The streets of Prague at midnight smell like rain, iron, and old magic. Cobblestones glisten under the flickering gas lamps, their light warped by the veil of glamour that shrouds the city’s supernatural underbelly. We move fast—Cassian ahead, a shadow given form, his storm-gray eyes scanning every alley, every rooftop, every shadow. Kael brings up the rear, silent, watchful, his amber gaze sweeping the darkness. I’m in the center, my hand resting on the hilt of my dagger, my thorns coiled tight beneath my skin, ready.
Mira’s safe—for now. Hidden in a warded safehouse beneath the old witch quarter, guarded by three of Kaelen’s most loyal rebels. But we’re not here for her.
We’re here for answers.
The Heartroot’s blood is being siphoned. Silas has a strain in circulation. Hybrids are turning. The Council is blind. And if we don’t stop it, the balance won’t just break—it’ll burn.
The bond hums beneath my skin—warm, restless, alive. It doesn’t hurt. Not anymore. It just is. A presence. A truth. And for the first time, I don’t fight it. I let it guide me, a live wire sparking under my skin, pulsing in time with Cassian’s. His magic answers mine, a low, steady thrum beneath my ribs, like a second heartbeat keeping time with his.
“The warehouse is ahead,” Kael murmurs. “Three levels. Reinforced iron. No guards—too obvious.”
“Too quiet,” Cassian says, not looking back. “He wants us to come.”
“Then we give him what he wants,” I say, stepping forward. “And take what’s ours.”
Cassian glances at me—just a flicker, but I see it. Pride. Heat. Something softer. Then he turns, raises his hand. Ice spirals from his palm, sharp as blades, slicing through the lock on the warehouse door. It groans, then swings inward, revealing a cavernous space of rusted machinery, broken crates, and shadows that move like living things.
We move in.
Silent.
Fast.
The air is thick with the scent of oil, rust, and something darker—blood. Not fresh. Not old. Processed. Like the vials Silas had in the Iron Court. My thorns twitch beneath my skin, responding to the surge of magic, of wrongness.
Then I see it.
A door. Black iron. Sealed with a sigil that pulses with dark energy. The Thorn Pact. I feel it—the pull, the recognition—like a key turning in a lock.
“This is it,” I whisper. “The lab.”
Cassian raises his hand—ice spiraling—but before he can strike, the door opens.
Not from magic.
From inside.
And standing there—
Not Silas.
Not Nyx.
A woman.
Human. Pale. Blond. Dressed in a white coat stained with blood.
Dr. Elira Voss. Head of the ISO’s Bio-Magic Division. The woman who certified the Heartroot’s theft. The one who claimed Cassian was a war criminal.
She smiles. Cold. Calculated. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, voice sharp.
“But I am,” she replies. “And so are you. Which means the plan is working.”
“What plan?” Cassian asks, stepping forward.
“The same one Silas has been playing,” Kael says, hand on his blade. “He’s using her. Feeding her lies.”
“No.” Elira steps aside—just enough to reveal the lab behind her. Rows of vials line the shelves, dark liquid sloshing inside. Blood. The Heartroot’s blood. And in the center—a machine. A cage of black iron and glowing wires, humming with stolen magic. Inside—
A hybrid.
Young. Male. Wolf-fae. His body is strapped to the table, his veins pulsing with dark energy, his eyes wide with terror. Wires snake from his arms, his neck, his temples, feeding into the machine. He’s alive. Barely.
“You’re harvesting them,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Elira says, not flinching. “The Heartroot’s blood isn’t just magic. It’s a catalyst. A key. With it, we can create soldiers. Loyal. Obedient. Controllable.”
“You’re a monster,” I say.
“No.” She turns to me. “I’m a scientist. And you? You’re the anomaly. The one the Heartroot chose. The one who shouldn’t exist.”
“And you’re afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid.” Her voice drops. “I’m excited. Because you’re the final piece. The one who can unlock the strain’s full potential.”
My blood turns to ice.
“You want to use me.”
“No.” She smiles. “I want to become you.”
And then—
She lunges.
Not at me.
At Cassian.
Her hand flashes—syringe filled with dark liquid, the tip glinting in the dim light. She moves fast, but Cassian is faster. Ice spirals from his palm, freezing her mid-lunge, encasing her from the neck down. She gasps, struggles, but the ice holds.
“You’re too late,” she spits. “The strain is already in circulation. The hybrids are mine. The Council will fall. And when the Heartroot dies—”
“It won’t,” I say, stepping forward. “Because I won’t let it.”
But the moment doesn’t last.
Because the air shifts.
Not from wind.
Not from fire.
From magic.
Old. Twisted. Familiar.
“We’re not alone,” Kael says, hand on his blade.
Cassian turns, his storm-gray eyes scanning the shadows. “They’ve been watching.”
And then—
Laughter.
Soft. Melodic. Poisonous.
Queen Nyx steps from the shadows—tall, elegant, draped in a gown of living ivy and moonlight. Her hair is black as midnight, her eyes golden, her smile sharp enough to cut. She doesn’t look at the bodies. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches us, amused, like we’re children playing at war.
“How touching,” she says, voice like silk over steel. “The cursed bond, finally hunting down the truth. Did you enjoy it, Birch? Feeling her fear? Tasting her lies? Or are you still pretending this is about justice?”
“You’re the liar,” I snarl, stepping in front of the hybrid. “You burned my coven. You stole the Heartroot. You bound us to destroy each other.”
“I didn’t bind you,” she says, tilting her head. “The Heartroot did. It chose you. Both of you. And now?” She smiles. “Now it’s watching to see if you’re worthy.”
“Worthy of what?”
“Rule.” She steps closer. “The old world is dying. The Veil is thin. The Council is weak. And the Heartroot?” She laughs. “It doesn’t want a warden. It wants a king and queen. Born of fire and thorn. Bound by blood. Meant to burn the old order to ash.”
My stomach twists.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She gestures to the vials. “Or am I just showing you the truth? That you’re already killing each other? That the bond is a curse? That no matter how many times you kiss, no matter how many times you burn for each other, you’ll never escape what you are?”
“We’re not pawns,” Cassian growls, ice cracking the vines around his wrists. “We’re not your weapons.”
“Aren’t you?” She smiles. “You’ve spent your lives proving you’re not weak. That you’re not like your parents. That you’re not half-breeds. And yet—” Her gaze flicks to me. “—you’re bound to her. And you—” She looks at Cassian. “—you’re dying. And the only thing keeping you alive is the very magic you claim to protect.”
“The Heartroot chose me,” he says.
“And now it’s choosing her.” She steps closer. “I didn’t engineer the bond, Cassian. I just awakened it. I lit the fuse. And now?” She smiles. “Now the explosion is coming. And when it does—”
“You’ll be ready to pick up the pieces,” I say.
“Exactly.” She turns, begins to walk away. “Enjoy your fire, little witch. Savor your king. Because soon—”
“Wait.” Cassian’s voice cuts through the chamber like ice. “You left something behind.”
She pauses. “Oh?”
He doesn’t answer. Just moves—fast, silent, a shadow given form. The vines try to stop him, but he’s faster, ice spiraling from his palms, freezing them, shattering them. He reaches the hybrid, presses his marked hand to the wires—
And the machine shatters.
The hybrid gasps, collapsing into my arms. “The strain,” he whispers. “It’s in the Council. In the blood. In her.”
“Who?” I ask.
But he doesn’t answer.
Because Nyx laughs.
And the walls explode.
Not with fire.
With sound.
A sonic blast rips through the chamber, throwing us back, shattering the iron walls, collapsing the ceiling. Dust and debris rain down. I shield the hybrid, rolling, crawling, dragging him toward the edge of the chamber. Cassian grabs Kael, pulling him behind a fallen beam. The vines retreat, writhing back into the stone.
And Nyx?
She’s gone—vanishing into the shadows like smoke.
“We can’t stay,” I say, voice tight. “She’ll bring more. Traps. Assassins. The whole place’s rigged.”
“Then we move fast,” Cassian says, rising. “We get him out. We destroy the vials. We find Silas.”
“And if it’s a trap?” Kael asks.
“It is,” the hybrid says, coughing. “But it’s the only way. The lab holds the last strain. If you don’t destroy it, it’ll spread. The Council will fall. The Veil will break.”
My breath stills.
“Then we go,” I say.
Cassian nods. “Together.”
We move.
Through the collapsing corridors, past falling beams and burning machinery. The air is thick with smoke, the floor slick with oil and blood. Kael leads, silent, watchful, his amber eyes scanning for traps. Cassian stays close, his hand never far from mine, the bond flaring—heat rolling through us, sudden and deep. The hybrid leans on me, weak, trembling, but alive. His breath is ragged, his pulse faint, but his grip is strong.
And then—
A door.
Black iron. Sealed with a sigil that pulses with dark energy. The Thorn Pact. I feel it—the pull, the recognition—like a key turning in a lock.
“This is it,” I whisper. “The heart of the lab. The vault.”
Cassian raises his hand—ice spiraling—but before he can strike, the door opens.
Not from magic.
From inside.
And standing there—
A man.
Human. Tall. Sharp suit. Cold eyes.
Director Silas.
“Welcome,” he says, smiling. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
The bond screams—not in pain.
In warning.
And deep beneath the lab, in the vault where the Heartroot’s blood rests, its pulse stirs—stronger now—and for the first time in years, it burns.
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.”