The summons came at dawn.
No fanfare. No heralds. Just a slip of parchment sealed with black wax, delivered by a silent fae child whose eyes were too old for her face. She didn’t speak. Didn’t bow. Just placed the letter in my palm and vanished like mist beneath the rising sun.
I broke the seal with my thumb, the wax crumbling like dried bone.
“By order of the Council Elder,” it read, “Blair of the Bloodline is hereby summoned to stand trial for the misuse of the Book of Bonds. Accused of wielding unjust authority, violating ancient precedent, and inciting rebellion among the noble houses. Present yourself at the Fae High Court at noon. Come alone. Come armed. Come prepared to answer for your actions.”
Alone.
The word burned.
Not because I believed it. Not because I feared it.
Because they thought I’d obey.
I turned the parchment over in my hands, my magic humming beneath my skin, tasting the ink, the paper, the faint trace of glamour woven into the fibers. A trap. Of course it was. But not the kind they thought.
This wasn’t about justice.
It was about fear.
Fear of a woman who had rewritten their world with a drop of blood.
Fear of a law that didn’t care about lineage or title.
Fear of a Book that answered to no one but truth.
And they wanted me to walk into their court, stripped of allies, stripped of protection, stripped of power—like a lamb to the slaughter.
They didn’t know me at all.
—
Kaelen found me in the armory.
I was already dressed—not in the soft wool of a judge, not in the flowing robes of a founder, but in black leather, tight and worn, laced with sigils that pulsed faintly at my wrists and throat. My dagger was strapped to my thigh, its blade etched with runes of truth and memory. My boots were silent on the stone, my movements precise, deliberate.
He didn’t speak at first.
Just leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, golden eyes burning as he watched me check the balance of my blade, test the grip, slide it back into the sheath.
“You’re not going alone,” he said finally, voice low.
I didn’t look up. “The summons said—”
“I don’t give a f*ck what the summons said,” he growled, stepping forward. “You think they’ll play fair? You think they won’t have assassins in the shadows, curses woven into the floor, lies ready to twist your words? You walk in there alone, Blair, and you won’t walk out.”
I turned to him, my dark eyes locking onto his. “And if I bring the pack? If I bring fire and fury and tooth and claw? Then they’ll say I’m the rebel. The tyrant. The one who fears the law so much she brings an army to silence it.” I stepped closer, my hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the leather. “No. I go alone. But I don’t go unarmed.”
“You’re not just armed,” he said, voice rough. “You’re *dangerous*. And they know it. That’s why they’re afraid.”
“Good,” I said. “Let them be afraid. Fear keeps liars honest.”
He didn’t smile. Just cupped my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Then let me give you one more weapon.”
Before I could ask, he kissed me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Claiming.His mouth crashed onto mine, hot, demanding, possessive. A growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating through my bones. His hands fisted in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine like a promise. The bond between us burned, a pulse of heat, of magic, of something deeper—something that wasn’t just love, but truth.
And when he pulled back, his golden eyes were blazing.
“That,” he said, voice rough, “is my mark. Not on your skin. In your blood. In your bones. In your soul. And no court, no Elder, no ancient law can take that from you.”
Tears burned my eyes.
Because he wasn’t just giving me strength.
He was reminding me who I was.
Not just a judge.
Not just a founder.
Blair.
And I would not be broken.
—
The Fae High Court loomed ahead, its spires piercing the clouds like knives, its windows glowing with cold, unnatural light. The gates groaned open as I approached, not in a carriage, not with an escort, but on foot, my boots silent on the stone path, the Book of Bonds cradled in my arms like a child.
It pulsed.
Not with fear.
With anticipation.
The wolves lined the path, their eyes down, their claws retracted. Fae nobles watched from balconies, their faces masked, their eyes sharp. Whispers followed me—like wind through dead leaves.
“She walks alone.”
“No pack. No wolf at her side.”
“They’ll destroy her.”
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t slow.
Just kept walking, my head high, my spine straight, the Book warm against my chest.
And when I reached the Council Chamber, the doors opened before I touched them.
As if the Court itself knew I wasn’t here to beg.
I was here to rule.
—
The chamber was packed.
Not just the Elder. Not just the nobles.
Every seat was filled—fae in gilded robes, vampires with eyes like polished obsidian, witch envoys whose sigils flickered at their wrists, even a few wolf elders from distant packs, their presence a quiet challenge. The air was thick with glamour, with poison, with the scent of old lies.
And in the center—
A dais.
And on it—
A chair.
Not of stone. Not of wood.
Of bone.
Carved from the remains of some ancient beast, its back arched like a spine, its arms ending in claws. A hollow crown sat upon it—twisted silver, glowing with stolen magic.
The Chair of Judgment.
Used only in trials of treason.
And it was meant for me.
The Elder stood at the far end, robed in silver and blue, her long hair gleaming, her face calm, her eyes sharp. She didn’t speak. Just gestured to the dais.
“Blair of the Bloodline,” she said, her voice echoing through the chamber. “You stand accused of misusing the Book of Bonds to strip a noble of his title, his magic, and his house. You are charged with overstepping your authority, inciting unrest, and threatening the balance of power. How do you plead?”
I didn’t move.
Just stood there, the Book in my arms, my voice steady.
“Not guilty.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
“You defied the summons,” a fae noble hissed, rising from his seat. “You bring the Book into this chamber like a weapon. You stand before us unrepentant, unbroken. You are not a judge. You are a threat.”
“And you are a liar,” I said, turning to him. “Lord Vaelen broke the First Law. He bound a woman against her will. He drained her magic. He threatened her family. And when he was called to account, he claimed ignorance. But ignorance is not innocence. It is complicity.”
“The law was not yet ratified!” another noble snapped.
“The truth was,” I said. “And truth doesn’t wait for permission.” I stepped forward, my boots clicking against the stone. “The First Law wasn’t written in ink. It was written in blood. In pain. In centuries of suffering. And when I stood before the Book, it didn’t ask for votes. It didn’t demand consensus. It judged.”
“And who gave you the right?” a vampire elder growled.
“The Contract did,” I said. “The living Contract. The one that remembers. The one that speaks.” I turned to the Book. “And if you doubt me—”
“Then let it speak,” Elara’s voice cut through the chamber.
She stood in the doorway, cloaked in sigils, her silver hair glowing. Riven was behind her, his dark eyes sharp, his silence heavier than any speech.
And behind them—
Kaelen.
Not in the shadows.
Not hidden.
Walking forward, his coat unclasped, his leathers worn soft with use, his golden eyes burning. The pack followed—silent, watchful, their loyalty a wall of muscle and fury.
The chamber erupted.
Nobles rose, shouting, demanding order, demanding violence.
But the Elder raised her hand.
And silence fell.
“They are not here as intruders,” she said, her voice calm. “They are here as witnesses. And if the Book wills it—” she turned to me—“then let it speak.”
I placed my palm on the cover.
The runes flared—white, blinding, pure. The air crackled. The torches dimmed. And then—
Memory.
Not mine.
Not Kaelen’s.
Hers.
The chamber shifted—not in space, but in time. The stone walls blurred, the torches dimmed, the air thickened with the scent of damp earth and old magic. And in the center—
Mira.
She was on her knees, her wrists bound with silver chains, her face pale, her eyes hollow. A blood sigil burned on her chest, pulsing with stolen magic. Lord Vaelen stood over her, a dagger in his hand, his voice smooth as poison.
“You will serve,” he said. “Your magic is mine. Your life is mine. And if you resist—” he pressed the blade to her throat—“I’ll take your sister next.”
She didn’t speak.
Just closed her eyes.
And whispered, “I consent.”
The sigil flared.
The memory faded.
The chamber was silent.
But not the same silence as before.
This one wasn’t heavy with lies.
It was charged.
Like a storm about to break.
“You call that consent?” I asked, my voice low. “You call that law? He held a blade to her family. He gave her no choice. And yet you defend him?”
“The oath was sealed,” a noble said, his voice weak.
“The oath was stolen,” I said. “And the Book didn’t punish him for breaking a rule. It punished him for breaking a soul.”
“And what of you?” another noble challenged. “You strip him of everything. You leave him nothing. Is that justice? Or vengeance?”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned to the Book.
And opened it.
The runes flared—white, blinding, pure. The air crackled. The torches dimmed. And then—
Power.
Not magic. Not memory.
Truth.
The Book didn’t speak.
It showed.
A pulse of light erupted from the pages, not toward me, not toward the pack—but toward them.
It struck each noble in the chest.
One by one.
And then—
They saw it.
Not just Mira’s memory.
Their own.
The lies they’d told. The bonds they’d forced. The magic they’d stolen. The lives they’d broken—all hidden behind masks and titles and ancient laws.
And one by one—
They fell to their knees.
Not in pain.
Not in rage.
In reckoning.
—
The Elder stepped forward, her face pale, her hands trembling.
“Enough,” she whispered. “Enough.”
The light faded.
The memories vanished.
The Book closed.
With a sigh.
Like it was satisfied.
“You were right,” the Elder said, her voice breaking. “The law is not about power. It is about truth. And we have lived in lies for too long.” She turned to the others. “The judgment stands. Lord Vaelen was guilty. Blair of the Bloodline acted justly. And the First Law—” her eyes burned—“is law.”
The chamber was silent.
But not for long.
Then—
A single hand clapped.
Slow.
Deliberate.
From the back.
I turned.
And there—
Stood Cassian.
Not exiled.
Not broken.
Smiling.
“Bravo,” he said, stepping forward, his voice smooth. “A performance worthy of the Court. Truth, justice, the power of love—how moving.” He spread his hands. “And yet, you still don’t see it, do you? The Book doesn’t serve justice. It serves her. And when the next crisis comes—and it will—she will decide who lives. Who dies. Who is free. Who is bound.” He turned to the chamber. “And you will kneel.”
My blood turned to ice.
Because he was right.
Not about the Book.
But about me.
I had become the judge.
And judges hold power.
And power corrupts.
“Then let me be clear,” I said, stepping forward, my voice steady. “I do not want this power. I never did. But I will not let fear rule this world any longer. If you want to test the law, test it. If you want to challenge the Book, challenge it. But know this—” I placed my hand on the cover—“it does not answer to me. It answers to truth. And if your heart is clean, you have nothing to fear.”
Cassian didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “Then let us see how long your heart stays clean, Blair of the Bloodline.”
And he turned and walked away.
—
The journey back to the stronghold was silent.
No words. No celebration. No declarations.
Just the rhythmic clop of the shadow wolves’ hooves against the stone road, the cold wind cutting through the carriage, the Book of Bonds resting between us like a sleeping child. Its cover pulsed faintly, a slow, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. I kept my hand on it, not because I was afraid it would disappear—but because I was afraid it wouldn’t.
Because now, it was real.
The law wasn’t just written.
It was recognized.
And the world would test it.
Kaelen sat across from me, his face unreadable, his golden eyes dark. Riven and Elara were beside him, their silence heavier than any speech. I wanted to reach for him. To touch him. To say something—anything—that would make this feel like a beginning, not an ending.
But I couldn’t.
Because the truth was—
I wasn’t sure I was ready.
I’d come to destroy the Contract.
And instead—
I’d become its judge.
And that changed everything.
—
That night, I dreamed.
Not of the past.
Not of the Contract.
Of the future.
A council chamber—bright, open, filled with light. Wolves, witches, vampires, fae—all seated together, not as enemies, but as equals. And in the center—
Kaelen and me.
Hand in hand. Marked. Claimed. Bound.
But not by force.
By choice.
And beneath us—
The tree.
Stronger now. Brighter. Its roots deeper, its branches wider. And from its trunk—
The law.
Etched in silver, glowing with power.
“No bond shall be forced. No magic shall be stolen. No life shall be bound without consent.”
I woke with tears on my cheeks.
Kaelen was already awake, watching me, his golden eyes burning.
“You dreamed it too,” he said.
I nodded.
“Then it’s not just a law,” he said, pulling me close. “It’s a promise.”
And as the wind howled and the stars burned above us—
I knew.
The Contract was broken.
But our bond?
That was just beginning.