The morning after the poisoned wine, I wake with fire in my blood and thorns under my skin.
Not from the bond—though it hums low and warm, a constant reminder of his presence just across the chamber. No, this fire is mine. Pure. Unfiltered. The kind that doesn’t come from magic or desire, but from *knowing*.
I know he’s dying.
I know he didn’t burn my coven.
And I know—*I know*—that someone else is pulling the strings.
Queen Nyx.
The Summer Court.
They engineered the bond. They framed me. They want us to destroy each other before we uncover the truth.
And Cassian? He’s not the monster I came to kill.
He’s a pawn. Just like me.
The realization should bring relief. It doesn’t. It brings fury. Because if he’s not the enemy, then I’ve been chasing shadows. Wasting time. Letting the real killer walk free while I plotted to murder a man who’s been protecting the very thing I came to reclaim.
The Heartroot.
It’s not just a grimoire. It’s *alive*. And it *chose* him.
But why?
Why not me? I’m of the Eastern Coven. My blood is witch and thorn. I should be its heir.
Unless—
Unless there’s more to the story.
I rise from the pallet before Cassian stirs, before the bond can tighten its grip and make me hesitate. I dress in silence—black leather, tight and functional, my blade strapped to my thigh, my hair pulled back. No glamour. No lies. Just me. Just the truth I’m chasing.
He’s still asleep when I reach the door.
“You’re not supposed to leave,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I don’t turn. “I’m not your prisoner.”
“You’re bound to me.”
“And you’re dying,” I say, finally facing him. “So if I’m going to kill you, I’d rather do it with answers.”
His storm-gray eyes open, sharp with warning. “The royal archives are restricted.”
“Then I’ll burn them down to find what I need.”
He sits up slowly, the furs slipping from his bare chest. The thorned mark on his palm glows faintly, matching mine. “You won’t find the truth in books.”
“I’ll find pieces of it.” I step closer, the bond flaring between us—heat rolling through my veins, my skin tightening, my breath hitching. “And if you’re hiding something, Cassian Thorn, I’ll tear it from you piece by piece.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, unreadable. “Be careful what you dig for, little witch. Some truths are worse than lies.”
“I’ve lived on lies for ten years,” I say. “I can handle the truth.”
Then I’m gone.
—
The royal archives are buried beneath the Winter Court, a labyrinth of frozen corridors and ancient vaults carved into the living rock. The air is thick with the scent of old paper, dried herbs, and something deeper—*magic*, old and dormant, sealed in ink and bone.
I move fast, silent, my boots barely making a sound on the ice-slicked stone. The guards don’t stop me. They can’t. The bond ties me to Cassian, and as his guest—his *prisoner*—I have access to most of the palace. Even the forbidden.
Even the Thorn Pact.
The archives are guarded by wards, of course. Flickering sigils etched into the archway, pulsing with cold light. But I’ve spent years learning to slip through magic meant to keep me out. I press my marked palm to the ward, let the thorned blood in my veins *speak* to the enchantment. The sigils flicker—recognize me—and the barrier dissolves.
I step inside.
The chamber stretches before me like a cathedral of knowledge—rows upon rows of towering bookshelves, their wood blackened with age, their contents bound in leather, iron, even human skin. Scrolls hang from the ceiling like frozen serpents. Glass cases display ancient artifacts: a vial of dried blood, a cracked circlet, a dagger with a hilt shaped like a thorned vine.
And at the center of it all—a massive, circular table, inlaid with a sigil I’ve never seen before.
Thorn and fire.
Twined together. Bound by blood.
I step closer. The air hums. The bond in my palm *pulses*, responding to the magic in the sigil. I press my hand to the table.
A shock runs through me—sharp, sudden, like lightning in my veins.
Visions flash—
A woman with silver hair and storm-gray eyes, kneeling in a circle of thorns, her hands pressed to a dying grimoire.
A child—small, dark-haired, screaming as fire consumes a temple.
A man with Cassian’s face, but younger, reaching through smoke, calling a name—Birch?
I stumble back, gasping, my heart hammering. The visions are gone, but the echo remains—*recognition*. Not just of the magic. Of the *people*.
The woman—she looked like Cassian. But her eyes—those were mine.
And the child—
That was me.
But the name—
How did he know my name?
I turn to the shelves, desperate for answers. I start pulling books—grimoires, histories, forbidden texts. I flip through pages, scanning for keywords: *Thorn Pact, Heartroot, Eastern Coven, Summer War, bloodline*. My hands tremble. Not from fear. From the heat building in my blood, the bond reacting to my proximity to this place, to this *truth*.
Then I find it.
A slim, unmarked volume, bound in black leather, the cover scarred with thorned vines. I pull it free. The title is burned into the spine: The Bloodline of Thorns.
My breath stills.
I open it.
The first page is a family tree—drawn in ink that shifts as I look at it, lines rearranging, names appearing and disappearing. At the top: *Queen Elara of Winter*, Cassian’s mother. Then a branch—*Cassian Thorn*. But another branch splits off, hidden beneath a veil of ink, only visible when I press my marked palm to the page.
Another child.
Born in secret.
Born of Elara and a witch of the Eastern Coven.
Born… *me*.
Birch.
Daughter of Elara.
Sister to Cassian.
My hands shake. The book slips, hits the floor with a thud that echoes through the chamber.
No.
No, it can’t be.
I’m not a half-fae. I’m not royalty. I’m not—
But the magic knows.
The bond knows.
The thorned blood in my veins *screams* with it—truth, blood, family.
I came here to kill him.
And he’s my *brother*?
The thought makes my stomach twist. I press a hand to my mouth, fighting nausea. This changes everything. The bond. The mission. The fire in my blood.
But—
Wait.
If we’re siblings, then why did the bond form the way it did? Why the heat? The desire? The way our bodies respond to each other like flame to oil?
That’s not sibling magic.
That’s something else.
I flip through the book, frantic now. Pages blur—rituals, prophecies, forbidden unions. Then I find it.
A passage, circled in red ink:
“When the Thorn and Fire are bound by blood, not birth, the Pact awakens. Not as kin. Not as rivals. As one flame, split in two. The Heartroot does not choose rulers. It chooses *twins of spirit*, bound across bloodlines, destined to rule together or burn the world to ash.”
My breath catches.
We’re not siblings.
We’re—
Twins of spirit?
Fated. Not by blood. By magic. By the Heartroot itself.
And the bond—
It’s not a curse.
It’s a *reunion*.
The door slams open.
I spin, the book clutched to my chest.
Cassian stands in the threshold, tall, silver-haired, storm-gray eyes blazing. Frost blooms at his boots, spreading across the floor like a creeping disease. His jaw is tight. His hands are bare. The thorned mark on his palm glows, pulsing in time with mine.
“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
“You weren’t supposed to lie,” I snap.
“I didn’t lie.” He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “I didn’t know. Not until the bond formed. Not until I saw your face and felt it—*recognition*.”
“You knew I was of the Eastern Coven.”
“I knew you were *hers*.” His voice cracks. “My mother’s last act was to hide you. To save you. She sent a witch to protect you—Mira. And she grafted thorn-blood into your heart to keep you alive.”
My throat tightens. “And you? Did you know I existed?”
“No.” He stops just feet from me. The bond flares—heat rolling through me, sudden and deep. My breath hitches. His eyes darken. “Elara was executed before she could tell me. The Summer Court made sure of it. They erased you. Erased *us*.”
“Then why did the bond form?”
“Because the Heartroot remembers,” he says. “Because magic doesn’t forget. Because you were never meant to kill me.”
“Then what was I meant to do?”
He reaches for the book in my hands. I pull back.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“You don’t understand what you’re holding,” he says. “This isn’t just history. It’s a weapon. And if Nyx finds out you’ve seen it—”
“—she’ll kill me,” I finish. “Just like she killed my coven. Just like she tried to kill you.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he steps closer. Too close. The heat between us intensifies. My skin burns. My core tightens. The thorns on my arm *bloom*, spreading like ink beneath my skin.
“You feel it,” he murmurs. “The bond. The truth. It’s not just magic. It’s *us*.”
“It’s manipulation,” I say, but my voice wavers. “You want me to believe we’re fated. That this—” I gesture between us “—is destiny. But it’s not. It’s a trap. A test. And I won’t fall for it.”
“Then why haven’t you killed me yet?”
The question hits like a blade.
Because I *could* have. Last night. When I had the knife at his throat. When the bond flared and my body *arched* into his.
Because I *wanted* to believe him.
Because for the first time in ten years, I didn’t feel alone.
“I came here for revenge,” I say, voice breaking. “Not salvation.”
“And what if revenge is the lie?” he asks. “What if the truth is that we’re not enemies? That we never were?”
I glare at him. “Then why did you let me believe it?”
“Because I was afraid,” he admits, voice rough. “Afraid of what this bond meant. Afraid of what *you* meant. I spent my life proving I wasn’t weak. That I wasn’t like my mother. And then you walked in, fire in your veins, hate in your eyes, and the thorns *answered* you. Not me. *You*.”
My breath stills.
“You’re not my prisoner, Birch,” he says. “You’re my equal. My other half. And if we don’t stop Nyx, she’ll burn us both.”
“And if I don’t believe you?”
“Then prove it.” He steps back. “Fight me.”
I freeze. “What?”
“If you think I’m lying, if you think this bond is a curse, then break it. Beat me. Humiliate me. Let the magic decide who’s stronger.”
My pulse spikes.
He’s challenging me. Not as a king. Not as a tyrant.
As an equal.
And the bond—
It *wants* it.
I don’t hesitate.
I drop the book and lunge.
He doesn’t dodge.
Our bodies collide, a crash of heat and magic. The bond *screams*—not in pain, but in *awakening*. Thorns erupt from our palms, spiraling up our arms, binding us together even as we fight. I drive a fist into his ribs. He blocks, twists, flips me—hard—onto the table. Scrolls scatter. Glass cases shatter.
I roll, kick out. My boot connects with his jaw. He stumbles, but catches himself, eyes blazing. Then he’s on me again, pinning my wrists, his body pressing me down. The thorns between us *pulse*, feeding on the clash, the heat, the *desire*.
“You’re strong,” he growls. “But you’re fighting the wrong enemy.”
“Then make me stop,” I spit.
He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “I don’t want to make you stop. I want you to *choose*.”
Our eyes lock.
The fight drains from me—not because I’m weak, but because I *see* him. Not the monster. Not the king. But the man who’s been as lost as I am.
And the bond—
It’s not a curse.
It’s a bridge.
His grip loosens. He rolls off me, sits beside me on the broken table. We’re both breathing hard. Sweat slicks our skin. The thorns recede, leaving behind raw, bleeding marks.
“You could’ve killed me,” he says.
“So could you.”
He looks at me. “But we didn’t.”
“Because the bond won’t let us.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Because *we* won’t let us.”
I turn to him. “What now?”
He reaches for my hand. Hesitates. Then takes it. The thorned marks align. The bond flares—warm, steady, *right*.
“Now,” he says, “we find the truth. Together.”
And for the first time since I walked into this court—
I believe him.
My free hand finds the sigil on my palm—the one that glowed last night, after the duel.
Thorn and Fire, Bound by Blood.
Not a curse.
A promise.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
A beginning.