The first light of dawn bleeds through the stone slits of the barracks, thin and gray like diluted blood. I’ve been awake for hours, lying in the silence of my quarters, listening to the distant howl of wolves beyond the Keep’s walls. Not a warning. Not a challenge. But a mourning cry—long, low, aching. It matches the hollow thrum beneath my ribs.
The bond.
Even from here, even across the stone and shadow that separate me from the royal wing, I can feel it—pulsing, raw, alive. Not just between Lysander and Circe. It’s in the air, in the blood of the pack, in the very pulse of the Keep. It hums beneath my skin, a second heartbeat, a whisper of something older, deeper. Fated. Unbreakable.
And it’s changing him.
I’ve served under Lysander for fifteen years. Fought beside him. Bled for him. Watched him rule with iron, bury his grief beneath duty and dominance. For ten years, he was a ghost—cold, controlled, untouchable. The Alpha. The King. The man who never flinched, never faltered, never *felt*.
And then she walked in.
Circe.
And everything cracked.
She’s not just a witch. Not just a spy. Not just a weapon aimed at his throat.
She’s his mate.
And for the first time since Elara died, he’s *alive*.
But that’s not what worries me.
It’s the way he looks at her. The way his voice drops when she speaks. The way his wolf stills when she’s near, not in threat—but in *recognition*.
He’s not just feeling.
He’s *falling*.
And if she betrays him…
He won’t survive it.
Not again.
A knock at the door.
“Enter,” I say, sitting up fast, heart hammering.
The door opens. Not a guard. Not a messenger.
Nyx.
She slips inside, her curves wrapped in silk the color of midnight, her lips painted blood-red, her eyes lined with kohl. And around her neck—
Nothing.
The bite mark is gone. Healed. Erased.
But the memory isn’t.
She closes the door behind her, locks it. “You’ve seen it,” she says, voice low. “The way he looks at her. The way he *touches* her.”
“I’ve seen a lot of things,” I say, standing. “None of them your business.”
She laughs, low and throaty. “Oh, but it is. Because if he falls for her, if he lets her in, Malrik wins. And then *we* all lose.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough.” She steps closer, her scent—jasmine and deceit—wrapping around me. “Malrik’s been watching. He’s been waiting. And now, he’s moving. He’s not just framing her. He’s using her. To break the bond. To turn Lysander against her. To destroy them both.”
My jaw clenches. “And why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t want him dead.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I want him *free*. From grief. From guilt. From the past. And right now, the only one who can give him that… is her.”
I stare at her.
She’s not lying.
Not entirely.
She wants Lysander. Always has. But not like this. Not broken. Not destroyed. She wants him *whole*.
And so do I.
“Then help me,” I say. “Not with schemes. Not with seduction. With truth.”
She hesitates. Then nods. “There’s a sigil. Hidden in the archives. Older than the Hollow mark. Corrupted. It’s a blood curse—designed to feed on fated bonds. To twist them. To turn mate against mate.”
My blood runs cold.
“And you know where it is?”
“I know *of* it.” She pulls a folded parchment from her sleeve, hands it to me. “Malrik’s bloodline. Traced back three generations. The sigil’s tied to it. But it’s not just a curse. It’s a *claim*. A way to sever the bond. To break them apart.”
I take it, my fingers trembling. “Why give this to me?”
“Because if you don’t stop him,” she says, voice low, “no one will.”
She leaves.
I stand there, staring at the door.
The parchment in my hand feels like fire.
Because if she’s right…
Then we’re all running out of time.
—
The war room is quiet when I arrive.
Maps are spread across the table, ink-stained, edges frayed. The scent of bloodwine lingers in the air, sharp and metallic. Lysander stands at the far end, his back to me, hands braced on the table. His coat is gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones, the faint scar across his throat. His gold eyes lift as I enter, and something dark flickers in their depths.
Not anger.
Not suspicion.
“You’re up early,” he says, voice rough.
“So are you,” I reply, stepping forward. “You didn’t sleep.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at the map—Lyon, Prague, Edinburgh, the hidden cities of the supernaturals. The Tribunal’s reach. Our war.
“Circe was in the archives last night,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “She found something. A sigil. Older than the Hollow mark. Corrupted.”
His head snaps up. “And you didn’t stop her?”
“She’s not a prisoner,” I say. “And she’s not a threat. Not to us. Not to the bond.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I pull the parchment from my sleeve, unfold it slowly. “Because I have proof. From Nyx.”
He stiffens. “Nyx? Why would she—”
“Because she’s afraid,” I say, cutting him off. “Afraid of what Malrik’s doing. Afraid of what he’ll do if the bond breaks. And she’s not wrong.”
He studies me. “You trust her?”
“No.” I meet his gaze. “But I trust *you*. And I trust *her*.”
“Circe?”
“Yes.” I step closer. “You’ve seen it. The way she grieves. The way she fights. The way she doesn’t run. She’s not here to destroy you, Lysander. She’s here to *save* you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at the parchment, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Then—
He reaches out.
His fingers brush the ink.
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, his voice dropping to a growl. “By trusting each other.”
My breath catches.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I say, voice rough. “You’re not alone anymore.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at the sigil, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Then—
He turns to the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To her.”
“Lysander—”
“She’s not the enemy,” he says, not looking back. “And if I don’t start acting like I believe that… then I am.”
He leaves.
I stand there, watching the door.
And for the first time in ten years—
I let myself hope.
That maybe—just maybe—she’s not the enemy.
Maybe she’s the only one who can save him.
From himself.
From the past.
From the fire that’s been burning inside him since the night he lost everything.
—
Later, in the training yard, I spar with two of the younger wolves—fast, coordinated, testing their reflexes, their discipline. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and something deeper—fear. The pack feels it. The bond is fraying. The Alpha is distracted. The King is vulnerable.
And they’re afraid.
I land a brutal twist on the third, sending him to his knees. “Again,” I growl. “Faster.”
They rise, circling.
Then—
A whisper.
Not from them.
From the *bond*.
A pulse of magic, sharp and sudden, rips through us all. The wolves stumble, clutching their heads. I drop to one knee, my vision blurring, my chest tightening.
Not pain.
Power.
Pure, unfiltered.
And it’s coming from the royal wing.
I rise fast, boots striking stone. The yard falls silent behind me as I move, silent, deadly, my magic flaring at my fingertips. By the time I reach her chambers, the door is already open.
Lysander is inside.
Circe is on the bed.
They’re not fighting.
They’re not touching.
But the bond—
It’s *alive*.
Golden and black, swirling like storm and midnight, merging into a single, pulsing spiral. The runes on the floor ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
They’re lying back-to-back, their bodies aligned, the curve of her spine fitting against the hard lines of his. His hand is on her waist, not gripping, not pinning—*holding*. Her fingers are curled into his, not pulling away—*holding on*.
And the sigil—
On her lower back—
It’s glowing.
Not faintly.
Not weakly.
But *bright*, pulsing with power, feeding on the bond, on their touch, on the truth.
They’re not just resisting the curse.
They’re *fighting* it.
Together.
I don’t move.
Just stand there, watching.
And for the first time, I see it.
Not just the bond.
Not just the magic.
But *them*.
Two people who came here to destroy each other.
And instead—
They’re saving each other.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” a voice says from the hall.
I turn.
Nyx.
She stands there, arms crossed, her gaze sharp, amused. “They’re not just mated. They’re *bound*. And if Malrik tries to break them now—”
“He’ll burn,” I say, stepping into the hall, closing the door behind me. “But so will they.”
She studies me. “You really believe she’s the answer?”
“I believe *they* are.” I meet her gaze. “And if you’re not here to help, then leave.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles, slow and knowing. “I’m not here to help. I’m here to *warn* you.”
“About what?”
“Malrik’s not working alone.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “There’s a traitor in the Keep. Someone close. Someone you trust.”
My blood runs cold.
“Who?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. But they’ve been feeding him information. About the bond. About the sigil. About *her*.”
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“Because if they fall,” she says, voice low, “we all fall.”
She leaves.
I stand there, staring at the door.
The bond hums beneath my skin, a second heartbeat, a whisper of something older, deeper.
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.
With them.
For them.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us all—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t lose them.
Not to vengeance.
Not to fate.
Not to the fire.
Not to anything.
They’re mine.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep them.