The world narrows to a single point.
Not the crumbling stone of the ritual chamber. Not the screams of the cultists as the bond’s golden light consumes them. Not even Malrik’s shadow shrieking into the void as his hold fractures—like glass under fire.
It’s *her*.
Blair.
Chained. Pale. Bloodied.
But alive.
And looking at me like I’m the one who needs saving.
“You idiot,” she whispers, her voice raw, her green eyes blazing even through the exhaustion. “You walked right into their trap.”
I don’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, I kiss her.
Hard. Deep. Possessive. A claim forged in blood and fury. My hands cradle her face, cold fingers brushing the split lip Lira gave her, the bruise blooming along her jaw. I taste iron. Taste *her*. Taste the wild, untamed magic that still hums beneath her skin, even after the iron chains, even after the blood sigil’s drain.
And the bond—
It doesn’t hum.
It sings.
Not the desperate, clawing need from the early days. Not the violent surge of magic backlash. This is something deeper. Something older. A resonance that vibrates in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of what I am.
It’s not control.
It’s *surrender*.
And for the first time in centuries, I let go.
When I pull back, her breath hitches. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen from the kiss. The gold of the mark between her shoulder blades pulses faintly beneath the torn fabric of her robe—her mark. Our mark. Not a curse. Not a claim. A vow.
“You’re worth it,” I say, voice rough. “Every second. Every risk. Every drop of blood.”
She shakes her head, but there’s no real anger in it. Just that fierce, stubborn love that terrifies me more than any blade. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did.” I press my forehead to hers. “The moment you said you didn’t want to hate me anymore.”
And I meant it.
Not as a vampire lord.
Not as a D’Vaire heir.
But as a man who’s spent too long in the dark to recognize light when it burns through.
Behind us, the chamber collapses.
Not slowly. Not with drama.
All at once.
Stone cracks. The blood sigil shatters. The remaining cultists—those not consumed by the bond’s backlash—scatter like rats, screaming, clawing at the walls. Lira is gone—vanished into the shadows before the collapse, no doubt to lick her wounds and plot her next move. Malrik’s shadow is fractured, not destroyed, but weakened. I can feel it—like a wound in the air, pulsing with rage and hunger.
But none of it matters.
Because Blair is in my arms.
And I’m not letting go.
“Can you walk?” I ask, pulling back to look at her.
She grimaces, testing her weight. “Barely. The iron—”
“I know.” I scoop her up, cradling her against my chest. She’s lighter than I expected, her body tense with pain, her magic still sluggish from the chains. “Then I’ll carry you.”
“Kaelen—”
“No arguments.” I start moving, stepping over fallen stone, dodging collapsing arches. My body is a wall of cold, controlled power, but I can feel the toll—the blood sigil drained me, weakened me. Not enough to stop me. Never enough to stop me from reaching her. But enough that every step sends a spike of pain through my ribs, enough that my vision flickers at the edges.
“You’re hurt,” she murmurs, pressing a hand to my side. “I can feel it.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I don’t answer. Just keep moving.
We reach the outer tunnels—narrow, slick with moisture, lit by flickering torches. The air is thick with the scent of iron and magic, but also something else—smoke. Blood. Battle.
Riven.
I feel him before I see him.
Not through the bond. Not through magic.
Through loyalty.
He’s leaning against the wall, one arm pressed to his side, blood soaking through the fabric of his coat. His golden eyes are sharp, alert, but his face is pale, his breath coming too fast. A deep bite mark on his throat—Lira’s work—still oozes, refusing to heal.
“Took you long enough,” he says, voice rough.
“You’re alive,” I say, stopping in front of him.
“Barely.” He pushes off the wall, swaying slightly. “She got me. Knew I’d follow.”
“And you did anyway.”
“Someone had to.” He looks at Blair. “You okay?”
She nods. “Thanks to you.”
“Don’t thank me.” He presses a hand to the bite. “I failed. I let her get to Malrik. I let them take you.”
“You didn’t fail,” I say. “You warned us. You bought us time.”
“Not enough.”
“Enough for her to reach me,” I say, tightening my hold on Blair. “Enough for the bond to break their trap.”
He doesn’t answer. Just nods, jaw clenched.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
“I’ll manage.”
“Then move.” I start forward again, Blair in my arms, Riven limping beside me. “We’re not safe yet.”
—
The journey back to the Undercourt is a blur of pain and shadow.
Every step is agony. Not just for me. For all of us.
Blair’s breath is shallow against my chest, her body trembling with exhaustion. Riven stumbles more than once, catching himself against the wall, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The tunnels are unstable—cracks spreading through the stone, dust raining from the ceiling. The deeper we go, the more the air thickens with the scent of blood and decay.
And the bond—
It hums, low and steady, but I can feel it—straining. Not from distance. Not from magic. From *fear*.
Fear that we won’t make it.
Fear that I’ll lose her.
Fear that I’m not strong enough.
And then—
Voices.
Not from behind.
From ahead.
Shouts. Screams. The clash of steel.
We’re not alone.
“Ambush,” Riven mutters, drawing his blade despite the blood loss. “Lira’s not done.”
“No,” I say, pressing Blair closer. “But she’s desperate.”
And desperate people make mistakes.
We round the final bend—and freeze.
The tunnel opens into a wide chamber—the old armory, long abandoned, its racks of weapons rusted, its torches flickering. And in the center—
Figures.
Dozens of them.
Vampires. Werewolves. Witches.
Not under Malrik’s control.
Not Lira’s cult.
But *ours*.
My enforcers. Riven’s pack. Blair’s allies from the Arbitration Panel. They’re locked in battle with a group of shadow-wielders—assassins, mercenaries, the kind who sell their blades to the highest bidder. Blood stains the stone. Bodies litter the floor. The air is thick with the scent of death.
And then—
They see us.
The moment stretches, silent, heavy.
And then—
“Kaelen!”
“Blair!”
“Riven!”
Shouts rise from every side. Blades lower. The fight pauses. And then—
They move.
Not to attack.
To *protect*.
They form a wall between us and the remaining assassins, blades raised, fangs bared, magic flaring. No orders. No commands. Just instinct. Loyalty. *Us*.
And I feel it—
Not just the bond.
Not just the love.
But *power*.
Real power.
Not the kind that comes from bloodlines or oaths or fear.
The kind that comes from *choice*.
From people who stand not because they have to.
But because they *want* to.
“Clear a path,” I say, voice low.
They don’t hesitate.
They move fast—vampire speed, werewolf strength, witch magic. The assassins don’t stand a chance. Screams. Blood. Steel.
And then—
Stillness.
The chamber is ours.
And we’re moving.
—
The healing chamber is quiet.
Too quiet.
Blair lies on the black silk bed, her body still, her face pale. The iron burns have been treated—her wrists wrapped in silver-laced bandages, her ankles in cooling salve. Her magic is recovering, slow but steady. The gold of the mark between her shoulder blades pulses faintly, like a heartbeat.
Riven is on the floor, his back against the wall, his head bowed. The bite on his throat has been sealed with a witch’s poultice, but he’s still weak, still bleeding. He refuses to lie down. Refuses to rest. Just sits there, silent, like penance.
And I—
I stand at the edge of the room, my hands clenched at my sides, my body a wall of cold, controlled power.
But inside—
I’m breaking.
Because she’s alive.
Because she’s safe.
Because I *almost lost her*.
And the guilt—
It’s a blade in my chest.
“You should rest,” I say, voice rough.
Blair doesn’t open her eyes. “So should you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” She finally looks at me, her green eyes sharp. “You’re hurt. The blood sigil took more than you’re letting on.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s *everything*.” She pushes herself up, wincing. “You don’t get to pretend you’re invincible. Not after what just happened.”
“I had to get to you.”
“And if you’d died?”
“Then I’d have died trying.”
She flinches. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” I step closer, my voice low. “You think I’d let them take you? That I’d let Malrik use you? That I’d let Lira break you?”
“You could’ve waited. Called for backup. Planned—”
“And while I planned, they could’ve killed you.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. “I don’t care about strategy. I don’t care about power. I don’t care about the Oath.”
“Then what do you care about?”
“You.” My voice breaks. “Only you.”
And it’s true.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
But because she’s the first thing in centuries that’s made me feel *alive*.
She doesn’t answer. Just presses her palm to my chest, feeling the steady thud of my heart beneath the fabric of my shirt. It’s not the heart of a monster. Not the heart of a tyrant.
It’s the heart of someone who’s been alone too long.
Like her.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she says, voice quiet.
“I never wanted to.”
“Then let me stand with you.”
“Not as my enemy.”
“No.” I lift her chin, my black eyes burning into hers. “As your equal.”
And for the first time, I believe her.
For the first time, I believe us.
—
Later, when the torches burn low and the runes on the walls pulse faintly, I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep.
She’s peaceful. Her face relaxed. Her breath steady. The gold of the mark glows softly, like sunlight on snow.
And I—
I press my forehead to the edge of the bed.
And I whisper—
“I can’t lose you.”
Not because I need you.
Not because the bond demands it.
But because I *love* you.
And if that makes me weak—
Then let me burn.
Because I’d rather die with you than live without.
The bond hums—low, steady, satisfied.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
Like the beginning of something neither of us can stop.