The woman at the threshold is young—barely older than Mira—with wide, haunted eyes and a tremor in her hands that says she’s been running for days. Her clothes are torn, her scent masked with cheap glamour, but I smell the truth beneath: vampire blood, old and sour, clinging to her skin like a curse. She’s not one of us. Not a witch. Not a fae. Not even a half-breed.
She’s a donor.
And she’s seen Malrik.
“You know who he is?” I ask, stepping forward, my voice low, controlled. “Not a name. Not a rumor. You’ve seen him.”
She nods, her throat working. “He’s not dead. He never was. He’s been hiding—in the old tunnels beneath the Winter Palace. The ones the fae sealed after the Blood Wars.”
A chill cuts through me. The Winter Palace. The Fae High Court. A place of dreams and bargains, of oaths carved in ice. I was summoned there once. Offered power. Refused. And now Malrik—Kaelen’s sire, the architect of the Oath that killed my mother—is hiding there?
“Why tell us?” Kaelen asks, stepping beside me, his voice a low growl. “You could have sold this to the highest bidder. The Syndicate. The old bloodlines. Why come here?”
She lifts her head, her eyes locking onto his. “Because he used me. Like he used others. Like he used your mother.” She turns to me. “Like he used hers.”
The air stills.
Not just in the chamber. In my blood. In my magic. In the bond humming between my shoulder blades.
“He took your blood?” I ask.
“Not just mine.” She presses a hand to her abdomen, her voice breaking. “My child’s. He said it was pure. Unmarked. That it would help him return.”
My breath catches.
Because I know what she’s saying.
Malrik isn’t just hiding.
He’s rebuilding.
Using stolen blood. Stolen life. Stolen futures.
And he’s been inside the one place even I wouldn’t dare go.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why come forward now?”
“Because he’s ready,” she whispers. “He’s gathering power. Summoning the old magic. And he’s not alone. There are others—vampires, witches, even a fae noble—who believe he can restore the old order. Who believe the First Law is a disease.”
“And you?” Kaelen asks. “Do you believe that?”
She shakes her head, tears spilling over. “I believe in freedom. In choice. In not being used as a vessel. I came here because I heard you stood in the Blood Moon and said *no*. Because I heard you broke the Oath. Because I heard you were real.”
And just like that—I believe her.
Not because she’s convincing.
But because she’s broken.
And I know what that looks like.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Elira.”
“Elira,” I repeat, pressing my palm to the gold mark between my shoulder blades. “You’re safe now. No one will take you. No one will use you. Not while I live.”
She sags, like a string cut. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” I say. “Thank the law. And yourself. For surviving.”
And then—
I turn to Kaelen.
His black eyes burn into mine. Not with rage. Not with fear.
With recognition.
Because we both know what this means.
Malrik isn’t just a ghost.
He’s a warlord.
And he’s coming.
—
We meet in the war room—Kaelen, Riven, Mira, and me—beneath the Undercourt, in the chamber where the Oath once stood. The obsidian pedestal lies cracked and hollow, its surface dull. The runes on the floor are dim, their gold faded. But the air—
It hums.
Not with magic.
With memory.
And now—
With urgency.
“The Winter Palace is warded,” Riven says, tracing a finger over the ancient map spread across the table. “Only fae nobles can enter. And even then, only with permission.”
“I was summoned there,” I say. “Once. They offered me power to break the Oath. I refused.”
“And now?” Kaelen asks.
“Now I don’t have a choice.” I press my palm to the map, my magic flaring—gold, hot, alive. “If Malrik is there, if he’s using fae magic, if he’s gathering allies—then we go in. Not as invaders. Not as enemies. As petitioners.”
“They won’t let us in,” Mira says. “Not after the Blood Moon. Not after you defied them.”
“No,” I say. “But they’ll let me in. I’m half-fae. I carry their blood. And I carry their mark.” I press my palm to the gold sigil between my shoulder blades. “This isn’t just a bond. It’s a claim. And if I walk into their court and say *I am Seraphine Vale’s daughter*, they’ll have to listen.”
“And if they don’t?” Riven asks.
“Then we burn the gates down.”
Kaelen doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. And then—
“You’re not going alone,” he says.
“I have to.”
“No.” He steps closer, his voice low, dangerous. “You’re not a pawn. You’re not a sacrifice. You’re not some bargaining chip to be traded for truth. You’re *mine*.”
“I’m not yours,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m not anyone’s. I’m Blair Vale. Co-ruler of the North Quarter. Witch. Fae. Warrior. And I will walk into that court because I have to. Not because you let me. Because it’s *my* choice.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing the curve of my jaw. “Then let me stand beside you.”
And for the first time, I see it—not dominance. Not possession.
Partnership.
“Then we go together,” I say. “But on *my* terms. No fangs. No force. No bloodshed unless they draw first.”
He nods. “Your terms.”
“And Riven,” I say. “You stay here. Protect Mira. Protect the North Quarter. If we don’t return—”
“We’ll burn the city to ash before we let them take it,” he says, voice rough. “I know.”
And I believe him.
Because loyalty isn’t always loud.
Sometimes, it’s quiet.
Sometimes, it’s standing in the wind, watching the sea, carrying the weight of what you’ve done.
—
The journey to the Highlands is silent.
We move fast—through hidden tunnels, across moonlit moors, over stone bridges that hum with ancient 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 Winter Palace rises before us at dawn—a fortress of ice and shadow, its spires piercing the sky, its walls carved with runes older than memory. The air is thin, sharp, carrying the scent of frost and old magic. No guards. No warnings. Just silence.
And then—
A voice.
From the wind.
From the ice.
From the shadows.
“Blair Vale,” it whispers. “Daughter of Seraphine. You are not welcome.”
I step forward, my head high, my spine straight, my magic humming beneath my skin. “I am not here to beg. I am not here to bargain. I am here to *demand*.”
“And what do you demand, half-breed?”
“The truth.” I press my palm to the gold mark between my shoulder blades. “Malrik D’Vaire is here. He’s using your land. Your magic. Your silence. And I want to know *why*.”
Stillness.
Then—
The gates open.
Not wide. Not welcoming.
Just enough.
And we step inside.
—
The throne room is a cavern of ice—walls glittering, floor slick, torches burning with blue flame. At the far end, on a throne of frozen thorns, sits the Winter Sovereign—a fae noble with eyes like glaciers and a crown of black ice.
“You dare,” she says, her voice like wind through glass. “To walk into my court and accuse me of harboring your enemy?”
“I don’t accuse,” I say. “I *know*. Malrik is here. He’s using stolen blood to rebuild his power. And you’re letting him.”
“And if I am?”
“Then you’re no better than he is.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, her gaze cold. “You think you’ve won? You think love is stronger than blood? You think a law written in ink can break centuries of tradition?”
“I don’t think,” I say. “I *know*. The First Law stands. And it will stand long after your ice has melted.”
She rises, her gown trailing like frost. “Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Face him.” She raises her hand. “Bring him.”
And from the shadows—
He comes.
Malrik D’Vaire.
Not a ghost.
Not a memory.
Real.
His eyes are black, endless, his fangs bared, his presence a wall of cold, controlled power. But it’s not the same as Kaelen’s. Not softer. Not real.
It’s hunger.
Pure. Unrelenting. hungry.
“Blair Vale,” he says, his voice like a blade. “You’ve grown. But you’re still weak. Still afraid. Still *mine*.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t look away. Just press my palm to the gold mark between my shoulder blades. “I was never yours. And I never will be.”
He smirks. “You think that bond protects you? That *he* protects you?” He turns to Kaelen. “You think you’ve won? You think you’ve broken the Oath? You’re still bound. You’re still *mine*.”
Kaelen doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, his body a wall of cold, controlled power. “You’re not my father,” he says. “You’re a ghost. A memory. A disease. And I will *end* you.”
Malrik laughs—a sound like breaking ice. “Then try.”
And just like that—the fight begins.
Not with magic.
Not with fangs.
With words.
With truth.
With memory.
And I—
I am not here to unmake.
I am 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.