The scream doesn’t come from pain.
Not from fear.
From memory.
It rips through the Council Chamber like a blade through silk—sharp, sudden, wrong—and for a heartbeat, I think it’s the child. That Lyria has slit her throat. That the bond between us has shattered. That the curse has won.
But no.
The scream comes from me.
Not my mouth.
My blood.
It surges—hot, wild, awake—as the sigil on my spine flares, burning like a brand. The bond with Kaelen ignites, not with desire, not with magic, but with something deeper. Something primal. A warning. A call. A truth.
And in that moment, I see it.
Not just the chamber. Not just the enforcers. Not just Lyria with the blade at my sister’s throat.
I see through her.
Through the lies. Through the fear. Through the mask she wears like armor.
She’s not a monster.
She’s a woman who’s been used. Who’s been broken. Who’s been taught that love is power, and power is survival.
And she’s terrified.
“Drop the blade,” I say, my voice low, steady. Not a plea. Not a threat.
A command.
She doesn’t move. Just stares at me, her silver eyes wide, her breath coming fast. The blade trembles against the child’s throat. A thin line of blood beads—crimson, bright—and my stomach twists.
“You don’t want to do this,” I say, stepping forward. “You don’t want to be the one who kills her. You don’t want to be the one who proves them right—that we’re all monsters.”
“You don’t know what I want,” she hisses.
“I know you love Lira,” I say. “I know you’ve been protecting her. Hiding her. Keeping her safe from the Matriarch, from the Council, from him.” I nod at Kaelen. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
Her breath hitches. “You think I trust you?”
“No,” I say. “But you don’t have to. You just have to believe that I’m not the enemy.”
“And what if you are?”
“Then kill me,” I say, stepping closer. “But not her. Not an innocent child. Not someone who’s already lost everything.”
The room is silent. Thick. Heavy. wrong.
Even the enforcers hesitate. Their daggers lower, just a fraction. Their eyes flicker between us, uncertain.
And then—
The child speaks.
Not a cry. Not a whimper.
A name.
“Lyria.”
Soft. Clear. real.
Lyria flinches. Her grip on the blade falters. “Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t make this harder.”
“You’re hurting her,” the child says, her storm-gray eyes wide, unafraid. “You’re afraid. But I’m not. And you don’t have to be.”
Lyria’s breath comes in ragged gasps. Her hand trembles. The blade slips—just a fraction—away from the child’s throat.
And in that moment—
I move.
Not with magic. Not with blood.
With truth.
I step forward—calm, steady—and reach out. Not for the blade. Not for her wrist.
For her hand.
“You’re not alone,” I say, my voice low. “You don’t have to carry this by yourself. Let us help you. Let us protect Lira. Let us protect you.”
She stares at me—really stares—and for the first time, I see it. Not just the enemy. Not just the rival. The woman. The one who’s been used. The one who’s afraid.
And then—
She releases the child.
Shoves her toward me.
And steps back.
“Go,” she says, her voice hollow. “Before I change my mind.”
I don’t move. Just hold the child close, my hand on her forehead, the sigil glowing faint but steady. “You don’t have to do this alone,” I say. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
She doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks away, the Matriarch following.
The chamber is silent.
And then—
Chaos.
The enforcers move—fast, brutal—but Kaelen is faster.
He steps in front of me, his presence a wall of heat and power, his crimson eyes blazing. “Touch her,” he growls, “and you die.”
They freeze.
Lysara doesn’t. She steps forward, her silver eyes cold, her voice like ice. “You think this changes anything? You think saving a child, sparing a traitor, makes you heroes?”
“No,” I say. “But it makes us human.”
“And what are we?” she snaps. “Beasts? Monsters? Tools for your revenge?”
“You’re the Council,” I say. “You’re supposed to be the balance. The justice. The truth. But you’ve let fear rule you. You’ve let lies divide you. You’ve let Veyth manipulate you.”
“And you haven’t?”
“I came here to kill him,” I say, nodding at Kaelen. “But I stayed. I fought. I kissed him. I marked him. Not because I was weak. Not because I was afraid. Because I saw the truth. And the truth is—” I step forward, my storm-gray eyes blazing. “—he didn’t curse my family. Veyth did. And he’s still out there. Still hunting. Still using you to destroy us all.”
“And you expect us to believe you?” Lysara sneers.
“No,” I say. “I expect you to see.”
I press a hand to my neck—the bond-mark, the claim, the truth—and I call to it. Not with words. Not with spells. With memory.
I remember the night of the kiss. The library. The bond flaring. Kaelen’s hand under my shirt, tracing the sigil on my spine. His voice, rough, desperate: *“I want to taste every part of you.”*
I remember the catacombs. The Blood Seal. The curse breaking. Veyth’s form dissolving into blood and shadow.
I remember the child. My sister. Her storm-gray eyes. Her small hand brushing my cheek. *“I knew you’d come.”*
And I remember Lira. Riven’s mate. Her screams in the infirmary. The footage they showed her. The lies they fed her.
And then—
I scream.
Not in pain. Not in fear.
In truth.
My magic erupts—crimson, wild, hers—and the screens flare. Not with the leaked footage. Not with lies.
With truth.
The kiss. But this time, I show it differently. Not as manipulation. Not as seduction. As survival. As the moment the bond became real. As the moment I stopped fighting and started feeling.
The catacombs. The Blood Seal breaking. Veyth’s voice: *“This is not over! The Oath is not broken!”*
The child. My sister. Her voice: *“I knew you’d come.”*
Lira. In the infirmary. Her sobs: *“They said you were monsters.”*
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.
Not scrawled in blood.
Written in light.
“The Oath is broken.”
“But our story?”
“It’s only just begun.”
The chamber is silent.
Not with accusation.
With recognition.
Lysara stares at the screens—really stares—and for the first time, I see it. Not just cold fury. Not just judgment.
Doubt.
“You’re not lying,” she whispers.
“No,” I say. “And neither is she.” I nod toward the infirmary. “Lira. The child. Elise. We’re not pawns. We’re not weapons. We’re people. And we’re fighting for something bigger than revenge. Bigger than power. Bigger than fear.”
“And what is that?” she asks.
“Family,” I say. “Truth. Love.”
She doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks away, the enforcers following.
The chamber is empty.
But not for long.
Kaelen steps beside me, his hand finding mine. “You did it,” he says, his voice rough. “You made them see.”
“Not all of them,” I say. “But enough.”
“And what now?” Riven asks, shifting the child in his arms.
“Now,” I say, looking at the screens, at the words glowing in light, “we call the War Council.”
“You can’t,” he says. “Only the High Priestess can—”
“Then I’ll make her,” I say. “Or I’ll call it myself.”
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 Grand Hall—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 Grand Hall is full.
Every seat occupied. Every eye blazing. Fae nobles. Witch enforcers. Vampire elders. Werewolf alphas. All of them—robes billowing, daggers drawn, voices rising in a chorus of accusation. At the head of the table—High Priestess Lysara, her silver eyes cold, her hands resting on the back of the empty High Chair. To her right—Lyria, her silver hair loose, her lips cracked, her gaze locked on Riven’s mate. To her left—
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.