The air in the Dream Chamber still hums with residual magic—faint, sweet, like the echo of roses after a storm. The candles gutter low, their flames trembling as if reluctant to return to the waking world. Riven stands at the edge of the obsidian basin, arms crossed, golden eyes flicking between Kaelen and me. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The silence says it all.
We’re changed.
Not just because we shared a dream. Not just because we kissed—soft, slow, like we were learning each other for the first time. But because we *saw* each other. Not through the bond, not through the veil of magic or vengeance or fear, but *naked*. Raw. Real.
And now, there’s no going back.
Kaelen releases my hand slowly, like he’s afraid the moment will break if he moves too fast. His fingers linger against mine, just a breath, just a pulse, before he steps back. The bond flares—low, insistent, a thrum beneath my skin—but it’s different now. Not a tether. Not a curse.
A bridge.
“You two,” Riven says, voice rough, “are going to get yourselves killed.”
“Probably,” I say, stepping out of the basin. My boots are dry. My clothes untouched. But I feel different. Lighter. Heavier. Like something inside me has shifted, cracked open, let in too much light.
“She knows the truth,” Kaelen says, still watching me. “About Lira. About Malrik. About… me.”
“And you?” Riven asks. “Do you know *her* truth?”
Kaelen doesn’t answer. Just holds my gaze. And I know what he’s asking.
Do I still want to destroy the Oath?
Do I still hate him?
Do I still believe my mother’s death was meaningless?
I press my palm to my sternum, as if I can hold the answers down by force. But they’re already there, burning in my veins, written in the blood that runs through me. I came here for revenge. For justice. For the obliteration of a system that used women like my mother, that erased them, that called it *tradition*.
But now?
Now I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do it.
Because if I break the Oath, I lose my magic.
And if I lose my magic, I lose myself.
“We need to move,” Riven says. “Malrik knows we’re onto him. He’ll strike soon. And if he gets to you before the final vote—”
“He won’t,” Kaelen says, voice low. “I won’t let him.”
“You said that about Lira,” I snap. “And look how that turned out.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just steps closer, his presence a wall of cold, controlled power. “I was wrong. I didn’t see her for what she was. But I see *you*. And I won’t make that mistake again.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
“Then prove it,” I say. “Take me to the Oath Archives. Not the ledgers. Not the blood records. The *source*. The original pact. The one that bound my mother to Malrik.”
He stills. “You don’t want to see it.”
“I *need* to.”
“It’s not just words,” he says. “It’s a living thing. A wound. It’ll show you things—things you can’t unsee.”
“Then I’ll carry them,” I say. “Like I’ve carried everything else.”
He stares at me. For the first time, I see it—*fear*. Not of Malrik. Not of the bond. But of *me*. Of what I’ll become when I see the truth.
And then—
He nods.
“Follow me.”
We move fast—through the east wing, down the spiraling stone staircase that leads beneath the Undercourt, into the deepest vault of the North Quarter. The air grows colder, the torchlight dimmer, the scent of iron and magic replaced by something older—something *darker*. Blood. Bone. Memory.
The Oath Vault is sealed behind a door of black iron, etched with runes that pulse faintly in the dark. Kaelen presses his palm to the sigil. The door groans open, revealing a chamber so still it feels like time itself has stopped.
At the center stands a pedestal of obsidian, its surface cracked, its edges stained with something black and thick. On top—
A book.
Not bound in leather. Not sealed with wax.
Bound in *skin*.
And not just any skin.
Mother’s skin.
My breath stops.
“No,” I whisper. “No, it can’t be—”
“It is,” Kaelen says, voice rough. “The Oath of Crimson Fealty. Sealed in blood. Bound in flesh. Written in the hand of Malrik D’Vaire himself.”
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.”
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.
“Blair,” Kaelen says, stepping beside me. “You don’t have to open it. You don’t have to see.”
“Yes, I do.”
I reach for the book.
The moment my fingers brush the cover, the room shatters.
Not stone. Not glass.
Time.
And then—
I’m not in the vault.
I’m in a garden.
My mother’s garden.
Flowers bloom in impossible colors—violet, gold, deep crimson—petals shifting like silk in a breeze that doesn’t exist. Trees rise like spires, their bark silver, their leaves glowing faintly. The air is thick with scent—roses, honey, something darker, something hungry.
And she’s there.
Mother.
Not as I remember her—pale, broken, screaming. But as she was before. Before the Oath. Before Malrik. Before the world took her from me.
Her hair like spun silver. Her laughter like wind through leaves. Her eyes—green, sharp, full of fire—locking onto mine.
“Blair,” she says. “You’re here.”
“You’re not real,” I say, voice shaking. “You’re a memory. A trick.”
“I’m real enough,” she says, stepping closer. “And you’re not ready for the truth.”
“I *need* it.”
“No.” She reaches out, her fingers brushing my cheek. “You need to survive. To live. To *be*.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then you’ll become like me.”
“A ghost?”
“No.” She smiles. Sad. Knowing. “A weapon. And weapons don’t get to choose who they serve.”
“I’m not a weapon.”
“Aren’t you?” She steps back, her form shifting, twisting. The garden darkens. The flowers wilt. The air thickens with the scent of blood. And then—
Malrik.
He stands where she was, his form smoke and shadow, his eyes two pits of endless dark. His lips curl into a smile that isn’t a smile. And his voice—
Not a sound.
A vibration. A whisper in the blood.
Blair…
I don’t flinch. Don’t move. But my magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The bond surges in response, a jolt of heat slamming through me. I can feel Kaelen—close, so close—his presence a weight against my back, his pulse a counter-rhythm to my own.
“You think you can stop me?” Malrik hisses. You think a witch and a traitor can break what is eternal?
“We already did,” I say, voice steady. “The Oath is under review. The vote has begun.”
Lies. The smoke swirls, thickens. The Oath is not broken. It is only… sleeping. And it will rise again. Stronger. Hungrier.
“Not if we destroy it first.”
You cannot destroy what is eternal. What is blood. What is mine.
“You don’t own me.”
No. He laughs—a sound like bones breaking. But your mother did. And her blood— He inhales, as if tasting the air. So sweet. So full of power. I can feel it. In the bond. In the mark.
“Don’t touch her,” Kaelen snarls, stepping in front of me. His voice is low, dangerous. “You don’t get to speak to her.”
Or what? You will stop me? You, who let a witch mark you? Who let her ride you like a common whore?
“She marked me,” Kaelen says, voice cold. “Not the other way around. And if you think that makes me weak, you don’t know me at all.”
You are weak. Malrik’s form shifts, the smoke curling toward me. You both are. And you will fall. And when you do—
“Then we’ll fall together,” I say, stepping beside Kaelen. “And we’ll take you with us.”
The smoke swirls, furious. You think you can banish me? You, who are nothing but a fraud? A half-breed? A witch?
“I’m more than you’ll ever be.”
Then prove it.
The chamber shakes.
Not from the bond.
From him.
Stone cracks. Torches gutter. The pedestal splits down the center, black light pouring from the fissure. And then—
Hands.
Not smoke. Not shadow.
Hands—pale, skeletal, clawed—reaching from the rift, grasping at the air, at the council, at us.
Malrik is trying to manifest.
“Now!” I shout, grabbing Kaelen’s hand. “Break the Oath!”
He doesn’t hesitate. We run to the pedestal, 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 obsidian. 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 break the Oath of Crimson Fealty. I sever the bond of the cursed line. 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 break the Oath of Crimson Fealty. I sever the bond of the cursed line. I release the bound. I reclaim the stolen. And I destroy the pact that feeds on suffering.”
The pedestal shatters.
Not cracks.
Shatters.
Black shards explode outward, the runes burning away, the blood evaporating into smoke. 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 dissipates. The hands are gone.
Malrik is gone.
But the book—
It’s still there.
Unharmed.
Untouched.
And then—
It opens.
Not by wind. Not by magic.
By *will*.
The pages turn slowly, revealing script written in blood—Malrik’s hand, my mother’s name, the terms of the pact. And then—
A passage.
Highlighted in red.
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.
“It’s not over,” I whisper. “Breaking the Oath didn’t destroy it. It *awakened* her. My mother.”
Kaelen 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*?
And then—
The book flips to another page.
Not a clause. Not a curse.
A *name*.
Blair Vale.
And beneath it—
The key. The blood. The end. Only she can break the Oath. Only she can carry the magic. Only she can become what her mother was meant to be.
My breath catches.
“What is it?” Kaelen asks, stepping beside me.
“It’s not just about breaking the Oath,” I whisper. “It’s about *replacing* it. My mother’s blood isn’t just in the pact—she *is* the pact. And if I destroy it, I don’t lose my magic.”
“Then what?”
“I inherit it.”
He stills. “You mean—”
“I don’t just break the Oath.” I look at him, my eyes wide. “I become it.”
“And if you do?”
“Then I’m not just a witch.” I press my palm to my sternum. “I’m something more.”
“And the bond?”
“It won’t break.” I turn to him. “It’ll evolve. Because if I’m the Oath now… then you’re still bound to me.”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls me into his arms, holding me tight, his face in my hair, my body pressed to his. The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied—but I can feel his heart, fast, unsteady, like it’s learning how to beat again.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, voice rough.
“I never wanted to.”
“Then let me stand with you.”
“Not as my enemy.”
“No.” He lifts my chin, his black eyes burning into mine. “As your equal.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
For the first time, I believe *us*.
“If I die,” I say, voice quiet, “promise me you’ll burn the Oath.”
“You won’t die,” he says. “Because I won’t let you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Like a vow.
Like a beginning.
And I kiss him back.
Because I’m not afraid anymore.
Because I’m not alone.
Because the truth—
Is that I’m not here to unmake.
I’m here to become.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.