The morning after the duel, the Keep feels different—like the air itself has been rewritten. Not just by the bond, not just by the cursed sigil that still pulses beneath my skin, but by something quieter. Something deeper.
Acceptance.
I didn’t run. I didn’t lie. I didn’t fight him off when he kissed me, when he pinned me, when he asked me to say I wanted him. I turned my face away, yes. I screamed that I hated him. But I didn’t let go.
And he didn’t let go of me.
Now, sunlight slants through the high windows of my chambers, painting golden stripes across the stone floor. I sit at the desk, 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 another one.
Not in the archives. Not in some brittle parchment or cursed sigil. But in the blood.
It started at dawn, when I woke with a fever—not from grief, not from rage, but from magic. My skin burned, my sigil pulsed, and deep in my bones, something stirred. A memory. A voice. Mira’s voice, whispering in the dark: “You’re not the only one who’s been lying, Circe.”
I sat up fast, heart hammering. Because she was right.
And I finally understood what she meant.
—
The infirmary lies beneath the east wing, a long, low chamber lit by flickering lanterns and the soft glow of healing crystals embedded in the walls. The air smells of herbs and iron, of antiseptic and something deeper—life, pulsing just beneath death. It’s where the wounded are brought, where magic is used not to destroy, but to mend. And it’s where Mira spent her last days, tending to the sick, hiding in plain sight.
I find her cot empty now, stripped of sheets, the mattress bare. But I don’t need to see her body to feel her presence. It’s in the lingering scent of lavender and blood, in the faint warmth still clinging to the pillow, in the single black feather tucked beneath the edge of the mattress.
My breath catches.
Not from grief.
From recognition.
Because I know that feather.
It’s not from a bird.
It’s from a vampire.
And not just any vampire.
A hybrid.
My fingers tremble as I lift it. The feather is soft, almost weightless, but it hums with residual magic—dark, ancient, laced with something sweet and dangerous. Blood magic. But not Hollow. Not fully. It’s mixed. Tainted. Transformed.
And then I see it.
Beneath the cot—scratched into the stone, nearly invisible—three symbols:
A crescent moon.
A drop of blood.
And a witch’s sigil.
Not the Hollow mark.
But the older one. The one from the archives. The one Malrik corrupted.
My breath hitches.
She knew.
She knew about the curse. About the bond. About what Malrik was doing.
And she left me a message.
—
I find Kael in the training yard, sparring with two of the younger wolves. He moves like a storm—fast, precise, brutal. His coat is gone, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the scars that cross his forearms like lightning. He doesn’t stop when I approach. Just nods to the wolves, and they back off, panting, bruised.
“You’re up early,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow.
“So are you,” I say, stepping forward. “You didn’t sleep.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just studies me, gold eyes sharp, reading me. “You’re different.”
“I fought him last night.”
“I heard.” A ghost of a smile. “The entire Keep heard.”
“We didn’t just fight.” I meet his gaze. “We… connected. The bond reacted. The runes lit up. It was like the magic was healing us.”
His jaw tightens. “The curse is feeding on hesitation. On fear. On lies. If you stop fighting it—if you stop fighting *each other*—it weakens.”
“And if we embrace it?”
“Then it breaks.” He crosses his arms. “But Malrik knows that. He’ll do everything to keep you apart. To make you doubt. To make you hate.”
“He already tried.” I pull the feather from my sleeve. “I found this in Mira’s cot. And beneath it—this.” I sketch the symbols in the dirt with my boot.
Kael goes still.
“That’s not Hollow magic,” he says, voice low. “That’s hybrid.”
“I know.” I meet his gaze. “Mira wasn’t just a healer. She was a witch-vampire hybrid. And she was helping me decode Malrik’s blood magic.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just stares at the symbols, his jaw clenched. “She was my source. The one who gave me the bloodline trace. The one who told me about the sigil.”
My breath catches.
“You knew her?”
“Not well.” He looks at me. “But I knew she was dangerous. Not because she was a traitor. Because she was truth. And in this court, truth is the most dangerous thing of all.”
“And now she’s dead.”
“Because she knew too much.” He steps closer. “And now you do.”
“Then help me,” I say. “Help me finish what she started.”
He hesitates.
Then nods. “There’s a ritual. An old one. Used to bind blood oaths, to expose liars. It requires a drop of blood from each participant. And a catalyst—something that ties them together.”
“Like a locket?” I pull Mira’s locket from my pocket.
He studies it. “Or a feather.”
“It’s not just a feather,” I say. “It’s part of her. Her magic. Her blood. Her truth.”
“Then it’s perfect.” He turns to the armory. “Meet me in the Chamber of Whispers at dusk. Bring the feather. The locket. And your gloves.”
“Why the gloves?”
“Because if this works,” he says, voice low, “you’ll see things. Feel things. Memories that aren’t yours. And if your sigil flares, if your magic surges—”
“I could burn the room down.”
“Or burn the lies away.”
—
The Chamber of Whispers is colder than I remember.
The black quartz walls absorb sound, swallowing footsteps, breath, even the beat of my heart. Torches flicker in iron sconces, their flames casting long, shifting shadows. The sacred bed sits at the center—a low dais covered in black silk, pillows scattered like fallen stars. But we don’t go to the bed.
We go to the circle.
Carved into the floor, ancient and deep, the ritual circle is etched with runes of truth, of blood, of binding. Kael kneels at the north point, a silver dagger in one hand, a vial of dark liquid in the other. I take the south, setting Mira’s locket and the feather at the center. My gloves are off, my sigil pulsing faintly.
“This will hurt,” he says, voice low. “The bond will scream. Your magic will flare. But don’t fight it. Let it in. Let it show you.”
“And if I see something I don’t want to?”
“Then you’ll know you’re close to the truth.”
He slices his palm, lets three drops of blood fall into the circle. Then hands me the dagger.
I don’t hesitate.
I cut deep, letting my blood drip onto the feather, onto the locket, onto the stone. The sigil on my wrist flares, warm and alive. The air hums with magic. The runes ignite, pulsing with light.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from Kael.
Not from me.
From her.
“You’re not the only one who’s been lying, Circe.”
Mira’s voice. But not her choice.
The ritual has taken hold.
And it won’t let go.
Images flood my mind—Mira, young, fierce, her dark curls bouncing, 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.
“Again,” Kael says, voice rough. “Focus. Let it in.”
I close my eyes.
And then—
Another vision.
Mira, older now, in the infirmary, her hands glowing with healing magic. A vampire lies on the cot—pale, dying. She leans down, bites her own wrist, lets her blood fall into his mouth. His eyes snap open. Black. Hungry. But not with thirst.
With recognition.
“You’re not just a healer,” he whispers. “You’re a hybrid.”
“I’m a survivor,” she says. “Like you. Like her.”
“Circe.”
“Yes.” She presses a hand to her chest, where a locket hangs. “I saved her once. I’ll save her again.”
The vision ends.
I gasp, clutching my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.
“One more,” Kael says.
I nod.
And then—
The final vision.
Mira, the night she died. In the eastern corridor, her back to the wall, Malrik standing over her. He holds a dagger, its blade etched with the corrupted sigil.
“You should have stayed hidden,” he says, voice smooth. “You should have let her die with the rest of your coven.”
“I saved her,” she says, voice steady. “And I’ll die knowing she’ll finish what I started.”
He smiles. “Then die knowing she’ll never believe you.”
He raises the dagger.
But before he strikes—
She throws the locket.
Not at him.
At the wall.
It hits the stone, cracks open—and a single drop of blood falls, seeping into the mortar.
Her blood.
Her magic.
Her truth.
The vision ends.
I collapse to my knees, sobbing.
Because I understand now.
She didn’t just leave me the feather.
She left me her blood.
Her magic.
Her life.
And she knew I’d find it.
“He’s afraid,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Malrik. He’s not just trying to frame me. He’s afraid of what I’ll do with the truth.”
Kael kneels beside me. “Then use it.”
“How?”
“By doing the one thing he doesn’t expect.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “By trusting someone.”
My breath hitches.
“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.
With him.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us all—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t run.
Not from the bond.
Not from the truth.
Not from the fire.
I’ll stand.
I’ll fight.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her memory alive.
Because Mira wasn’t just my friend.
She was my sister.
My ally.
My truth.
And I won’t let her die in vain.
Not while I still draw breath.
Not while the bond still burns.
Not while the fire still lives.
I am Circe of the Hollow Coven.
And I am ready to rise.
Circe’s Claim
The night Circe returns, the wolves howl in warning.
Dressed in black lace and lies, she steps into the heart of the Shadow Court — a witch reborn from ash, her fingers stained with the blood of ancient curses. She came for vengeance. Not love. Not him. But the second King Lysander grips her wrist during the welcoming rite, a jolt of primal magic sears through them both. Their scents clash — storm and midnight, iron and wild thyme — and the air crackles with forbidden recognition. A fated bond, long dormant, roars to life.
He sees through her mask — not her name, but her fire. And he wants to extinguish it… or claim it.
To stop a war between supernaturals, the Fae High Court demands a union: a blood-bonded pair to preside over the new Tribunal of Nine. The law is clear: only fated mates may serve. When the ritual confirms Circe and Lysander are bound, the room erupts. She’s meant to kill him. He’s meant to dominate her. Instead, they’re shackled together — politically, magically, sexually — and every touch sends shockwaves through their resolve.
But someone knows her secret. Someone has already begun poisoning Lysander’s mind, whispering that she was the one who betrayed his first mate. And when a rival appears — draped in his shirt, wearing his bite mark — Circe must fight not just for her mission, but for her place in his bed… and his soul.
Their bodies remember each other before their minds do. And in this world, desire is never just desire — it’s power, politics, and the most dangerous kind of truth.