The Oath Chamber is silent now, but the silence doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like the calm before a storm—thick, heavy, charged with the residue of broken magic and something darker, something that lingers in the air like smoke after a fire. The obsidian table lies in jagged shards across the floor, the runes burned away, the blood that once pulsed through its veins now evaporated into nothing. Malrik’s hands are gone. His voice has faded. But I can still feel him—like a shadow in the back of my mind, like a cold finger tracing the inside of my skull.
He’s not gone.
He’s waiting.
Kaelen’s arms are still around me, his body pressed to mine, his breath warm against my neck. I should pull away. I should step back. I should remind myself that this is the man who executed a traitor on the steps of the Undercourt, who let Lira wear his robe, who claimed me in front of the council like I was a prize to be won. But I don’t.
I stay.
Because for the first time, I don’t feel like a weapon.
Or a pawn.
Or a ghost.
I feel… seen.
And that terrifies me more than any curse.
“We need to move,” Riven says, breaking the silence. His voice is low, urgent. “The wards are down. The cultists are regrouping. And if Malrik’s still in his blood—”
“Then he’ll use him,” I finish, stepping back from Kaelen. My body protests—aching, exhausted, still humming with the aftermath of the bond’s transformation—but I force myself to stand tall. To look at him. To meet his black, endless eyes.
He doesn’t look away.
“You marked me,” he says, voice rough.
“You said you wanted me to.”
“I didn’t know it would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not alone anymore.”
My breath catches.
And for a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe it.
But then I remember.
My mother’s blood fuels the Oath.
And if I broke it, my magic dies with it.
I press my palm to my sternum, as if I can hold the truth down by force. But it’s already there, burning in my veins. I don’t feel weaker. Don’t feel empty. My magic still hums beneath my skin, restless, alive. But the book said it would be consumed. Annihilated. And if the Oath is only sleeping, as Malrik whispered, then maybe my magic is too—dormant, waiting for the final reckoning.
“We’re not safe,” I say, stepping past him. “Not here. Not anywhere.”
“Then where?” Riven asks.
“The Archives,” I say. “If Malrik’s still tied to the Oath, there might be something there—something we missed. A counter-ritual. A fail-safe. Anything.”
Kaelen doesn’t argue. Just nods, his coat falling open, his shirt stained with blood—mine? His? I don’t know. “Then we go.”
We move fast—through the shattered remains of the Oath Chamber, down the cracked corridors of the North Quarter, past council members who stare but don’t speak, past guards who bow but don’t meet our eyes. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the scent of fear. The bond hums beneath my skin—low, steady, a second heartbeat that syncs with his. I can feel him—his pulse, his breath, the way his body tenses when I move too close. And worse—I can feel the echo of my own desire, reflected back at me, twisted by magic and memory.
We reach the Archives—its towering shelves, its grimoires bound in skin, its scrolls sealed with blood. The air is colder here, the torchlight dimmer. Wards hum along the walls, ancient runes etched into the stone, pulsing faintly with vampire magic. I don’t care. I walk straight through them. The bond flares as I pass—hot, electric—like it knows I’m trespassing, like it *approves*.
“Where do we start?” Riven asks.
“The Oath ledgers,” I say, moving to the Restricted Wing. “If Malrik’s still connected, there might be a trace—something written in blood, a sigil, a clause we missed.”
Kaelen follows, silent. Watchful.
I find the ledger—bound in black leather, sealed with a wax stamp that bears the D’Vaire crest. I break it open. The pages are brittle, the ink faded, but the words are clear:
Should the Oath of Crimson Fealty be broken before its natural end, the blood of the original bound shall rise. Her spirit shall return. Her magic shall awaken. And the one who carries her blood shall inherit her fate.
My breath stops.
“What is it?” Kaelen asks, stepping beside me.
“It’s not over,” I whisper. “Breaking the Oath didn’t destroy it. It *awakened* her. My mother.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “And if she returns?”
“Then I have to face her.”
“And if she wants revenge?”
“Then I’ll give it to her.”
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches out, his fingers brushing the bite on my neck. I flinch, but he doesn’t pull away. “You’re not weak,” he says. “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m drowning?”
“Because you’re not fighting me anymore,” he says, voice low. “You’re fighting *yourself*.”
And he’s right.
I am.
Because for the first time, I don’t know what I want.
Do I want revenge?
Do I want justice?
Or do I want *him*?
“We should go,” Riven says. “It’s not safe here.”
But it’s too late.
The air shifts.
Not wind.
Not magic.
Presence.
And then—
A scream.
Not from the corridor.
From me.
The sigil on my shoulder burns—not with pain, but with *power*. The bond surges, a tidal wave of magic crashing through me. I see it—*feel* it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, *amplified*.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at my throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
I gasp. My knees buckle. I would fall if he didn’t catch me.
His arm wraps around my waist, yanking me against him. Our chests press together. Our breaths mingle. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine.
“Blair,” he growls. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I’m drowning. The visions won’t stop. The heat won’t fade. My body aches—for him, for release, for something.
“Fight it,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t let it take you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
I force my eyes open.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
His lips are inches from mine. His breath is cold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise.
My body arches toward him. My hands clutch his coat. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
CRACK.
The chamber shakes.
Not from the bond.
From her.
Stone groans. Dust falls. A crack splits the floor, racing toward the hearth.
And then—
Smoke.
Not fire. Not mist.
Smoke that twists, that forms.
A face.
Her face.
Mother.
Her eyes open—two pools of silver, endless, cold. Her lips curl into a smile that isn’t a smile. And her voice—
Not a sound.
A vibration. A whisper in the blood.
Blair…
I don’t move. Don’t speak. But my magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The bond surges in response, a jolt of heat slamming through me. I can feel her—her rage, her pain, her betrayal.
“You left me,” I say, voice breaking. “You died, and you left me alone.”
I had no choice, she whispers. He took me. He used me. And now he’s using you.
“He’s not using me.”
Isn’t he? He marked you. He claimed you. He made you his.
“I marked him first.”
She laughs—a sound like wind through dead leaves. You think that makes you free? You think love breaks a curse? It only deepens it.
“I don’t love him.”
Then why do you ache for him? Why does your magic sing for him? Why does your blood burn when he’s near?
I don’t answer. Can’t.
Because she’s right.
And so is he.
I’m not fighting him.
I’m fighting myself.
“She’s not you,” Kaelen says, stepping in front of me. His voice is low, dangerous. “You were kind. You gave me bread. You told me stories. You didn’t deserve what he did to you.”
And you didn’t stop it, she hisses. You stood there. You watched. And now you’ve done the same to her.
“I didn’t—”
You did. You fed her your blood. You let her ride you. You let her mark you. And for what? A moment of pleasure? A flicker of connection?
“It was more than that.”
It was weakness.
“No.” He turns to me. “It was choice.”
She laughs again. Then prove it.
The chamber shakes.
Not from the bond.
From her.
Stone cracks. Torches gutter. The shelves collapse, grimoires spilling to the floor. And then—
Hands.
Not smoke. Not shadow.
Hands—pale, delicate, clawed—reaching from the rift, grasping at the air, at the council, at us.
She’s trying to manifest.
“Now!” I shout, grabbing Kaelen’s hand. “Break the connection!”
He doesn’t hesitate. We run to the center of the chamber, our boots echoing on the stone. Riven stays back, drawing his blade, standing between us and the cultists who surge forward from the shadows.
I place my palm on the floor, over the sigil that pulses beneath the stone. Kaelen does the same. Our blood still stains the surface from the ritual, from the bond, from the act that changed everything.
“Say the words,” I say.
He closes his eyes. “By blood and magic, by life and death, I sever the bond between mother and heir. I release the bound. I reclaim the stolen. And I destroy the pact that feeds on suffering.”
I join him—my voice low, steady. “By blood and magic, by life and death, I sever the bond between mother and heir. I release the bound. I reclaim the stolen. And I destroy the pact that feeds on suffering.”
The sigil shatters.
Not cracks.
Shatters.
Black light explodes outward, the runes burning away, the smoke dissipating. The hands in the rift scream—no, not scream, wail—a sound of pure rage, of loss, of defeat.
And then—
Stillness.
The chamber is silent. The rift closes. The smoke vanishes.
She’s gone.
But the bond—
It’s still there.
Not weaker.
Not broken.
Stronger.
Deeper.
Not a tether.
A bridge.
And for the first time, I don’t feel trapped.
I feel free.
I turn to Kaelen. His eyes are wide. His breath is fast. “It’s over.”
“It’s not,” he says. “Malrik is still out there. And now—”
He stops.
Because I’m bleeding.
Not from a wound.
From my wrist.
And he’s already moving—fast, vampire speed—his hand closing around my arm, his fangs bared, his voice rough with need.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t feed from me.”
But he doesn’t stop.
He brings my wrist to his mouth.
And bites.
Not hard.
Not cruel.
But deep.
And the moment his fangs pierce my skin, the bond explodes.
Heat. Fire. A scream—mine? His? The magic tears through us, raw and uncontrolled. I see it—*feel* it—every vision we’ve shared, every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, *amplified*.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at my throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
I gasp. My knees buckle. I would fall if he didn’t catch me.
But he does.
He pulls me against him, my body fitting into his like we were made for this. My leg brushes his. My thigh presses against his hip. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me tight.
“Blair,” he growls. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I’m drowning. The visions won’t stop. The heat won’t fade. My body aches—for him, for release, for something.
“Fight it,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t let it take you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
I force my eyes open.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
His lips are inches from mine. His breath is cold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise.
My body arches toward him. My hands clutch his shirt. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
And then—
He pulls back.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
My blood stains his lips. His eyes are black, endless, but there’s something in them—something softer. Warmer. Like the ice has cracked, just slightly.
“You tasted me,” I gasp. “Why didn’t it hurt?”
He doesn’t answer. Just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving mine.
And then—
“Because it wasn’t feeding,” he says. “It was healing.”
“What?”
“Your magic,” he says. “It’s not gone. It’s just… buried. And the bond—when I drink from you, when we’re connected—it wakes it up.”
My breath catches.
“You’re saying I’m still a witch?”
He nods. “And stronger than before.”
I don’t answer. Just press my palm to my sternum, as if I can feel it.
And I can.
Not weak.
Not empty.
Alive.
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But *holding*.
And for the first time, I let him.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.