The Blood Moon rises.
Not with ceremony. Not with chant or ritual. But with silence—a slow, creeping stillness that settles over the North Quarter like a shroud. The torches in the Undercourt dim. The runes on the walls pulse slower, deeper, their gold turning to crimson at the edges. Even the wind changes, low and heavy, carrying the scent of iron and old magic. The city doesn’t sleep. It waits.
I stand at the edge of the balcony, my fingers pressed to the gold mark between my shoulder blades. It pulses—steady, warm, alive—but different tonight. Sharper. Hungrier. Not with the old bond fever, not with the desperate clawing of magic backlash. This is something older. Something deeper. A resonance that vibrates in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of what I am.
“It’s not just a moon,” Kaelen says from behind me, his voice low, rough. “It’s a memory.”
I don’t turn. I already feel him—his cold skin against my back, his breath on my neck, the way his hand settles on the small of my waist, possessive but not demanding. He doesn’t need to. The bond hums between us—low, steady, satisfied—a vow etched in fire and blood.
“Whose memory?” I ask.
“Ours,” he says. “And theirs.”
I finally turn, my green eyes searching his. “The ones who died under the Oath?”
He nods. “The ones who were taken. The ones who were bound. The ones who screamed in the dark and no one came.”
My chest tightens. I know those screams. I’ve heard them in my dreams. I’ve felt them in the pulse of my magic, in the ache of old scars, in the way my mother’s blood still sings in my veins.
“And tonight,” I say, “they remember us.”
“No.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing the curve of my jaw. “They remember freedom. The Blood Moon used to be a night of binding. Of claiming. Of blood pacts sealed in shadow. But now—”
“Now it’s ours.”
He smirks—a rare, real thing, soft at the edges. “You already know how this ends.”
“I do.” I press my forehead to his. “We don’t hide. We don’t fear. We stand in the center and say *no*.”
And just like that—the silence breaks.
Not with a scream.
Not with a curse.
With music.
From the plaza below, a single note rises—a deep, resonant hum, like the tolling of a bell forged in fire. Then another. Then voices. Not chanting. Not threatening. Singing.
Witches.
Werewolves.
Vampires.
Fae.
All of them. Their voices weaving together, low and strong, a hymn older than the Undercourt itself. Not of loyalty to a bloodline. Not of obedience to a lord. But of choice. Of consent. Of the First Law.
I press my palm to the mark between my shoulder blades. It flares—gold, hot, alive—and for the first time, I feel it not just as a bond, but as a beacon.
“They’re not afraid,” I whisper.
“No,” Kaelen says. “They’re not. Because they know we’re here. Because they know the law stands. Because they know you stand.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t look away. Just let the truth settle into my bones.
Not just a ruler.
Not just a warrior.
A symbol.
And I will not let them down.
—
We descend into the plaza slowly, deliberately, like we’re unwrapping a vow. The city stirs around us—coffee carts closing, taxis idling, the last train rattling beneath the Royal Mile—but we move through it like legends, like something older than blood, older than magic.
Kaelen doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His presence is a wall of cold, controlled power, but it’s not the same as before. Not the predator. Not the lord. Not the monster who fed on traitors in the open.
It’s something softer.
Something real.
And I—
I walk beside him.
Not behind.
Not in front.
Beside.
Like we’ve finally found our rhythm.
Like we’ve finally stopped fighting.
The plaza is full—packed with vampires in black coats, werewolves in leather, witches in flowing robes, fae with their glamour shimmering like glass. But there’s no hostility. No tension. Just stillness. Respect.
And then—
They part.
Not in fear.
Not in submission.
In invitation.
We step into the center—the heart of the North Quarter—and the singing stops. The torches dim. The runes pulse. The air is thick with scent—blood, sweat, magic. But not danger. Not tonight.
Hope.
“You called this gathering,” Kaelen says, voice low, rough. “Speak.”
From the crowd, a witch steps forward—elder of the Coven of the Veil, her hair silver, her eyes sharp. “The Blood Moon rises,” she says. “And with it, the memory of those who were bound. We gather not to mourn. Not to fear. But to witness.”
“Witness what?” I ask.
“That the First Law stands. That no one will be taken in the dark again. That no one will be bound without consent.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Not of shock. Of recognition.
“And if they try?” a werewolf calls.
“Then we rise,” I say, voice clear, strong. “Not as factions. Not as enemies. As the North Quarter. As one.”
“And if they come in shadows?” a vampire demands.
“Then we burn them in the light,” Kaelen says. “The Blood Moon is no longer a night of claiming. It is a night of defiance.”
And then—
I raise my hand.
Not in threat.
Not in magic.
In declaration.
“From this night forward, the Blood Moon is not a memory of chains,” I say. “It is a vow of freedom. A celebration of choice. A fire that will not be extinguished.”
The torches flare—gold, bright, alive. The runes pulse with gold. The bond hums between me and Kaelen, low and steady, like a vow kept.
And then—
They kneel.
Not all at once. Not in unison. But slowly. Deliberately. Like they’re unwrapping a vow.
First, the witches. Then the werewolves. Then the vampires. Even the fae—always watching—step forward, their laughter softer now, less mocking, more… reverent.
And Riven—he stands at the edge, his golden eyes sharp, his presence a quiet storm. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t bow. Just watches us.
And when the last knee touches stone, when the sigil of the North Quarter burns into the plaza floor—
I press my palm to the mark between my shoulder blades.
And I know—
This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.
—
The celebration begins at midnight.
Not with blood. Not with fire. But with music. With laughter. With the clink of glasses filled with wine, not blood. Humans pass through the plaza, unaware, but they feel it—the shift, the change, the quiet after the storm.
I stand at the edge of the firelight, watching. Mira is there—laughing with a group of half-breeds, her head high, her scars hidden but not forgotten. Riven leans against a pillar, his arms crossed, his gaze sharp, but there’s something softer in his eyes tonight. Something relieved.
And Kaelen—
He appears behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. “You’re quiet again,” he murmurs.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“What comes next.” I press my palm to the glass. “We broke the Oath. We claimed the North Quarter. We passed the First Law. But Malrik is still out there. Lira’s death… it wasn’t clean. Riven—he’s carrying it. Mira—she’s not just a survivor. She’s a symbol. And me—”
“You’re not the same,” he says, voice rough. “Neither am I.”
“No.” I turn in his arms, my green eyes searching his. “But are we strong enough to build what we destroyed?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
Just pulls me into a kiss.
Not violently. Not desperately.
Gently.
Softly.
Like a vow.
Like a beginning.
His lips are cold at first, but they warm under mine, softening, opening, yielding. His hands cradle my face, not to pull, not to possess, but to hold. His fangs graze my lower lip—just a whisper, a threat, a promise—but he doesn’t bite. Doesn’t take. Just waits.
And I—
I deepen the kiss.
My tongue slides against his, slow, deliberate, tasting the cold, metallic tang of vampire blood, the warmth of something deeper, something human. He groans—low, guttural, free—and his arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, until there’s no space between us, until our bodies are fused, until the bond hums between us—alive, electric.
And then—
He breaks the kiss.
Slow. Reluctant.
“I love you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the Oath requires it. But because you’re the first thing in centuries that’s made me feel alive.”
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.
“Then let me be your first,” I say, voice rough. “Your last. Your only.”
He smiles—a rare, real thing, soft at the edges. “You already are.”
And then—
He lifts me.
Not with magic. Not with force.
With care.
And carries me to the bed.
He lays me down gently, his hands steady, his touch light. The black silk is cool against my skin, but my body burns. My magic hums. The bond thrums, alive, electric.
“This isn’t just sex,” I say, voice low.
“No,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “It’s a celebration. A vow. A choice.”
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.
—
The Blood Moon sets.
Not with a scream.
Not with a curse.
With silence.
And in that silence—
I know.
The war isn’t over.
Malrik is still out there.
The old bloodlines still whisper.
The shadows still hunger.
But so do we.
And we are not afraid.
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.
Blair’s Blood Oath
The first time Blair sees Kaelen D’Vaire, he’s feeding.
Not from a willing donor. Not in shadows. But on the marble steps of the Undercourt, fangs buried in the throat of a traitor, blood dripping like wine down his white silk shirt. The air hums with power, danger, and something deeper—something that pulls at her blood, her magic, her very breath. She doesn’t flinch. She plans. Because she’s not here to gawk. She’s here to burn his world down.
Blair Vale is no pawn. She’s a witch with a fae mother’s stolen grace and a human father’s rage. When she was twelve, her mother died screaming under a vampire blood oath—a pact she didn’t consent to, one that bound her life to Kaelen’s sire. Now, Blair has forged a new identity, stolen a seat on the Undercourt’s Arbitration Panel, and slipped into the heart of Edinburgh’s supernatural elite. Her goal? Destroy the Oath of Crimson Fealty. And if Kaelen, the last heir of that cursed line, must fall with it—so be it.
But magic has memory. And when a sabotage spell backfires during a joint tribunal session, Blair and Kaelen are caught in a backlash that fuses their life forces—temporarily. The bond flares with heat, scent, and visions: his cold hands on her throat, her mouth on his pulse, a mark burning between her shoulder blades. For one breathless moment, they’re not enemies. They’re hunger.
And then the chamber collapses.
He saves her. She curses him. And neither can forget the way their bodies fit—or the way his voice dropped to a growl when he whispered, “You’re mine now, witch. Fight it all you want.”
But Blair didn’t come here to be claimed. She came to unmake. And the deeper she goes, the more she risks becoming exactly what she swore never to be: His.