The morning after the fight with the Ironclaw Coalition breaks with a silence so thick it feels like the city is holding its breath. No birdsong. No distant shouts from the market. Not even the usual hum of magic beneath the stone. Just fog—thick, silver, curling around the spires of the Undercourt like spectral fingers, swallowing sound, swallowing light, swallowing time.
I stand at the edge of the east balcony, wrapped in a cloak lined with wolf fur—Riven’s doing, not mine. He didn’t say anything when he handed it to me, just nodded, his golden eyes unreadable. But I know what it meant. You fought like one of us. You bleed like one of us. You belong.
And maybe I do.
Or maybe I’m just fooling myself.
Because last night—last night changed everything.
Not the fight. Not the way Kaelen stood beside me, fangs bared, voice low and deadly, ready to tear apart an entire pack for me. Not the way Riven moved like a storm given form, blade flashing, body a blur, protecting me like I was his own.
It was *him*.
Kaelen.
In that hidden chamber. On that bed of black silk. His hands on my skin. His mouth on my pulse. His body filling mine—slow, deep, deliberate—until the bond didn’t scream, didn’t twist, didn’t pull us apart.
It just was.
Like it had always been meant to be.
I press my fingers to my lips, as if I can still feel the ghost of his kiss. But it’s not just memory. It’s deeper. It’s in my blood. In my bones. In the way my magic hums beneath my skin—stronger, wilder, awake.
And the mark.
Between my shoulder blades.
It doesn’t burn anymore. Doesn’t ache. It just… pulses. Like a second heartbeat. Like a promise.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Kaelen says, stepping onto the balcony behind me.
I don’t turn. Don’t want him to see the flush in my cheeks, the way my breath hitches when he’s near. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”
“Neither are you.” He moves close—too close—his presence a wall of cold, controlled power. The bond flares—low, insistent, a thrum beneath my skin. “But I’ve never been good at following rules.”
“No,” I say, voice quiet. “You’ve been very good at breaking them.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. We don’t touch. Not really. But the air between us is charged—thick with magic, with memory, with something I can’t name.
“You fought well last night,” he says. “Better than I expected.”
“And you?” I turn to him. “You didn’t have to defend me.”
“I didn’t.” His black eyes burn into mine. “I defended *us*.”
My breath catches.
And then—
A knock.
Not from the door.
From the *air*.
Three soft raps, like fingers on glass, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once. The fog shivers. The torches gutter. And then—
A letter.
Not paper. Not parchment.
Frost.
It forms in midair, crystallizing from the mist, letters etched in ice that glow faintly blue. It drifts toward me, slow, deliberate, like it knows I can’t refuse.
I reach for it.
The moment my fingers brush the surface, cold sears through me—sharp, biting, ancient. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The bond surges in response, a jolt of heat slamming through me. I gasp. My knees buckle. I would fall if Kaelen didn’t catch me.
“Blair—”
“I’m fine,” I snap, shoving him away. My breath comes too fast. My heart hammers. I press the letter to my chest, as if I can hold the cold down by force.
But I can’t.
It’s already in me.
“What is it?” Kaelen asks, voice low.
I don’t answer. Just unfold the frost.
The words glow—cold, sharp, *hungry*.
Blair Vale,
Daughter of Seraphine.
Granddaughter of the Winter Sovereign.
You are summoned to the Fae High Court.
Refusal is not an option.
—The Thorned Crown
My breath stops.
“Granddaughter?” Kaelen asks, stepping closer. “You never said—”
“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “She never told me.”
But I *feel* it.
Not just the cold. Not just the magic.
Her.
My mother.
Not as a memory. Not as a ghost.
But as a presence.
Like a whisper in the blood.
Blair…
“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 they’ll use you too.
“Who?”
The Winter Court. The Thorned Crown. They’ve always wanted you. And now they’ll take you.
“I won’t go.”
You don’t have a choice.
“Yes, I do.”
Then they’ll come for you. And they’ll take you by force. And they’ll make you forget him. Forget your magic. Forget your name.
My breath catches.
“I won’t let them,” Kaelen says, stepping in front of me. His voice is low, dangerous. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“You can’t stop them,” I say. “No one can. The Fae High Court doesn’t ask. They *take*.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“You can’t.” I press my palm to my sternum. “The Winter Court doesn’t allow vampires. Not even for blood oaths. They’ll kill you on sight.”
“Then I’ll die.”
“No.” I grab his wrist. “You won’t. Because I won’t let them have me.”
He turns. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I’ve always been alone.”
“Not anymore.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
But I also know the truth.
The Fae don’t summon heirs.
They summon *weapons*.
And I’m not going to let them turn me into one.
“I’ll go,” I say. “But on my terms.”
“And if they demand something you can’t give?”
“Then I’ll give them something worse.”
He almost smiles. “That’s my witch.”
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But *holding*.
And for the first time, I don’t pull away.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
—
The portal to the Fae High Court doesn’t open in the Undercourt.
It opens in the ruins of an ancient chapel, deep in the Highlands, where the wind howls through broken stone and the earth is stained with old blood. The air is thin, sharp, biting with cold that doesn’t come from the sky. It comes from *them*.
The fae.
I step through the veil first—no hesitation, no fear. Just determination. My dagger is at my belt. My magic coiled beneath my skin. And the bond—still there, still *pulsing*, still tethering me to him, even across realms.
Kaelen didn’t come.
Not because he didn’t want to.
But because I made him stay.
“If I don’t come back,” I said, “burn the Oath. Break the bond. Live.”
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me—hard, desperate, like he was trying to brand me into his skin.
And then I left.
Now, I stand in the center of the ruined chapel, wind whipping my hair, cloak flapping like a banner. The portal behind me shimmers—faint, unstable. It won’t last long. But I don’t need it to.
I need *them*.
And they’re already here.
Not with fanfare. Not with music.
With silence.
And then—
They appear.
Not walking. Not stepping.
Materializing.
From the mist. From the shadows. From the cracks in the stone.
Fae.
Dozens of them. Tall, pale, eyes like frozen stars, their hair silver or black or blood-red, their clothes woven from frost and shadow. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch.
And then—
She steps forward.
The Winter Sovereign.
Not old. Not young. Ageless. Her skin is white as snow, her lips red as blood, her eyes two pits of endless dark. A crown of thorns rests on her head, each spike tipped with ice. Her gown flows like liquid night, shifting, shimmering, alive.
“Blair Vale,” she says, voice like wind through frozen trees. “Daughter of Seraphine. Granddaughter of the Thorned Crown. You have been absent too long.”
“I didn’t know I was expected,” I say, lifting my chin.
“Ignorance is not an excuse.” She steps closer. The air grows colder. My breath fogs. “You carry our blood. Our magic. Our *curse*. And you have squandered it.”
“I haven’t squandered anything.”
“You’ve hidden. You’ve fought. You’ve let a vampire *mark* you.”
“He didn’t mark me.”
“You did it first.”
“And?”
“And you’ve bound yourself to him. To his blood. To his *curse*.”
“It’s not a curse.”
“It is.” She raises her hand. A shard of ice forms in her palm, sharp as a blade. “And I will cut it out of you.”
My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The bond surges in response, a jolt of heat slamming through me. I gasp. My knees buckle. I would fall if the wind didn’t hold me up.
“You can’t,” I say, voice steady. “The bond is mine. Not yours. Not his. *Mine*.”
“And if I offer you power?” she asks. “Real power. Not this half-breed magic. Not this *witch* filth. But the true magic of the Winter Court. The power to freeze time. To stop hearts. To rule the snow and the storm.”
“And what do you want in return?”
“Break the bond.”
“No.”
“Then kneel.”
“No.”
She smiles. Slow. Deadly. “Then suffer.”
The ice shard flies.
Not at my heart.
At my neck.
But I’m faster.
My dagger is out—black iron, etched with runes. I slash. The ice shatters. The wind screams.
And then—
They attack.
Not all at once.
One.
A fae with silver hair and eyes like frozen lakes. She moves like smoke, her fingers tipped with frost, her breath turning the air to ice. She lunges. I dodge. She slashes. I parry. My magic flares—red, hot, *alive*—clashing with her cold, blue power.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It *sings*.
Because I’m not fighting to survive.
I’m fighting to *live*.
I kick. She stumbles. I slash. She dodges. But I’m not aiming to kill.
I’m aiming to *warn*.
My blade grazes her arm. Not deep. Just enough to draw blood. And when it does—
She freezes.
Not from cold.
From shock.
Because my blood—
It’s not red.
It’s *silver*.
Like moonlight on snow.
Like *hers*.
The Winter Sovereign stills. “You’re not just my granddaughter.”
“No,” I say, pressing my palm to the cut. “I’m my mother’s daughter. And I won’t be used again.”
“Then you will die here.”
“Maybe.” I lift my dagger. “But I’ll take you with me.”
She doesn’t move. Just watches me, her expression unreadable. And then—
“You could have power,” she says. “You could rule beside me. You could be a queen of ice and shadow.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you are nothing.”
“Then I’ll be nothing on my own terms.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just raises her hand. The wind howls. The ground cracks. Ice spreads—black, jagged, *hungry*—crawling toward me like a living thing.
And then—
A voice.
Not from the wind.
Not from the fae.
From *him*.
“Blair.”
Low. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.
I turn.
Kaelen stands in the portal—backlit by the fog of the Undercourt, his coat open, his shirt unbuttoned, his fangs bared. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine.
“I told you to stay,” I say.
“And I told you,” he says, stepping through, “I’d rather burn than lose you to them.”
The Winter Sovereign snarls. “You are not welcome here, vampire.”
“And you’re not keeping her,” he says, moving to my side. His hand finds mine. The bond explodes—a surge of heat, of scent, of need. “She’s not yours. She’s not a weapon. She’s not a pawn. She’s *mine*.”
“Then die with her.”
She raises both hands.
The ice surges.
But we don’t move.
We just—
Kiss.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Fierce. Possessive. Like we’re claiming each other in front of the world.
And the bond—
It doesn’t break.
It *evolves*.
Heat meets cold. Blood meets ice. Magic clashes—and then *merges*.
And for one breathless moment, I know—
They can’t have me.
Because I’ve already chosen.
Not power.
Not revenge.
Not even survival.
Love.
And then—
The portal collapses.
The ice shatters.
The fae scream.
And we’re gone.
Back in the Undercourt. In the east wing. In the hidden chamber. On the bed of black silk.
Still kissing.
Still holding on.
Still *alive*.
“You idiot,” I whisper, pulling back. “You could have died.”
“And you could have stayed,” he says, brushing my hair from my face. “But you came back.”
“Because I chose to.”
“Then choose me.”
“I already did.”
And I did.
Not in the chapel.
Not in the kiss.
But in the moment I realized—
I don’t want to unmake.
I want to *become*.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.