The scream tears from Riven’s throat like a dying animal.
Not pain. Not fear.
Warning.
And then—
Darkness.
Not the gentle fade of unconsciousness.
No.
This is violence. This is magic. This is a hand clamped over my mouth, a needle in my neck, a world that tilts and shatters like glass.
The last thing I see is Kaelen’s face—white as bone, eyes black with rage—before the shadows swallow me whole.
—
I wake to cold.
Not the crisp chill of the Undercourt’s stone corridors. Not the sharp bite of Highland wind.
This is deeper. Older. A cold that seeps into the marrow, that stills the breath, that whispers of death long before the body gives in.
My wrists are bound—iron, not rope, not magic. Cold iron, the kind that burns a witch’s skin, that drains power, that screams with every pulse of blood. I try to move. Can’t. My ankles are chained too, spread, anchored to the floor. The position is deliberate. Humiliating. A message.
You are not in control.
I force my eyes open.
The chamber is circular, carved from black stone that glistens with damp. No torches. No windows. Just a single source of light—a flickering sigil etched into the floor, pulsing with a sickly red glow. Blood magic. Old. Corrupted. The air is thick with the scent of iron, rot, and something darker—something hungry.
And then—
Voices.
Not from the walls.
From the shadows.
They rise like smoke—figures, not quite solid, not quite real. Wraiths. Shadows. Cultists. Their eyes glow faintly, their mouths move in unison, chanting in a language that scrapes against my bones. The sigil pulses brighter. The chains burn.
And then—
She steps forward.
Lira.
Not in her usual silk and venom. Not in Kaelen’s stolen shirt. She wears black—robes woven from shadow and ash, her hair loose, her face pale, her silver eyes burning with something that isn’t triumph.
It’s worship.
“You’re awake,” she says, voice low. “Good. I’d hate for you to miss this.”
“Miss what?” I rasp, my throat raw. “Your breakdown? Your pathetic attempt to prove you matter?”
She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. Slow. Deadly. “You think this is about *me*?”
“Isn’t it?” I tug at the chains. They burn. “You’ve been obsessed with him since the beginning. Wearing his clothes. Spreading lies. Flaunting fake scars.”
“And you?” she snaps. “Sleeping in his bed? Letting him mark you? Pretending you’re something special?”
“I didn’t let him mark me.” I press my palm to the bite on my neck—the one *I* gave *him*. The one that glows gold. “I marked *him*.”
She stills. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I lift my chin. “Or are you just afraid that he chose me? That he *wanted* me? That he’d rather burn than lose me to the Fae Court?”
Her hand flies.
She slaps me—hard. My head snaps to the side. Blood fills my mouth. The chains burn hotter.
“You don’t know him,” she hisses. “You don’t know what he is. What he *needs*.”
“And you do?”
“I was there,” she whispers. “When he broke. When he bled. When he screamed for his sire.”
“Malrik,” I say, voice quiet. “The monster who used you. Who lied to you. Who made you think you meant something.”
“He gave me power.”
“And what did it cost you?” I turn my head, meeting her eyes. “Your soul?”
She doesn’t answer. Just steps back. And then—
“He’s coming,” she says. “And when he does, you’ll beg to be the one who dies first.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll watch him break.”
And then—
Stillness.
Not from the cultists.
Not from the chamber.
From *me*.
Because I feel it.
The bond.
It’s not gone.
It’s not broken.
It’s… muffled. Like a scream heard through stone. Like a heartbeat felt through water. Distant. Faint. But there.
And so is he.
Kaelen.
Not in the flesh.
Not in the chamber.
But in the blood.
In the magic.
In the bond that ties us together—tighter than chains, deeper than oaths, older than lies.
And I know—
He’s coming.
Not because I’m his.
Not because he owns me.
But because I’m his choice.
And no one—
Not Malrik.
Not Lira.
Not even death—
Will take me from him.
—
Time passes.
I don’t know how much.
Minutes? Hours? Days?
The sigil pulses. The cultists chant. Lira watches. The cold seeps deeper. My magic is buried—buried under iron, under pain, under the weight of the Oath that still sleeps in my blood.
And then—
Voices again.
Not chanting.
Arguing.
One low. Cold. Familiar.
“You said you’d keep her alive.”
Malrik.
Not whole. Not flesh.
A shadow. A wisp. A memory given form.
But real.
And he’s angry.
“I am,” Lira says. “She’s breathing. She’s conscious. She’s *afraid*.”
“Afraid isn’t enough,” he hisses. “I need her broken. I need her magic. I need her blood to fuel the ritual.”
“And you’ll have it,” she says. “But not yet. Not until he comes.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He will.” She smiles. “He’s not like you. He *feels*.”
Malrik laughs—a sound like bones breaking. “Love is weakness. Love is death. Love is the first cut.”
“Then let it be,” she says. “Because when he sees her like this—chained, bleeding, helpless—he’ll do anything to save her. And that’s when we take it all.”
“And the Beta?” Malrik asks. “The one who followed you?”
“Dead,” she says. “Or close enough. I left him bleeding in the catacombs. Let him crawl back to them. Let them see what their protector became.”
My breath catches.
Riven.
He tried to stop her.
And she punished him for it.
“You’re weak,” Malrik says. “Sentimental. You should have killed him.”
“And miss the look on Kaelen’s face when he finds his loyal dog broken at his feet?” She laughs. “No. Let them suffer. Let them *know*—they could have stopped it.”
And then—
They’re gone.
The voices fade. The shadows retreat. The chamber is silent again.
And I’m alone.
But not powerless.
Because I know the truth now.
They don’t want me dead.
They want me *used*.
As bait.
As a weapon.
As the key to breaking the Oath—and claiming its power.
And if Kaelen comes—
They’ll kill him.
They’ll drain me.
And they’ll rise.
So I do the only thing I can.
I close my eyes.
I press my palm to the mark between my shoulder blades—the one Kaelen left when the bond first flared. The one that doesn’t burn anymore. The one that just… pulses. Like a second heartbeat. Like a promise.
And I reach for him.
Not with magic.
Not with words.
With the bond.
I pull.
Not hard. Not violently.
Gently.
Like a thread. Like a lifeline. Like a vow.
And then—
A whisper.
Not in the chamber.
Not in the air.
In my *mind*.
Blair…
Low. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.
“Kaelen,” I breathe.
Don’t speak. Don’t move. Just listen.
“I’m chained. Iron. Blood sigil. Lira’s with Malrik’s shadow. Riven—”
Alive. He’s alive. I found him. He’s weak, but he’ll live.
Relief floods me—so sharp it hurts. “Then run. Don’t come for me. It’s a trap.”
Too late. A pause. I’m already here.
My breath stops. “No. You can’t—”
I can. And I will. His voice is cold. Deadly. They took you. They hurt you. And they will pay.
“Kaelen—”
Hold on. A beat. I’m coming.
And then—
Stillness.
The bond hums—faint, but there. Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.
—
I don’t know how long I wait.
Minutes? Hours? Days?
The sigil pulses. The chains burn. The cold seeps deeper. My body aches. My magic is buried. But I don’t close my eyes. Don’t let myself drift. Because I know—
He’s coming.
And when he does—
I have to be ready.
Not to fight.
Not to escape.
But to *survive*.
Because if I die—
The Oath dies with me.
And Malrik wins.
And then—
It starts.
A tremor. Faint. Beneath the stone.
Then louder.
Then—
Explosions.
Not from outside.
From *within*.
Stone cracks. Torches shatter. The sigil flickers. The cultists scream.
And then—
Chaos.
Figures blur through the smoke—vampires, werewolves, witches. Kaelen’s forces. Riven’s pack. The Undercourt’s enforcers. They move like a storm, blades flashing, fangs bared, magic flaring.
And then—
He appears.
Kaelen.
Not in his usual coat of shadows.
Bare-chested. Bloodied. Feral.
His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine. His fangs are bared. His hands are stained with blood. His body is a wall of cold, controlled power.
And he’s *pissed*.
“Blair,” he growls, striding toward me.
“Don’t!” I shout. “The sigil—it’s a trap!”
Too late.
He steps into the circle.
The sigil flares—red, hot, *hungry*. Chains of light erupt from the floor, wrapping around his arms, his chest, his throat. He snarls. Tugs. The chains hold.
“Kaelen!” I scream.
“I’m fine,” he grits out. “Just hold on.”
“No! You have to leave! It’s designed to drain magic—yours, mine, *ours*!”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his black eyes burning into mine. “I told you I’d come.”
“And I told you not to!”
“And I don’t listen.” He smirks. “Never have.”
And then—
They appear.
Lira. Malrik’s shadow. The cultists.
They surround us, chanting, their hands raised, their eyes glowing.
“You’re too late,” Lira says, voice triumphant. “The ritual has begun. Your blood. Her magic. The Oath will rise.”
“No,” Kaelen says, voice low. “It will *die*.”
“And how?” Malrik hisses. “You’re bound. She’s chained. The bond is breaking.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark between my shoulder blades. “The bond isn’t breaking.”
“Then what is it?” Lira sneers.
I look at Kaelen.
And I smile.
“It’s *evolving*.”
And then—
I pull.
Not with magic.
Not with force.
With the bond.
With the choice.
With the love.
And the mark—
It *glows*.
Not red.
Not black.
Gold.
Like sunlight on snow.
Like *mine*.
The chains on my wrists shatter. The sigil cracks. The cultists scream.
And Kaelen—
He breaks free.
Not with strength.
Not with magic.
With the bond.
With the choice.
With the love.
And then—
He’s in front of me.
His hands cup my face. His breath is cold on my skin. His eyes—black, endless—burn into mine.
“You idiot,” I whisper.
“You’re worth it,” he says.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Fierce. Possessive. Like he’s claiming me in front of the world.
And the bond—
It doesn’t break.
It *evolves*.
Heat meets cold. Blood meets shadow. 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—
Malrik screams.
Lira falls.
The cultists burn.
And we’re still kissing.
Still holding on.
Still *alive*.
—
Later, in the Undercourt’s healing chamber, wrapped in wolf fur and Kaelen’s arms, I press my palm to my sternum.
The mark still glows.
The bond still hums.
And the Oath—
It’s not broken.
It’s sleeping.
But not for long.
Because the final vote is in two days.
And we’re ready.
Kaelen presses his lips to my temple. “You’re safe.”
“I know.” I turn in his arms, my green eyes burning into his. “But this isn’t over.”
“No,” he says. “It’s just beginning.”
And I believe him.
Because 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.