RIVEN

I don’t trust silence.

Not in the Undercourt. Not in the North Quarter. Not when the air hums with magic, when shadows shift just a little too fast, when the scent of blood and betrayal lingers like smoke after a fire. Silence here isn’t peace. It’s the breath before the strike. The pause before the scream.

And right now, it’s too damn quiet.

I stand in the archives’ outer chamber, just beyond the sealed ward of the Restricted Wing, my back to the stone wall, my hand resting on the hilt of my blade. The torches flicker low, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor. Dust hangs in the air, thick and undisturbed. No footprints. No scents. No whispers from the grimoires bound in skin and sealed with blood.

But I feel it.

Something’s wrong.

Not in the air.

In the people.

Blair’s changed. I’ve known it since the ritual chamber, since she marked Kaelen, since the bond transformed into something deeper, something *real*. She walks differently now—shoulders back, head high, magic coiled beneath her skin like a serpent ready to strike. She doesn’t flinch when he speaks. Doesn’t pull away when he touches her. And when she looks at him—

It’s not hate.

It’s something worse.

Something I can’t name.

And Kaelen?

He’s not the same man I’ve served for over a century. The one who ruled with cold precision, who fed without emotion, who claimed power like it was his birthright. He flinched when she slapped him. *Flinched*. In front of the council. In front of *me*. And then he let her touch his face. Let her see the pain.

He’s weakening.

And in this world, weakness gets you killed.

I press my palm to the ward sigil on the door. It pulses faintly—vampire magic, old and strong. But there’s a flaw. A crack. Not in the stone. In the weave. Like someone tampered with it. Like someone wanted it *just* weak enough to let certain things through.

Like lies.

Like poison.

Like Lira Nocturne.

I don’t trust her.

Never have. Never will.

She walks like she owns the place, like her blood is as pure as Kaelen’s, like her name carries weight. But it doesn’t. She’s a mistress. A courtesan. A woman who trades in secrets and smiles and the illusion of power. And now she’s back, whispering in his ear, standing too close, claiming things that aren’t true.

He fed me his blood for weeks.

He promised me his mark.

He said I was the only one who understood him.

Lies.

All of it.

And I’m going to prove it.

I step back from the ward, my boots silent on the stone. I don’t need permission to enter. Kaelen gave me access years ago—when I was just a Beta, before I earned his trust, before I became his shadow. He said, *“If something happens to me, you’ll be the only one who can find the truth.”*

I didn’t know what he meant then.

I do now.

The ward hums as I press my palm to it again—this time, channeling my own magic, a blend of werewolf strength and old Northern runes. The sigil flares, then *yields*. The door clicks open.

I step inside.

The Restricted Wing is colder than the rest of the archives, the air thick with the scent of ink, parchment, and something older—something *hungry*. Shelves rise to the ceiling, crammed with grimoires, scrolls, ledgers bound in black leather. The D’Vaire crest is stamped on every spine. The Oath ledgers are here. The blood records. The binding contracts. And, if I’m right, the proof I’m looking for.

I move fast, scanning titles, flipping through pages, my fingers brushing brittle parchment. The scent of old blood rises with every turn. I find the ledger labeled *D’Vaire Bloodline: Consorts & Claimants*. I open it.

Names.

Dozens of them.

Females. Males. Nobles. Servants. All marked, all bound, all *recorded*. That’s how the House works—nothing is left to memory. Every bite, every claim, every drop of blood shared is documented. It’s not about love. It’s about control.

I flip to the most recent entries.

Nothing.

No Lira Nocturne.

No mention of blood-sharing.

No record of a mark.

Impossible.

If Kaelen had fed her, if he had claimed her, it would be here. Etched in blood. Sealed with magic. But there’s nothing.

Just silence.

And that’s when I know.

She’s lying.

But why?

I keep searching.

And then I find it.

A smaller ledger, tucked behind the others. Unmarked. Unsealed. But the magic around it—*wrong*. Faint. Delicate. Like fae glamour. I pull it free.

The cover is blank. But when I open it, the pages are filled—handwritten, in a looping script I don’t recognize. Names. Dates. Locations. And next to each one—

A sketch.

Of a bite mark.

Not just any bite mark.

Kaelen’s.

I flip through the pages. Dozens of them. All different. All forged.

And then—

I see it.

A sketch of *Blair’s* mark.

But it’s not accurate.

The placement is wrong. The depth. The curve of the fangs. It’s close—close enough to fool someone who didn’t know—but not perfect. And beneath it, a note:

Replica in progress. Must match the original. Once she wakes marked, the bond will be questioned. Doubt will spread.

My blood runs cold.

She didn’t just lie.

She *planned* this.

She forged the mark. She planted the story. She waited for the right moment—when Blair was vulnerable, when the bond was unstable, when Kaelen was distracted—and then she stepped out of his chambers in his robe, smirking, saying, *“He prefers his women awake.”*

And it worked.

Blair believed her.

Kaelen didn’t deny it.

And now the entire Undercourt is whispering.

But why?

Why go to all this trouble?

I keep reading.

And then I find the name.

Malrik D’Vaire.

Not dead.

Not gone.

And not forgotten.

The next page is a letter—sealed with wax, but broken. I unfold it carefully.

My dear Lira,

Your loyalty does not go unnoticed. The bond between Kaelen and the witch grows stronger. But it is fragile. Doubt is its greatest enemy. Spread the rumors. Stoke the jealousy. Make her question him. Make him question her. And when the bond fractures… I will rise.

Feed her lies. Let her believe she is not the first. Let her believe he will discard her like the others.

And when she breaks… I will be waiting.

—M.

My hands tighten around the paper.

Malrik’s alive.

And he’s using her.

Not just to hurt Blair.

Not just to hurt Kaelen.

To destroy the bond.

To break the Oath from the inside.

And if he succeeds—

He’ll return.

I don’t hesitate.

I grab the ledger, the letter, the forged sketches. I don’t care about the wards. I don’t care about the rules. I run—through the archives, down the cracked corridors, past the shattered remains of the Oath Chamber, toward the healer’s ward where I know Blair is.

She needs to see this.

Kaelen needs to know.

But I’m too late.

The door to the ward is ajar. The air inside is thick with tension, with magic, with the scent of blood and something darker—something *jealous*.

I step inside.

Blair and Kaelen are there—standing close, too close, their bodies almost touching, the bond humming between them like a live wire. But it’s not the usual heat. Not the usual hunger.

It’s anger.

And pain.

Lira is there too—draped in blood-red silk, her red hair wild, her eyes blazing. She’s not smirking now. She’s *pleading*.

“You don’t understand,” she says, voice sharp. “He’s using you. He’s always used women like us. He’ll discard you the moment you’re no longer useful.”

Blair doesn’t answer. Just watches her, her green eyes cold, her magic coiled tight.

“And you?” Kaelen says, voice low. “What about you? What do you gain from this?”

“I gain the truth,” she says. “I gain justice. I gain—”

“Lies,” I say, stepping forward.

All three turn.

Lira’s eyes narrow. “You again.”

“Me again,” I say, holding up the ledger. “And I’ve got proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“That you’re a fraud.” I toss the ledger onto the table. It lands with a heavy thud. “No record of blood-sharing. No claim. No mark. Just this.” I pull out the forged sketches. “You *drew* them. You *planned* this.”

Her face pales. “That’s not—”

“And this,” I say, unfolding the letter. “From Malrik. *Your* Malrik. The one who’s not dead. The one who’s using you to break the bond.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Suffocating.

Blair doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I see it—the flicker in her eyes, the way her breath catches, the way her hand flies to the bite on her neck.

She believed her.

And now she knows.

She’s been played.

Kaelen steps forward, his voice low, dangerous. “You worked with him.”

“No,” Lira says, backing up. “I didn’t—”

“You did.” He grabs her wrist, yanking her close. “You let him use you. You let him poison her mind. You let him *threaten* her.”

“I didn’t know—”

“You knew.” His fangs extend. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Blair steps forward. “Let her go.”

Kaelen doesn’t move. “She lied to you. She tried to destroy us.”

“And she’s working with Malrik,” I say. “If he’s using her to spread doubt, he’s not far behind. He’ll come for her. For both of you.”

Blair looks at Lira. “Why?”

“Because I loved him,” Lira says, voice breaking. “Because I thought he loved me. Because I wanted power. Because I was *afraid*.”

“And now?” Blair asks.

“Now I’m afraid of *him*.”

Kaelen releases her. She stumbles back, her face pale, her hands trembling.

“You’re not worth killing,” he says, voice cold. “But if you ever come near her again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

She doesn’t answer. Just turns and runs—her boots echoing down the hall, her scent fading like smoke.

Silence.

And then—

Blair turns to me. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” I say. “Thank your instincts. You never trusted her. You just needed proof.”

She nods. “And now I have it.”

Kaelen steps closer. “You believed her.”

“For a moment.” She looks at him. “But I don’t now.”

“And the bond?”

“It’s still there.” She presses her palm to her sternum. “Still *pulsing*. Still… real.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches out, his fingers brushing the bite on her neck. “Then we’re not done.”

“No.” She looks at me. “Malrik’s using her to break us. To make us doubt each other. But he’s forgotten one thing.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

She smiles. Slow. Deadly. “We’re already broken. And we’re still standing.”

Kaelen almost smiles. “Then let him come.”

“And when he does,” I say, “we’ll be ready.”

The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.

Like a promise.

Like a curse.

Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.

Blair’s Blood Oath

The first time Blair sees Kaelen D’Vaire, he’s feeding.

Not from a willing donor. Not in shadows. But on the marble steps of the Undercourt, fangs buried in the throat of a traitor, blood dripping like wine down his white silk shirt. The air hums with power, danger, and something deeper—something that pulls at her blood, her magic, her very breath. She doesn’t flinch. She plans. Because she’s not here to gawk. She’s here to burn his world down.

Blair Vale is no pawn. She’s a witch with a fae mother’s stolen grace and a human father’s rage. When she was twelve, her mother died screaming under a vampire blood oath—a pact she didn’t consent to, one that bound her life to Kaelen’s sire. Now, Blair has forged a new identity, stolen a seat on the Undercourt’s Arbitration Panel, and slipped into the heart of Edinburgh’s supernatural elite. Her goal? Destroy the Oath of Crimson Fealty. And if Kaelen, the last heir of that cursed line, must fall with it—so be it.

But magic has memory. And when a sabotage spell backfires during a joint tribunal session, Blair and Kaelen are caught in a backlash that fuses their life forces—temporarily. The bond flares with heat, scent, and visions: his cold hands on her throat, her mouth on his pulse, a mark burning between her shoulder blades. For one breathless moment, they’re not enemies. They’re hunger.

And then the chamber collapses.

He saves her. She curses him. And neither can forget the way their bodies fit—or the way his voice dropped to a growl when he whispered, “You’re mine now, witch. Fight it all you want.”

But Blair didn’t come here to be claimed. She came to unmake. And the deeper she goes, the more she risks becoming exactly what she swore never to be: His.