The Council chamber is a cathedral of lies.
Soaring arches of blackened fae-iron twist toward a ceiling painted with celestial constellations—false stars mapping false destinies. The air hums with glamour, thick as incense, laced with the scent of power and decay. Beneath it all, the bond pulses against my collarbone like a second heartbeat, a silver brand hidden beneath the high collar of my new ceremonial robes. They gave me these after the “incident” in the hall—black silk embroidered with silver sigils of unity, the kind of gown meant for a bride, not a prisoner.
I’m not Elara Voss anymore.
I’m Circe now—though they don’t know it. Not yet. The name slipped when Kaelen’s lieutenant, Riven, called me by mistake in the corridor. One glance from me silenced him. But I saw the recognition in his wolf’s eyes. He knows. And he hasn’t told.
Good.
Let someone else carry a secret for once.
The twelve Council seats rise in a semicircle around the central dais, each representing one of the great supernatural houses. Three Fae—Ash, Frost, Thorn. Three Witches—Coven of Embers, Veil, Hollow. Three Werewolves—Alpha, Beta, Omega. Three Vampires—Crimson, Nocturne, Obsidian. I scan them now, memorizing faces, postures, tells. The Crimson vampire lord drums his fingers, bored. The Hollow witch strokes a raven perched on her shoulder, whispering in a language older than speech. The Frost Fae—Voryn—watches me with eyes like frozen daggers.
And then there’s Kaelen.
He stands at the center, back straight, face carved from stone. Prince of Ash. Heir to the High Throne. The man whose name is burned into my skin. He hasn’t looked at me since we entered. Not once. But I feel him. A pull in my chest, a heat low in my belly, a whisper in my blood that says closer, closer, closer.
I hate it.
I hate him.
“The soul bond,” Voryn begins, rising from his Frost Court seat, voice echoing like ice cracking underfoot, “is not merely rare. It is sacred. A sign from the old gods that the time of war is over. That the Species Divide can be healed.”
He gestures to us. To me. Like I’m a prize. A miracle. A fucking miracle.
“Prince Kaelen and the witch—Circe, was it?”
My breath catches.
He knows.
Of course he knows. He orchestrated my mother’s death. He knows every hybrid bloodline in Europe. And now he’s using mine to cement his power.
“Circe,” I correct, voice steady, though my pulse hammers. “My name is Circe.”
“Ah. Yes.” He smiles, thin and cold. “Circe, daughter of Lysandra the Traitor. How… poetic.”
A ripple moves through the chamber. Whispers. Sharp glances. The werewolf Omega—a young woman with silver-streaked hair—frowns. The Nocturne vampire lord leans forward, intrigued.
Kaelen finally turns his head. Just slightly. But I see it—the flicker of something in his gold eyes. Not anger. Not disdain. Assessment. As if he’s recalculating me. As if the name changes everything.
Good. Let him wonder.
“Despite her lineage,” Voryn continues, “the bond stands. Magic does not lie. And so, the Council decrees: Prince Kaelen and Circe shall be wed within seven days. The bond must be sanctified. An heir must be produced to seal the truce between Fae and witch.”
“An heir?” I snap, stepping forward. “You expect me to bear a child with—”
“You expect nothing,” Kaelen interrupts, voice low but cutting through the chamber like a blade. “You are bound. The bond demands union. The Council demands peace. You will comply.”
I laugh. Short. Bitter. “You think I care about your peace? You think I give a damn about your political theater?” I turn to the Council, raising my voice. “My mother was burned alive for loving a witch. Hybrid children are still hunted in your streets. And you want me to smile and spread my legs for the man who signed her death warrant? That’s not peace. That’s rape.”
The chamber goes silent.
Even Voryn looks startled.
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But I see it—the muscle in his jaw tightens. The gold of his eyes darkens, like fire banked low. And beneath the layers of silk and steel, I feel the bond pulse, hot and urgent, as if it’s reacting to my rage, to my pain, to the raw truth I’ve just thrown into the open.
“The bond is not rape,” the Hollow witch says, her raven cawing once. “It is fate. And fate does not ask for permission.”
“Then fate can go f*ck itself,” I say.
The werewolf Alpha—a massive man with storm-gray eyes—chuckles. “I like her.”
“This is not a matter of liking,” Voryn snaps. “It is law. The bond is divine. To deny it is to invite chaos. War. Bloodshed.”
“And to accept it,” I say, “is to accept complicity. You want peace? Then end the Purge. Free the hybrids in your prisons. Acknowledge the genocide you’ve committed.”
“Or what?” Voryn asks, stepping closer. “You’ll refuse the bond? You’ll let it consume you? Separation sickness sets in within days. Fever. Hallucinations. Magic instability. You’ll be dead within a week.”
He’s not wrong.
I’ve seen it happen. A half-elf bonded to a vampire during the last war. When she tried to flee, the bond dragged her back—screaming, burning, her magic tearing her apart from the inside. She died in the streets of Prague, her body charred by her own power.
But I’m not her.
And I’m not weak.
“Then I’ll die fighting,” I say. “At least I’ll die free.”
Kaelen moves then. One step. Then another. Until he’s standing beside me, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that his scent—smoke and iron and something darkly sweet—floods my senses. My breath hitches. My skin prickles. The bond flares, a wave of heat rolling through me, pooling low in my belly.
I hate how good it feels.
“You won’t die,” he says, voice quiet, meant only for me. “You’ll marry me. You’ll bear my child. And you’ll learn to live with what we are.”
I turn to him, eyes blazing. “You think I’ll ever accept this? You think I’ll ever stop hating you?”
“No,” he says. “But you’ll stop fighting the bond. And one day, you’ll stop fighting me.”
“Never.”
He leans in, just slightly, his lips near my ear. “You already have.”
And he’s right.
Because when his breath ghosts over my skin, when the bond hums between us like a live wire, when his hand brushes mine—just once, accidental, electric—I don’t pull away.
I lean in.
The Council votes.
By ten to two, the marriage is decreed.
The werewolves and witches side with me—against the bond, but not against Kaelen. They want peace, but they don’t trust the Fae. The vampires are split—Crimson opposes, Nocturne abstains, Obsidian supports. The Thorn Fae abstains. Only the Frost Court and half the Ash delegation stand with Voryn.
It doesn’t matter.
Ten is enough.
The decree is sealed with a drop of blood from each of us—Kaelen’s dark as ink, mine a deep, shimmering violet—mixed on a silver scroll that glows with binding magic. The moment our blood touches, the bond surges, a wave of heat so intense I stagger. Kaelen catches my arm, steadying me, his grip firm, his touch burning through the fabric of my sleeve.
“You feel that?” he murmurs.
“I feel nothing,” I lie.
He smirks. “Liar.”
They give us an hour before we’re escorted to our shared chambers.
I use it to steal a vial of moonfire from the ritual cabinet—just a few drops, hidden in the fold of my sleeve. Moonfire is volatile, sacred. Used in bonding rites. But in small doses, it can mask a witch’s scent, disrupt magical tracking. Maeve taught me that. Always have an escape route.
I’m not staying.
Not for a marriage. Not for an heir. Not for him.
I’ll find a way to break the bond. I’ll expose Voryn. I’ll burn this court to the ground.
But as I turn to leave, I catch my reflection in a gilded mirror.
And for the first time, I see it.
The sigil on my collarbone—Kaelen’s name—is no longer silver.
It’s gold.
Like his eyes.
Like fire.
Like a promise I never asked for.
They lead us through the Obsidian Spire—guards on either side, glamours thick in the air, twisting the corridors into a labyrinth. Kaelen walks beside me, silent, regal, untouchable. But I feel him. The bond hums between us, a constant thrum of heat and tension, like a bowstring pulled too tight.
Our chambers are at the top of the eastern tower—spacious, opulent, designed for a royal couple. Black marble floors, silk drapes the color of midnight, a massive bed with a canopy of woven shadow-fiber. A hearth burns low, casting flickering light across the walls.
And in the center of it all—a ritual circle etched into the floor, glowing faintly with containment magic.
“What’s that for?” I ask, voice sharp.
“The first warding,” Kaelen says, removing his outer robe, revealing a fitted tunic of dark ash-gray. “The bond must be stabilized. Or it will consume us both.”
“And if I refuse?”
He turns to me, gold eyes burning. “Then you’ll burn. And I’ll watch.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. “You’d let me die?”
“I’d let you choose.”
He steps into the circle. “But you won’t. Because despite everything, you want this. You want me.”
“I want to see you suffer.”
“Same thing.”
I step in beside him.
The moment our bare hands touch—his skin hot, mine trembling—the ritual ignites.
Blue-white fire spirals around us, the same as in the hall. Sigils burn into our palms, ancient Fae script sealing the bond, stabilizing the magic. But it’s not just pain.
It’s pleasure.
Heat floods my body, coiling low, tightening. My breath comes fast. My skin burns. And when I look at him—really look at him—I see it in his eyes too. The hunger. The need. The want.
His free hand moves to my back, pressing against the bare skin exposed by the low-cut robe. The touch is electric. I gasp. He doesn’t stop. His fingers trace the sigil on my collarbone, then slide lower, following the curve of my spine.
“You tremble,” he murmurs.
“From disgust,” I whisper, though my body arches into his touch.
“Liar,” he says again.
The fire dies. The ritual ends.
We pull apart, breathless, shaking.
And the bond?
It’s stronger.
Deeper.
And for the first time, I’m not sure I want to destroy it.
They want us to produce an heir.
I want to produce his corpse.