The Keep feels different now—like the air itself has been rewritten. Thicker. Charged. Every shadow seems to pulse with Malrik’s presence, every flicker of torchlight a warning. Since the second guard was found with my sigil burned into his chest, the tension has coiled tighter than ever. But this time, it’s not just suspicion that follows me through the halls.
It’s something worse.
Belief.
Lysander believes me.
Not because I convinced him. Not because I proved it with logic or evidence—though the forged report from the archives, signed in his name but written in Malrik’s hand, helped. No. He believes me because he *felt* it. In the bond. In the way my magic flared when I saw Mira’s body. In the way I didn’t run, didn’t fight, didn’t lie when the world turned against me.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because if he believes me… then I have to believe *him*.
And if I believe him, then everything changes.
The mission. The vengeance. The fire that’s burned in my chest for ten years.
It all starts to crumble.
I sit at the desk in my chambers, Mira’s locket in my hand, cold and heavy. I press it to my chest, as if I could bring her back, as if I could undo the past. But I can’t. All I can do is fight. And the only weapon I have left is the truth.
And I found it.
Last night, while the Keep slept and the guards changed shifts, I slipped into the archives. Not through the main entrance—Kael doubled the patrols after the second murder—but through the old servant’s passage, a narrow tunnel behind the library wall, half-collapsed and forgotten. Dust choked the air, and the scent of mildew clung to the stone, but I moved fast, silent, guided by memory and magic.
My mother’s journal led me here. In her final entries, she wrote of a sigil—not the Hollow mark, but an older one, buried beneath the coven’s ancestral bloodline. A seal of binding. A curse. And Malrik’s name was etched beside it, written in a hand I now recognize as his.
I found it in the restricted section, hidden behind a false panel in the oldest archive chest. A single page, brittle with age, ink faded to brown. The sigil glowed faintly when I touched it, pulsing like a heartbeat. Not Hollow magic. Not fully. It was twisted. Tainted. Fae rot woven into the lines, the same corruption as the marks on the guards’ chests.
But this one was different.
This one was *active*.
And it wasn’t just a frame.
It was a *trap*.
A blood curse, designed to feed on fated bonds, to twist them, to turn mate against mate. To make us destroy each other.
And it was tied to *us*.
Not just to me. Not just to Lysander.
To the bond between us.
My hands tremble as I trace the edge of the locket. I haven’t told him. Haven’t shown him the sigil. Haven’t even spoken of it. Because if I do, if I give him this truth, he’ll act. He’ll hunt. He’ll burn the Keep to the ground to destroy Malrik.
And that’s exactly what Malrik wants.
He’s not just trying to frame me.
He’s trying to *break* the bond. To make Lysander turn on me. To make me doubt him. To make us destroy each other from within.
And if I tell Lysander what I found…
I hand Malrik his victory.
A knock.
I start, shoving the locket into the drawer, covering it with a stack of parchment. “Enter.”
The door opens.
Lysander.
He fills the doorway, dressed in black leather, his coat unbuttoned, revealing the hard lines of his chest beneath a thin gray shirt. His gold eyes lock onto mine, and something dark flickers in their depths—need, recognition, a predator’s patience.
“You’re up late,” he says.
“I don’t sleep,” I say, lifting my chin. “Not since Mira.”
He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks. “You should. You’re running on fumes. Grief. Rage. The bond is pulling at you. I can *feel* it.”
“And what if I don’t want to stop?” I challenge. “What if I want to burn?”
“Then you’ll burn out.” He crosses the room, stopping just short of me. “And Malrik wins.”
My breath catches.
He’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he says, voice low. “You think I don’t *feel* it? Every time you use magic, the bond screams. Every time you hide something, it *aches*. You’re not just defying me. You’re defying *us*.”
“Maybe I don’t want *us*,” I say, stepping back.
“Too late.” He reaches out, slow, and lifts my wrist. The sigil pulses beneath his fingers, warm, alive. “This mark—it’s tied to your blood. To your pain. To your *pleasure*. And right now, it’s *afraid*.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t know what it means,” I whisper.
“Then tell me.”
I pull my hand back, but my eyes stay on his. “It’s a bloodline seal. Passed down through the Hollow women. It binds our magic to our blood. To our oaths.”
“And what oath are you hiding?”
“You want to rule. I want to ruin you.”
“And yet here we are.” He steps behind me, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Trapped. Together. Bound.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.” He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “But this? This is *fate*.”
I shiver.
But I don’t move away.
And for the first time, I let myself hope.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
—
The next morning, I return to the archives.
Not through the servant’s passage this time. Through the front. Brazen. Defiant. Let them watch. Let them whisper. Let Malrik see me walk in like I belong here.
Because I do.
This is my history. My blood. My curse.
The sigil is still there, hidden behind the false panel. I pull it out, my fingers trembling as I unroll the brittle parchment. The ink glows faintly, the lines shifting like smoke. I press my thumb to the center, letting a drop of blood fall.
The sigil flares.
Not with fire.
With *memory*.
Images flood my mind—my mother, young, fierce, her dark hair wild, her eyes blazing with power. She’s in a circle of witches, chanting, blood dripping from their palms. The sigil burns in the center of the floor, pulsing with dark light. And then—Malrik. Tall, silver-haired, smiling like a serpent. He steps forward, hands raised, and the sigil twists, corrupts, turns black.
“You cannot bind me,” he says, voice smooth. “I am of your blood. I am of your line. And I will *break* your magic.”
My mother screams.
The vision ends.
I gasp, stumbling back, my heart hammering. Sweat slicks my palms. The sigil pulses, still active, still hungry.
It’s not just a curse.
It’s a *claim*.
Malrik used it to sever the Hollow bloodline. To corrupt our magic. To ensure that no true heir could rise.
And now—
Now he’s using it against *us*.
Against the bond.
I roll the parchment, tuck it into my sleeve. I won’t destroy it. Not yet. I need proof. I need leverage. I need to know how deep the rot goes.
“Find anything interesting?”
I freeze.
The voice is smooth. Cold. Familiar.
I turn.
Malrik stands in the doorway, dressed in silver-threaded robes, his smile sharp as a blade. Fae nobility at its most polished. Deceit wrapped in silk.
“Just catching up on family history,” I say, voice steady.
He steps inside, his boots silent on stone. “How touching. You always were sentimental, Circe. Like your mother.”
My magic flares.
“Don’t speak of her.”
“Why not?” He tilts his head. “She was weak. She trusted the wrong people. She believed in bonds, in love, in *fate*. And look where it got her.”
“You killed her.”
“I set her free.” He smiles. “From her mistakes. From her bloodline. From *you*.”
“And now you’re trying to destroy me.”
“No.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m trying to *save* you. From him. From the bond. From the fire that will consume you both.”
“I don’t need saving.”
“Oh, but you do.” His hand brushes my cheek, cold as ice. “Because if you don’t break the bond… it will break *you*.”
I slap his hand away.
“Don’t touch me.”
He laughs, low and dark. “You think Lysander loves you? You think he *trusts* you? He’s using you. Just like I used your mother. Just like he used Elara. Men like him don’t love. They *claim*.”
“And you?” I challenge. “You don’t love either. You *destroy*.”
“Only what must be destroyed.” He turns to leave. “But you… you could be so much more. If you’d just let go of your hate. Your vengeance. Your *bond*.”
“I’ll never let go.”
He pauses at the door. “Then you’ll burn with him.”
He leaves.
I stand there, trembling, the sigil burning in my sleeve.
He’s afraid.
Not of me.
Of what I know.
Of what I’ll do.
—
I find Lysander in the war room, maps spread across the table, Kael at his side. The air is thick with tension, the scent of ink and iron and something darker—fear.
“You’re back,” he says, not looking up.
“I was in the archives,” I say, stepping forward. “I found something.”
He finally looks at me. “What?”
“A sigil. Older than the Hollow mark. Corrupted. Tainted with Fae rot.” I pull the parchment from my sleeve, unroll it slowly. “It’s a blood curse. Designed to feed on fated bonds. To twist them. To turn mate against mate.”
His eyes narrow. “And you’re sure it’s Malrik’s?”
“I saw it. In a vision. He used it to sever our bloodline. To corrupt our magic.” I meet his gaze. “And now he’s using it against *us*.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at the sigil, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Then—
He reaches out.
His fingers brush the parchment.
And the sigil *screams*.
Not aloud.
Through the bond.
A jolt of pain rips through me, sharp and blinding. My knees buckle. I gasp, clutching my chest as the magic flares, feeding on the bond, on his touch, on the truth.
Lysander staggers back, his face pale, his breath coming fast. “It’s *alive*,” he whispers. “It’s feeding on us.”
“Yes,” I say, voice trembling. “And if we don’t break it… it will destroy us.”
He looks at me, gold eyes blazing. “Then we break it.”
“How?”
“By doing the one thing he doesn’t expect.” He steps forward, cupping my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “By trusting each other.”
My breath catches.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
But for the first time, I don’t fight it.
“Then help me,” I whisper. “Help me burn it down.”
He leans in, his lips brushing mine. “Together.”
The bond flares, not with pain.
With *power*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just a bond.
Maybe it’s a weapon.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re strong enough to wield it.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.