The scream doesn’t come from me.
It comes from the human woman—Riven’s mate. Her name is Lira, I learn later. She’s in the infirmary, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the healers work to stabilize her. The dungeons did a number on her—malnourishment, old wounds, the lingering effects of Fae glamour—but it’s not the physical damage that has her screaming.
It’s the memories.
“They kept me in the dark,” she whispers between sobs, her fingers clutching Riven’s hand like a lifeline. “No light. No sound. Just… silence. And then—” Her voice cracks. “Then they’d play the footage. Over and over. Your kiss. The bond. The child. They said… they said you were monsters.”
Riven doesn’t flinch. Just pulls her closer, his storm-gray eyes burning with something I’ve never seen before—grief. “They lied,” he says, his voice low, rough. “We’re not monsters. We’re fighting.”
“And what if I’m not strong enough?” she asks, tears streaming down her face. “What if I break? What if I give them something?”
“You won’t,” I say, stepping forward. “Because you’re not alone anymore.”
She looks at me—really looks—and for the first time, I see it. Not just fear. Not just pain.
Hope.
I press a hand to her forehead, feeling the faint pulse of magic beneath her skin. The sigil on my spine burns—alive, awake, answering—and I know, deep in my bones, that she’s not just a human. She’s a conduit. A vessel. And Veyth knows it.
“They’re coming,” I say, turning to Kaelen. “Not just the Matriarch. Not just Lyria. He’s coming.”
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate. Just nods. “Then we meet him on our terms.”
“And what terms are those?” Riven asks, his voice tight. “We’re outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. The Council’s fractured. The courts are turning against us. Even the witches—your own people—are calling you a traitor.”
“Then we make them see the truth,” I say, my voice steady. “We show them the child. We show them Lira. We show them the bond. We show them us.”
“And if they don’t believe you?”
“Then we fight.”
Kaelen steps beside me, his presence a wall of heat and power. “And if they try to take her,” he says, nodding toward the child, “they die.”
“You can’t protect her forever,” Riven snaps. “She’s not just your responsibility. She’s not just Brielle’s. She’s ours.”
“And she’ll be safe,” I say. “Because we’re not running. We’re not hiding. We’re not waiting for them to come for us. We’re taking the fight to them.”
“How?” Lira whispers.
I turn to her. “By calling a War Council.”
The silence is thick. Heavy. wrong.
“You can’t do that,” Riven says. “Only the High Priestess can call a Council.”
“Then I’ll make her,” I say. “Or I’ll call it myself.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then we make them listen.”
Kaelen studies me—his crimson eyes burning, his jaw tight—and then, slowly, he nods. “All right. But you don’t go alone.”
“I never do,” I say, gripping his hand.
We move fast. Silent. The fortress is still—too still—but I can feel it. The tension. The fear. The way the air hums with unspoken threats. We’re not safe. Not here. Not anywhere under this roof.
We reach the Council Chamber—its obsidian doors sealed, its runes glowing faintly—and I don’t knock. I don’t wait.
I break it.
My palm slams against the sigil, and I speak the words—low, steady, in the language of my mother’s coven.
“Sanguis vinculum, sanguis veritas. Frangere non potest, nisi per cor.”
Blood binds. Blood reveals. It cannot be broken—unless through the heart.
The sigil shatters. Not cracks. Not fades.
Shatters.
Like glass. Like lies. Like the illusion they’ve built around us.
The doors burst inward with a crack of splintering wood, and we step through—silent, steady, unbroken.
The chamber is empty.
No Council. No elders. No nobles. Just silence. Thick. Heavy. wrong.
And then—
Light.
Cold. Silver. Fae.
It floods the chamber from the far end, casting long, jagged shadows. And there—
High Priestess Lysara.
She stands there—tall, silver-eyed, her gown shimmering with woven light—her presence a wall of cold fury. Behind her, a dozen enforcers, their daggers drawn, their eyes blazing with accusation. At her side—
Lyria.
Her silver hair is loose, her lips cracked, her gaze locked on Riven. And behind her—
The Crimson Matriarch.
Her crimson eyes burn into mine, her lips curled in a smile. “You shouldn’t have come,” she says, her voice smooth, velvet over steel. “This is not your battle. This is not your war.”
I don’t stop. Just stride forward, my storm-gray eyes blazing. “It is now. And you don’t get to decide who fights.”
“You think you can walk in here,” Lysara says, stepping down from the dais, “after everything? After the leak? After the kiss? After the blood?”
“I didn’t come to ask permission,” I say. “I came to call a War Council.”
“A War Council?” Lyria sneers. “You’re not even a member of the Council. You’re not even a full-blooded witch. You’re a nobody.”
“And you’re a liar,” I snap. “You’re not protecting Lira. You’re using her. Just like the Matriarch used Elise. Just like Veyth used you.”
Her breath hitches.
“You love her,” I say, nodding toward the infirmary. “And you’re afraid. Afraid that if the Matriarch finds out, she’ll kill her. Afraid that if the Council finds out, they’ll use her. Afraid that if he finds out—” I nod at Kaelen—“he’ll take her away.”
She doesn’t move. Just stares at me—really stares—and for the first time, I see it. Not just hatred. Not just jealousy.
Fear.
“And you’re not?” Lysara asks, stepping forward. “You’re not afraid of what he’ll do? Of what he’ll become? Of what you’ll become?”
“I’m not afraid,” I say. “Because I’m not fighting for power. I’m not fighting for revenge. I’m fighting for her.”
I step aside—just enough to reveal the child.
And the room goes still.
Not silent.
Wrong.
Like the air before a storm breaks.
Lysara’s gaze locks onto the sigil on the child’s forehead—pulsing, faint but steady. Her breath hitches. “Who is she?”
“My sister,” I say, my voice steady. “Half-blood. Half-witch. Hidden from the world. From you.”
“And you expect us to believe that?” Lyria whispers. “After everything?”
“You don’t have to believe me.” I step forward, my hands clenched at my sides. “But if you leave her here, Veyth wins. And he’ll come for you next.”
“She’s lying,” the Matriarch growls. “It’s a glamour. A distraction.”
“Or it’s the truth,” I say, my voice trembling. “What if she’s telling the truth? What if she was used, just like me?”
“She’s not like you,” Lysara says, stepping forward. “She’s a liability. A mistake. And if you don’t end this farce, we will.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snap, stepping between them and the child. “She’s not a pawn. She’s not a weapon. She’s family.”
“And you’re a traitor,” Lyria says, her voice cold. “You came here to kill him. But you stayed. You fought him. You kissed him. You marked him. And now, you’re standing here, ready to save the woman who tried to destroy you.”
My breath catches.
“Why?” she asks. “Because you’re afraid? Because you’re guilty? Because you’re starting to believe—”
“Enough,” I snarl.
But she doesn’t stop.
“You’re stronger than this,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re not just a weapon. You’re not just a pawn. You’re the key to the curse. And if you let her manipulate you, if you let your fear control you, then Veyth wins.”
I stare at her, my chest heaving, my eyes wide. And then—
She turns.
She walks to the far end of the chamber, her steps steady, her gaze locked on the screens. “If I let you out,” she says, voice low, “you’ll betray me. You’ll go back to him. You’ll try to break us again.”
The child doesn’t move. Just lies there, shivering, her breath shallow.
Lyria lifts her chin. “I won’t.”
And in that moment—
She moves.
Fast. Brutal. Inhuman.
Her hand flashes up, grabbing the child’s wrist, twisting her arm. In one fluid motion, she spins, pressing the blade to the child’s throat.
“Drop your weapons,” she snarls. “Or I’ll slit her throat.”
The room freezes.
And then—
Chaos.
I lunge—fast, desperate—but the enforcers grab me, holding me back, their grip iron. Riven shifts—bones cracking, muscles twisting—but two elders tackle him, pinning him to the stone. The High Priestess doesn’t move. Just watches—cold, calculating, her silver eyes sharp.
And Lyria—
She smiles.
“Now,” she whispers.
And then—
She speaks.
Not to me.
Not to the Council.
To the screens.
“The world will see the truth,” she says, her voice clear, strong. “The witch who tried to kill the prince. The child she hides. The curse she carries. And the bond that will destroy us all.”
The footage shifts.
Not just the kiss.
New scenes.
Kaelen feeding from me in the catacombs. Me carving the sigil on his chest. Us running through the corridors, the bond flaring, the curse pulsing between us like a second heartbeat.
And then—
The final frame.
Me, standing over the child, my hand on her forehead, the sigil glowing—crimson, violent, alive—as I whisper, “I’ve got you.”
And beneath it—
Text.
Scrawled in blood:
“The Oath is not broken.”
“It has only just begun.”
My breath stops.
Because I know.
This isn’t just a leak.
It’s a declaration of war.
And the worst part?
It’s not Veyth who sent it.
It’s her.
Lyria.
And she’s not alone.
Because standing behind her—
In the shadows—
Is the Crimson Matriarch.
Her crimson eyes burn into mine, her lips curled in a smile.
And in that moment—
I know one thing for certain.
They’re not just fighting Veyth.
They’re fighting themselves.
And if they don’t win—
None of us will survive.