The silence after the Oath breaks is deeper than any I’ve known.
Not the quiet of an empty room. Not the hush of snow falling on stone. This is something older. Something sacred. Like the world has drawn a breath and forgotten how to exhale.
The Undercourt stands frozen—vampires with fangs bared, werewolves mid-growl, witches with hands still glowing. Even the torches seem to pause, their flames suspended in flickering gold. Lira kneels on the cracked stone, her silver eyes wide, her breath shallow. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the obsidian pedestal—shattered now, split down the center, its dark surface dull, lifeless.
The Oath is gone.
Not destroyed.
Not banished.
Released.
And the bond—
It doesn’t hum.
It thrums.
Not the violent surge of magic backlash. Not the desperate clawing of bond fever. This is something calmer. Something deeper. A resonance that vibrates in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of what I am. It’s not control. Not need. Not hunger.
It’s peace.
Kaelen’s hand is still in mine, his fingers laced with mine, his grip firm, steady. His other hand rests on the small of my back, warm despite the cold of his skin. I don’t pull away. Don’t need to. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m fighting.
I feel like I’m choosing.
“We did it,” I whisper, pressing my palm to the mark between my shoulder blades—the one that glows gold, the one that’s mine, the one that’s ours.
“No,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. His breath is cold on my skin, his voice rough, broken. “We’re just beginning.”
I lift my head, my green eyes searching his. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. Just turns, pulling me with him, and walks toward the edge of the chamber. The crowd parts—vampires, werewolves, witches—none of them speaking, none of them moving. Just watching. Waiting.
And then—
We’re outside.
The Royal Mile stretches before us, bathed in the pale light of dawn. The city is quiet—humans still asleep, unaware of the war that just ended beneath their feet. The air is crisp, sharp with the scent of rain and stone. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls—once, twice, three times.
And then—
He stops.
Turns to me.
“The Oath is broken,” he says, voice low. “But the final ritual hasn’t been completed.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Breaking it isn’t enough,” he says. “To sever the bloodline’s curse completely, to ensure Malrik can never return, we have to perform the final ritual.”
“And what does that involve?”
He hesitates. Just for a second. But I see it—the flicker in his black eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his fangs press into his lower lip.
And I know.
Before he says it.
Before he speaks.
Because I’ve read the texts. I’ve studied the ancient rites. I know what comes next.
“Sex and blood,” I say, voice quiet. “Full merging. A ritual of union.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “Yes.”
My breath hitches. Not from fear. Not from doubt.
From recognition.
Because this is it.
The final test.
Not of magic.
Not of power.
Of trust.
“You’re saying we have to make love,” I say, voice steady. “In a ritual chamber. With blood. With magic. With the bond screaming in our veins.”
“Yes.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then the Oath remains unsealed. Malrik can return. The curse lives. And everything we’ve fought for—everything we’ve bled for—means nothing.”
I don’t answer. Just press my palm to my sternum, as if I can hold the truth down by force. But it’s already there, burning in my veins.
This isn’t just about breaking a curse.
It’s about surrender.
About giving up control.
About letting someone see you—truly see you—when every instinct screams to hide.
“And if I’m not ready?” I ask, voice quiet.
“Then we wait,” he says. “Until you are.”
“And if I never am?”
“Then I’ll wait.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the Oath requires it. But because I love you. And I won’t force you. I won’t take from you. I won’t *own* you.”
My breath catches.
And for one breathless moment, we’re not enemies.
We’re hunger.
But not the kind that destroys.
The kind that builds.
“You say that now,” I whisper. “But what if the bond takes over? What if the magic demands it? What if you lose control?”
“Then I’ll stop,” he says. “At any point. For any reason. You say the word, and I’ll walk away. No questions. No arguments. No guilt.”
“And if I don’t say it?”
“Then I’ll stay.” His voice drops, low, dangerous. “And I’ll make love to you like it’s the first time I’ve ever done it right.”
My body arches toward him. My hands clutch his coat. My magic flares, wild, uncontrolled.
I want to kiss him.
I want to hate him.
I want—
And then—
Stillness.
Not from the bond.
Not from the magic.
From me.
Because I know what I have to do.
Not for the Oath.
Not for the North Quarter.
Not even for justice.
For me.
“I want to,” I say, voice rough. “But I lead.”
He stills. “What?”
“You don’t get to decide when,” I say, stepping closer. “You don’t get to control the pace. You don’t get to set the rules. If we do this, it’s on my terms. My timing. My power.”
His breath hitches. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you’re not the man I think you are.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his black eyes burning into mine. And then—
He nods.
Slow. Reluctant. Like he knows what’s coming.
And I do.
“Then prepare the chamber,” I say. “But don’t touch me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t even look at me until I say so.”
“And when will that be?”
“When I’m ready.”
And then—
I turn.
And I walk away.
—
The days pass in silence.
Not the silence of distance.
Not the silence of anger.
But the silence of preparation.
I don’t see Kaelen. Don’t speak to him. Don’t even feel the bond—just a faint hum beneath my skin, like a heartbeat waiting to be heard. I spend my time in the hidden library, buried in ancient texts, tracing the lines of forgotten rites, studying the sigils of union, the chants of binding, the blood patterns of merging.
It’s not fear that keeps me from him.
It’s respect.
Respect for what’s coming.
Respect for the power we’re about to wield.
Respect for the fact that this isn’t just sex.
It’s sacrifice.
Riven finds me on the third night, his golden eyes sharp, his presence a quiet storm.
“You’re avoiding him,” he says, stepping into the library.
“I’m preparing,” I say, not looking up from the text in front of me.
“And what if he thinks you’ve changed your mind?”
“Then he’ll have to trust me.” I close the book, pressing my palm to the cover. “I told him I’d do it. I didn’t say when.”
“And if he doesn’t wait?”
“Then he’s not the man I think he is.”
Riven doesn’t answer. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. And then—
“You know,” he says, voice quiet, “I used to think love was weakness. That wanting someone made you vulnerable. That needing someone made you a target.”
I still.
Not in shock.
Not in anger.
In pain.
Because I’ve spent my whole life believing the same thing.
And now—
Now I’m not sure I’m strong enough to survive it.
“And now?” I ask.
“Now I think… maybe it’s the only thing that makes us strong.” He steps closer, his voice low. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I never wanted to.”
“Then let him stand with you.”
“Not as my enemy.”
“No.” He lifts my chin, his golden eyes burning into mine. “As your equal.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
For the first time, I believe us.
—
The ritual chamber is ready.
Not the crumbling ruin where I was captured. Not the blood circle of Malrik’s cult. This is something older. Something purer. A circular room carved from white stone, its walls etched with sigils of union—gold, not red, pulsing with a soft, steady light. At the center stands a pool of still water, clear as glass, its surface unbroken. Torches flicker in their sconces, casting warm, golden light across the floor. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine and honey, something ancient, something holy.
Kaelen stands at the edge of the room, bare-chested, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. His fangs are retracted. His hands are at his sides. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.
And I—
I step inside.
Slow. Deliberate. Like I’m unwrapping a gift. My robe slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. The air is cool against my skin, but I don’t shiver. Don’t cover myself. Just stand there—naked, unashamed, alive—and I watch him.
His eyes burn.
Not with hunger.
Not with dominance.
With need.
Raw. Unfiltered. Desperate.
And the bond—
It doesn’t hum.
It screams.
A surge of heat slams through me, flooding my veins, pooling between my thighs. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled. The sigils on the walls pulse brighter. The water in the pool ripples.
And still, he doesn’t move.
“You said I lead,” I say, voice low.
He nods. “I remember.”
“Then undress me.”
He stills. “What?”
“You heard me.” I step closer, my body pressing into his. “Undress me. Slow. Deliberate. Like you’re unwrapping a gift.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for me.
Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s giving me time to run. To fight. To change my mind.
But I don’t.
Because I don’t want to.
His hands find the hem of my robe, pulling it up, inch by inch, his fingers brushing my skin, sending sparks through my veins. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tear. Just undresses me—slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing every curve, every scar, every breath.
And then—
He stops.
Just holds me.
His face buried in my neck, his breath cold on my skin, his body trembling against mine. His arms tighten around me, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. Like he’s afraid this moment will break.
And maybe it will.
Maybe we’ll go back to fighting. To lying. To pretending we don’t ache for each other.
But not now.
Now, we’re here.
Now, we’re real.
Now, we’re us.
“I’ve never done this,” he whispers, voice rough, broken. “Not like this. Not with love. Not with choice.”
“Then let me be your first.”
He lifts his head, his black eyes burning into mine. “And if I hurt you?”
“Then you’ll heal me.”
“And if I can’t stop?”
“Then don’t.”
And that’s all it takes.
He lifts me.
Not with magic. Not with force.
With care.
And carries me to the pool.
He lays me down gently, his hands steady, his touch light. The water is warm against my skin, but my body burns. My magic hums. The bond thrums, alive, electric.
“This isn’t just sex,” I say, voice low. “It’s a ritual. A vow. A choice.”
“Then let me choose you,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the Oath requires it. But because I love you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Gently.
Softly.
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.