’ll burn the world for me. Just like you said.”
My throat tightens.
She remembers.
Every word. Every touch. Every kiss.
She remembers it all.
“Then go,” I say, stepping back. “And show them.”
“Show them what?”
“That you’re not just bound to me.” I meet her eyes. “That you’re *mine*. That you’re my *queen*.”
She doesn’t smile.
Just nods.
And steps into the arena.
—
The moon is high now, a silver sickle hanging low and sharp above the frozen oaks. The air is thick with frost, the sky a bruised purple, the torches burning with cold blue flame. The bond hums—warm, restless, *alive*—as Birch and Lyra face each other across the circle of black stone.
“Begin,” Kael says.
Lyra moves first.
Her hand lifts—thorns erupt from the ground, spiraling up like black serpents, aiming for Birch’s legs. Fast. Deadly. But Birch is faster.
She doesn’t dodge.
She *answers*.
Her own thorns burst from the stone, wrapping around Lyra’s vines, *crushing* them like dry twigs. The crowd gasps. Lyra snarls, throws another wave—this one aimed at Birch’s chest. But Birch raises her hand, and a wall of thorns rises from the ground, shielding her.
“You think you’re strong?” Lyra hisses, circling. “You think you’re special? He’s used me. He’s *used* you. We’re all just weapons to him.”
“No,” Birch says, voice steady. “I’m not a weapon. I’m not a pawn. I’m not *you*.”
Lyra laughs. “Oh, but you are. You’re just like me. You want him. You need him. You *burn* for him.”
“Yes.” Birch steps forward, her storm-gray eyes burning. “I do. But I don’t need to pretend I’m the only one who’s ever mattered. I don’t need to wear his shirt like some trophy. I don’t need to whisper lies in his ear to feel powerful.”
“Then why fight?”
“Because I’m not fighting for him.” Birch raises her hand. “I’m fighting for *me*.”
And then—
She *attacks*.
Not with vines.
Not with shields.
With the bond.
She *pulls*—not on the thorns, not on her magic, but on the connection between us, the live wire sparking under her skin. I feel it—the pulse of her heart, the rhythm of her breath, the way her magic hums beneath her skin. And she *amplifies* it.
The bond *screams*—heat, magic, desire crashing through us like a storm. The thorns on our arms *erupt*, black vines spiraling up, wrapping around Lyra’s limbs, *pinning* her to the ground. She gasps, struggles, but the vines tighten, feeding on Birch’s magic, on *our* magic.
“You see?” Birch says, stepping closer. “He doesn’t belong to you. He doesn’t belong to the Council. He doesn’t belong to the Winter Court.”
Lyra glares up at her. “Then who does he belong to?”
“Me.” Birch leans down, her voice a whisper. “And I belong to him. Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. Because I *choose* to.”
And then—
She releases the vines.
Lyra collapses to her knees, gasping, her golden eyes wide with shock. The crowd is silent. The Council watches. The witches whisper. The vampires lean in.
And I?
I step forward.
Not to intervene.
Not to claim.
To *witness*.
“The bond has judged,” Kael announces. “Birch of the Eastern Coven is the victor. Lyra of the Summer Court has been defeated.”
Lyra looks up at me, her breath ragged. “You’re letting her win?”
“No.” I step to Birch’s side, my hand finding hers. “I’m letting *you* lose.”
“You used me,” she whispers.
“Yes.” I don’t flinch. “To watch Nyx. To know when she was moving. To keep you close so I could control you.”
“And the blood? The bed? The—”
“I didn’t sleep with you,” I say, voice deadly quiet. “Not in months. Not since the bond formed. Not since *her*.”
Her eyes blaze. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I turn to Birch, my storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. “You tell me. When I look at you, when I touch you, when I kiss you—do you feel it? The truth? The bond doesn’t lie. It only shows what’s already there.”
Her breath hitches.
“And what’s there?” she whispers.
“You tell me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, her hand lifting to my cheek. The bond flares—heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. My skin burns. My core tightens. The thorns on my spine *twitch*, responding to the surge of magic, of *desire*.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispers. “Not here. Not now. Not with the entire Court watching.”
“Then when?” I ask. “After? When we’re covered in Nyx’s blood? When the bond is screaming from the fight? When you’re standing over her body, and I’m the only one who knows what that fire in your eyes really means?”
My pulse spikes.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your magic.” I lean in, my lips a breath from hers. “I know your fire. I know the way your breath catches when I touch you. The way your thorns bloom. The way your body *arches* toward mine, even when your mind says no.”
“That’s the bond.”
“No.” My voice is a whisper. “That’s *you*.”
And before she can answer—
Before she can deny it—
Before she can say that she came here to kill me—
I kiss her.
Not gently. Not with romance.
With *possession*.
One hand grips her waist, the other tangles in her hair. I tilt her head back, my storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. The bond *roars*—heat, magic, desire crashing through us like a storm.
And she kisses me back.
Hard.
Deep.
Claiming.
Her hands fly to my coat—not to push me away, but to *hold on*. Her body arches into mine, the thorns on her spine *erupting*, black vines blooming across her skin, wrapping around my arms, binding us together.
The bond *screams*—not in pain, but in *awakening*.
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 burns.
Not in fear.
Not in warning.
In approval.
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.”