The Undercourt trembles.
Not from magic. Not from blood sigils or shadow cults or ancient oaths clawing their way back from the void.
From sound.
The roar of the crowd is a living thing—vampires hissing from the high balconies, werewolves howling from the lower tiers, witches chanting in low, rhythmic tones, fae whispering like wind through glass. The air is thick with scent—blood, sweat, adrenaline, the sharp tang of magic primed to strike. Torches flicker in their sconces, casting jagged shadows across the black stone floor. The twelve seats of the tribunal stand empty, abandoned. This isn’t a debate.
This is war.
And we’re in the middle of it.
Kaelen stands beside me, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. His coat is gone, his shirt torn from the rescue, his chest still bearing the faint marks of the blood sigil’s chains. His fangs are bared, his black eyes burning with something deeper than rage—something holy. Not vengeance. Not dominance.
Justice.
Across the chamber, Lira rises from the shadows, her silver eyes blazing, her robes of ash and shadow swirling around her like smoke. Behind her, Malrik’s fractured form flickers—a wisp of darkness, a whisper in the blood, not whole, not gone. And behind them—dozens. Vampires with hollow eyes, werewolves with snarling muzzles, witches with hands glowing red. A coalition of the desperate. The broken. The betrayed.
They don’t want the Oath destroyed.
They want it claimed.
And they’ll burn the Undercourt to the ground to take it.
“You think you’ve won?” Lira spits, her voice slicing through the noise. “You think a witch and a vampire can stand against the will of the blood?”
Kaelen doesn’t answer. Just tightens his grip on my hand.
And I squeeze back.
Not out of fear.
Not out of doubt.
Because I’m ready.
My magic hums beneath my skin—hot, restless, alive. The iron burns have faded. The exhaustion has burned away. The bond thrums between us, not screaming, not twisting, but celebrating. After the healing ritual, after I poured my breath, my blood, my magic into Riven, something shifted. Not just in me.
In us.
The bond isn’t just a tether.
It’s a weapon.
And I’m done hiding.
“They don’t get to decide what we are,” I say, voice low, for Kaelen’s ears only. “Not Malrik. Not Lira. Not the Oath.”
He turns to me, his black eyes burning into mine. “Then let’s show them.”
And then—
Chaos.
Lira moves first—fast, feral, a blur of shadow and fang. She leaps across the chamber, her claws aimed at my throat. But I’m faster.
I drop.
Not to dodge.
To attack.
I roll beneath her, come up behind, and drive my elbow into her spine. She snarls, spins, fangs bared—but I’m already gone, sliding to the side, my dagger in hand. The black iron blade glints in the torchlight, etched with runes that pulse with my magic.
“You don’t get to touch her,” Kaelen growls, stepping between us.
But I don’t let him fight for me.
I step with him.
We move as one—his speed, my magic, the bond humming between us like a live wire. He feints left. I strike right. My dagger slices across Lira’s arm. She hisses, blood spraying—but she’s not done.
She lunges at me again.
This time, I don’t dodge.
I catch her.
My hand closes around her wrist. I twist. She screams. I slam her into the ground, knee in her back, dagger at her throat.
“Say it,” I hiss. “Say you’re nothing.”
She spits in my face. “You’ll never be enough.”
“I don’t have to be.” I press the blade harder. “I just have to be *me*.”
And then—
Malrik.
He surges forward—a wave of shadow, a scream in the blood. The chamber darkens. The torches gutter. The runes on the floor flare, then dim. And then—
He’s on Kaelen.
Not flesh. Not fang.
Memory.
He wraps around him like smoke, whispering, his voice slithering into Kaelen’s mind, into his blood, into the deepest part of him where the scars live.
You are weak, he hisses. You always were. You let her mark you. You let her ride you. You let her choose.
Kaelen staggers. His fangs retract. His eyes—black, endless—flicker with something raw, something broken.
“No,” I whisper.
And I run.
Not away.
Toward.
I leap over Lira, roll across the stone, and slam into Malrik’s shadow form. My magic flares—gold, hot, *alive*. I don’t fight with steel.
I fight with truth.
“You don’t own him!” I scream, pressing my palm to the shadow. “You don’t own *me*! You don’t own the Oath! You’re just a ghost in the blood, screaming because you’re afraid to die!”
The shadow recoils.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
Kaelen roars—raw, guttural, *free*. He breaks free, his fangs bared, his body a storm of power. He grabs Malrik’s form and tears—ripping the shadow apart like paper.
Malrik screams.
Not in pain.
In fear.
And then—
He’s gone.
Not destroyed.
Not banished.
But wounded.
And we’re not done.
“You killed him,” Lira snarls, rising from the floor, her silver eyes blazing. “You’ll pay for this.”
“I already have,” I say, stepping beside Kaelen. “And I’d do it again.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just raises her hand.
And the fight begins in earnest.
The chamber erupts.
Vampires clash with vampires. Werewolves tear into shadow-wielders. Witches hurl fire and ice. The air is thick with blood, with magic, with the sound of breaking bone. I move fast—dagger in hand, magic flaring. I don’t fight alone.
Kaelen fights with me.
Not in front. Not behind.
Beside.
He takes the left. I take the right. He draws their attention. I strike. He blocks a blade aimed at my back. I burn a shadow assassin before it reaches him. We don’t speak. Don’t need to. The bond hums—low, steady, alive—guiding us, warning us, protecting us.
And then—
She’s on me again.
Lira.
Not with claws.
With magic.
She slams her palm into the floor, and the stone explodes—black spikes erupting from the ground, aimed at my heart. I roll. Too slow. One grazes my side, tearing through fabric, slicing skin. I hiss. Blood blooms.
But I don’t stop.
I rise.
And I burn.
My magic flares—gold, hot, *alive*. I press my palm to the ground and push. The runes on my dagger glow. The bond screams. And then—
Fire.
Not red.
Not orange.
Gold.
It erupts from the floor, a wave of light and heat that consumes Lira’s shadow spikes, that scorches the stone, that sends her flying back with a scream.
“You think you’re strong?” I snarl, advancing. “You think you’re special? You’re just another pawn. Another liar. Another *ghost*.”
She rises, her robes torn, her face bleeding. “You don’t understand. He *wanted* me. He *needed* me. You’re just a weapon. A tool. A *witch*.”
“And you’re nothing,” I say, my voice low. “Because he chose *me*.”
She screams.
And charges.
This time, I don’t dodge.
I meet her.
My dagger flashes. Her blood sprays. She stumbles. I grab her by the throat, slam her into the wall.
“Say it,” I hiss. “Say you’re done.”
She laughs—a broken, desperate sound. “You’ll never be free. The Oath will rise. He’ll break you. And when he does—”
“Then I’ll break him back.” I press my dagger to her throat. “And I’ll do it with a smile.”
And then—
Stillness.
Not from me.
Not from her.
From the chamber.
The fight stops.
Not because we’ve won.
Because something worse has begun.
The floor cracks.
Not from magic.
From memory.
The Oath of Crimson Fealty—still sleeping, still bound, still fed by blood and lies—stirs.
And then—
It screams.
Not aloud.
Through the bond.
A surge of pain slams through me, through Kaelen, through every vampire, every witch, every being tied to the D’Vaire bloodline. I drop to my knees. Kaelen staggers. Lira collapses. The runes on the floor flare—red, hot, *hungry*.
And then—
Visions.
A woman—my mother—kneeling on black stone, her fae grace stolen, her voice raw from screaming. Malrik’s hand on her throat. A mark burning between her shoulder blades. Blood dripping from her wrists. And Kaelen—small, young, helpless—watching from the shadows, his hands broken, his eyes hollow.
Then—me. Chained. Drained. Left to rot. Lira’s smile. Malrik’s whisper. Kaelen’s face—white as bone, eyes black with rage—before the shadows swallow me whole.
Then—him. Standing over me. His fangs at my throat. His hands on my hips. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
I gasp.
My hands clutch the stone. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The gold of the mark between my shoulder blades pulses, fighting the red of the Oath, fighting the memory, fighting the lie.
“Blair,” Kaelen growls, dropping beside me, his hand on my back. “Fight it.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” He grips my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. His black eyes burn into mine. “This isn’t real. This is *him*. This is *the Oath*. This is *fear*.”
“But it’s in my blood,” I whisper. “It’s in *us*.”
“And we’re stronger.” He cups my face. “We’re not them. We’re not your mother. We’re not me as a child. We’re *us*.”
I press my palm to the mark. “And if we’re wrong?”
“Then we fall together.” He pulls me into his arms. “And we take it with us.”
And then—
I feel it.
Not the Oath.
Not the pain.
The bond.
It doesn’t hum.
It sings.
Not in fear.
Not in rage.
In love.
And I know—
We’re not alone.
“Kaelen,” I say, pulling back. “We have to break it. Now.”
“How?”
“Together.” I press my palm to his chest. “Not with magic. Not with blood. With *choice*.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just nods. “Then let’s end it.”
We rise.
Side by side.
Hand in hand.
The chamber is silent. The fighters watch. Lira kneels, broken. The runes pulse. The Oath screams.
And we—
We step forward.
To the center.
To the pedestal of obsidian—cracked, stained, empty.
And we press our palms to the stone.
Together.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It explodes.
A wave of gold light erupts from us, raw and uncontrolled. I see it—feel it—every moment of hunger, every flicker of desire, every choice, every kiss, every fight, every *us*—amplified.
His hands on my hips. My back arched. His fangs at my throat. A mark burning between my shoulder blades—his claim, his curse, his need.
But then—no. Not him. Me. My voice in his ear. My body over his. A cry—pleasure, not pain. A pulse—ours, not his. A bond—real, not forced.
The Oath shrieks.
The pedestal cracks.
The runes shatter.
And then—
Silence.
Not the silence of death.
Not the silence of defeat.
The silence of freedom.
The Oath is broken.
Not destroyed.
Not banished.
Released.
And then—
Kaelen pulls me into his arms.
Not rough. Not possessive.
But holding.
And for the first time, I don’t pull away.
I let him hold me. Let his cold seep into my skin. Let his heartbeat sync with mine. Let the bond hum between us—low, steady, satisfied—like it’s finally found its home.
And maybe it has.
Maybe I have.
“We did it,” I whisper.
“No,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “We’re 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.