The scream echoes through the Summer Court’s marble halls—sharp, raw, human—and the moment it hits, I know.
This isn’t fear.
It’s blood.
I spin, pulling Brielle behind me, my fangs lengthening, my vision sharpening. The crowd parts like water, nobles stumbling back, their perfect masks slipping into panic. The scent hits me before I see it—iron, salt, terror—but beneath it, something darker. Older. Wrong.
Not just death.
Sacrifice.
I don’t wait. I don’t hesitate. I grip Brielle’s hand and run—fast, silent, a blur of shadow and fang—toward the east wing, where the scream came from. The ceremonial daggers are gone, discarded the moment the kiss ended, but my body is a weapon, my blood a blade. And she—
She keeps pace.
Not behind me.
Beside me.
Her breath is steady, her steps sure, her hand locked in mine like a vow. The bond hums between us—low, deep, alive—but it’s different now. Not just magic. Not just desire.
Warning.
We turn a corner, and there—
Chaos.
The corridor is a slaughterhouse. Bodies—human servants, fae guards—slumped against the walls, throats torn out, eyes wide with terror. Blood pools thick on the marble, reflecting the flickering torchlight like liquid shadow. And at the center, a figure—hooded, cloaked, their hands dripping crimson—standing over a fallen enforcer, carving something into the stone with a bone dagger.
A sigil.
Interlocking spirals. Two serpents, fangs bared.
Veyth’s mark.
My blood runs cold.
But it’s not the sigil that makes my breath stop.
It’s the scent.
Not just blood.
Hers.
Amber. Iron. Wild.
Brielle’s.
I turn—just slightly—and see it.
A trail.
Thin, almost invisible, but there—drops of blood leading down the corridor, toward the lower levels. Toward the catacombs.
And she sees it too.
Her breath hitches. Her fingers tighten in mine. “They’re using my blood.”
“They’re trying to draw us in,” I growl. “It’s a trap.”
“Then we spring it.”
My eyes snap to hers. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do.” She lifts her chin, her storm-gray eyes blazing. “Because if they’re using my blood, they’re using the curse. And if they’re using the curse—”
“—they’ll destroy everything.” I grip her wrist, pulling her close. “And you’ll be the first to burn.”
“Then stay with me.” Her hand finds my chest, her fingers brushing the sigil I wear—the one she carved with her blood. “Or don’t. But I’m going.”
I stare at her—really stare—and for the first time, I see it.
Not just the warrior.
Not just the weapon.
But the woman.
The one who kissed me in front of the court.
The one who claimed me.
The one who’s not afraid to die.
And in that moment, I know—
I can’t stop her.
So I follow.
We descend—fast, silent, weapons drawn—into the catacombs beneath the Summer Court. The air grows colder, the walls slick with damp, the torches flickering like dying stars. The scent of blood is stronger here—thicker, older, layered with magic. And the sigil—Veyth’s mark—carved into the stone at every turn, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat.
And then—
We hear it.
Voices.
Low. Murmuring. Chanting.
From a chamber ahead—its door ajar, light spilling into the corridor. I signal Brielle to stay back, but she ignores me, stepping forward, her dagger in hand, her breath steady. I don’t stop her. Just move beside her, my body a wall of heat and power.
We peer inside.
The chamber is circular, its walls lined with ancient runes, its floor stained dark with centuries of ritual. At the center, a stone altar—cracked, scorched, its surface etched with the same spiral sigil. And around it—
Five figures.
Hooded. Cloaked. Their hands raised, their voices chanting in a language older than blood. On the altar—
A body.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Bound in chains, their chest rising and falling, their mouth open in a silent scream. And on their forehead—
A sigil.
Carved in blood.
The same as the one on Brielle’s spine.
My breath stops.
She sees it too.
“It’s a conduit,” she whispers. “They’re using her to channel the curse.”
“Then we stop it.”
“How?”
“By breaking the circle.”
She doesn’t argue. Just nods, her jaw tight, her eyes sharp.
We move fast—silent, precise—flanking the chamber, closing in. I signal with my fingers—three… two… one—and then—
We strike.
I go for the nearest one—fast, brutal, a blur of shadow and fang. My dagger slices through their throat before they can scream, their blood spraying the runes. Brielle takes the one opposite—her movement fluid, deadly, her dagger finding the gap in their robes, piercing their heart. The third turns—too slow—and I’m on him, my fangs buried in his neck, draining him in seconds.
But the fourth—
He’s ready.
He throws a vial—crimson liquid shattering on the stone, igniting into a wall of fire that separates us. Brielle stumbles back, coughing, her eyes watering. The fifth raises a hand—chanting louder, faster—and the sigil on the altar ignites.
Red. Violent. Alive.
The bound figure screams—real this time, raw, agonizing—and the curse surges.
Not just in the chamber.
Through the bond.
Through me.
I feel it—like a wire snapping, like a storm breaking, like the world itself tearing apart. The magic coils low in my stomach, hot and wild, and I know—
If we don’t stop this now—
It will consume her.
I lunge through the fire—my coat burning, my skin blistering—but I don’t stop. I can’t. I drive my dagger into the fifth’s chest, silencing the chant, shattering the spell. The fire dies. The sigil fades. The bound figure collapses, unconscious but alive.
Brielle is at my side in an instant, her hands on my shoulders, her breath coming fast. “You’re burned.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Her fingers brush my coat, where the flames ate through the fabric, revealing angry red welts beneath. “You need blood.”
“Not now.” I turn to the altar, scanning the runes. “We need to destroy the sigil. Permanently.”
She doesn’t argue. Just pulls a vial from her belt—witch’s fire, volatile, dangerous—and hurls it at the altar. The stone explodes, the sigil cracking, the magic unraveling. The chamber trembles. Dust rains from the ceiling.
And then—
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Wrong.
We both freeze.
Because we feel it.
Not just the absence of magic.
But the presence of something else.
Something watching.
I turn—slow, deliberate—and there, in the shadows—
A figure.
Tall. Cloaked. Hooded.
But I know the stance. The aura. The *scent*.
Veyth.
My fangs lengthen. My blood flares. “You’re not welcome here.”
He doesn’t speak. Just raises a hand.
And the world explodes.
Not with fire. Not with force.
With sound.
A scream—high, piercing, inhuman—rips through the chamber, shaking the stone, rattling my bones. I drop to one knee, hands over my ears, my wolf instincts screaming to flee. Brielle stumbles, her hands flying to her head, her face twisted in pain.
And then—
He moves.
Fast. Brutal. Inhuman.
He lunges—not at me.
At her.
I roar, pushing to my feet, but I’m too slow. He grabs her by the throat, lifting her off the ground, his other hand flashing with a dagger—black stone, etched with winter sigils. He presses it to her chest, right over her heart.
“Drop your weapons,” he hisses, “or I’ll spill her blood on the altar.”
I freeze.
My dagger clatters to the stone.
“Kaelen,” she gasps, her fingers clawing at his wrist. “Don’t—”
“Quiet,” he snarls, pressing the blade harder. A thin line of blood blooms.
My breath stops.
“You think you’ve won?” Veyth sneers, his voice like ice. “You think you’ve stopped me? The curse is awake. The Oath is not broken. And she—” he tightens his grip, making her gasp—“she is the key.”
“Then take me,” I say, voice low, controlled. “Let her go. Take me instead.”
He laughs—sharp, mocking. “You’re not the key. You’re the lock. And she—” his eyes flick to Brielle—“is the blade that will turn it.”
“Then kill me,” I growl. “But know this—if you touch her again, I’ll burn your world to ash.”
“You can’t,” he says. “You’re bound by the bond. By the curse. By your own weakness.”
“Am I?” I take a step forward. “Then test me.”
He hesitates.
Just for a heartbeat.
And that’s all I need.
I move—fast, feral, a blur of shadow and fang—and tackle him. We crash to the stone, a whirlwind of violence, his dagger scraping my ribs, my fangs finding his shoulder. He roars, throwing me off, but I’m already rising, my body a weapon, my blood a blade.
But he’s ready.
He raises his hand—chanting—and the sigil on the cracked altar ignites.
Not red.
Black.
And then—
Shadows.
Not just darkness.
Hands.
They rise from the stone—skeletal, clawed, their fingers grasping, pulling, dragging. One wraps around Brielle’s ankle, yanking her off her feet. Another snakes toward me, but I slash it with my dagger, the shadow screaming as it dissipates.
But there are too many.
They swarm—grabbing, pulling, dragging us toward the altar. Brielle fights—kicking, slashing, screaming—but the shadows are relentless. One wraps around her throat, cutting off her breath. Another pins my arms, forcing me to my knees.
And then—
Veyth stands over the altar, his dagger raised, his voice chanting in a language older than blood. The shadows lift Brielle—her body limp, her eyes wide, her breath shallow—and place her on the stone.
“No!” I roar, struggling against the shadows. “Let her go!”
He ignores me. Just presses the dagger to her chest—right over her heart—and begins to carve.
Not a sigil.
A name.
Her mother’s.
And then—
She screams.
Not from pain.
From power.
Her body arches. Her eyes roll back. Her magic erupts—crimson, violent, alive—and the shadows scream as they burn away. The altar cracks. The runes shatter. And Veyth—
He stumbles back, his dagger clattering to the stone.
She rises—slow, deliberate—her body glowing with raw, uncontrolled magic. The sigil on her spine pulses—crimson, erratic, wrong—and the air around her hums with power.
“You don’t get to use her,” I growl, breaking free of the last shadow. “She’s not your weapon.”
“She’s not yours either,” Veyth snarls.
And then—
He lunges.
Not at her.
At me.
His dagger flashes—black stone, winter sigils—and I don’t dodge. I can’t. It sinks into my chest—right over my heart.
And then—
Darkness.
Not death.
But something worse.
The bond shatters.
Not just between us.
Inside me.
I feel it—like a wire snapping, like a storm breaking, like the world itself tearing apart. The curse isn’t just awake.
It’s free.
And it’s hungry.
I collapse—my body heavy, my breath shallow, my vision swimming. The dagger is still in my chest, the black stone pulsing, draining me. I can’t move. Can’t fight. Can’t breathe.
And then—
She’s there.
Brielle.
Kneeling beside me, her hands on my face, her eyes wide, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Kaelen. Look at me. *Look at me*.”
I try. But my vision is blurred. My body is numb. My blood is cold.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” she whispers, tears burning in her eyes. “Not after everything. Not after the kiss. Not after the mark. Not after—”
She stops.
And then—
She does something I don’t expect.
She leans down.
And bites me.
Not on the neck.
On the chest.
Right over the dagger.
Her fangs sink into my skin, her mouth sealing around the wound, and she feeds.
Not to drain.
To heal.
Her magic floods me—crimson, wild, hers—and the bond ignites. Not broken. Not severed.
Reborn.
I gasp—my body arching, my fangs lengthening, my vision clearing. The dagger crumbles—black stone turning to ash—and the curse—
It recoils.
Not from her.
From us.
She pulls back, her lips stained with my blood, her eyes blazing. “You’re not dying on me,” she growls. “Not today. Not ever.”
I don’t speak.
Just pull her into my arms, holding her against my chest, my heartbeat steady, powerful, alive.
And then—
Veyth is gone.
Like smoke. Like shadow. Like a dream.
Leaving only silence.
And a shattered altar.
And a woman holding me like I’m the only truth in a world of lies.
I press my forehead to hers, my breath mingling with hers. “Why?” I whisper. “Why did you save me?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle.
Desperate.
Hard.
Claiming.
And in that moment, I know—
She’s not here to kill me.
She’s here to save me.
And I’m not letting her go.
The fortress is quiet now—too quiet. The battle is over. The sigil is destroyed. The conduit is safe. But the silence isn’t peace. It’s the calm before the storm.
We stand at the edge of the catacombs, her hand in mine, the bond humming between us—low, deep, alive. The scent of blood still clings to the air, but beneath it—something else.
Hope.
And then—
She whispers, “I need to find her.”
“The child?”
She nods. “Maeve’s last words. *Find her before they do.*”
I don’t hesitate. “Then we find her.”
“Together?”
“Always.” I squeeze her hand. “Because I can’t live without you.”
And as we walk back through the corridors, the fortress trembling with unseen threat, the curse pulsing between us like a second heartbeat—
I know one thing for certain.
She came here to kill me.
But she’ll leave with something else.
Something neither of us expected.
And if I have my way—
She’ll never leave at all.