The archives smell of dust and decay, of old magic and older lies. The air is thick, still, as if time itself has been buried beneath the weight of parchment and forgotten oaths. Torches flicker in iron sconces, casting long, shifting shadows across the shelves that stretch into darkness. I move fast, silent, my boots barely touching stone. My gloves are off. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing with every beat of my heart, feeding on the bond, on the fire that still burns in my veins.
I shouldn’t have slept with him.
I shouldn’t have let him touch me. Let him claim me. Let him mark me.
But I did.
And now—
Now I have to live with it.
Not just the memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth on my throat, his cock buried deep inside me. Not just the way I whispered, “I didn’t mean to want you,” like that could somehow undo everything. No.
Now I have to live with the truth.
That I do.
Want him.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because if I want him—
Then I can’t kill him.
And if I can’t kill him—
Then what am I fighting for?
I stop at the false panel, the one behind which I found the cursed sigil. My fingers tremble as I press the edge, the stone shifting with a soft click. The hidden compartment opens, revealing the brittle parchment, the ink still glowing faintly. I pull it out, unroll it slowly. The sigil pulses, not with hunger now—but with something darker. Recognition.
It knows me.
Not just my blood.
Not just my magic.
But my doubt.
My fear.
My need.
I press my thumb to the center, letting a drop of blood fall.
The sigil flares.
Not with memory this time.
With power.
Images flood my mind—Malrik, tall, silver-haired, smiling like a serpent. He stands in a circle of Fae nobles, their eyes black with hunger, their hands raised. Blood drips from their palms, pooling in the center, forming the corrupted sigil. He speaks, voice smooth: “You cannot bind me. I am of your blood. I am of your line. And I will break your magic.” The sigil twists, turns black. The ground cracks. The sky splits. And then—
Me.
Young. Twelve. Cowering in the cellar as flames consume the Hollow Coven. My mother’s scream. The smell of burning flesh. And then—
Lysander.
Standing over the bodies, his coat soaked in blood, his gold eyes cold. He raises his hand. A command. “Burn the rest.” And then—
Me again.
But not hiding.
Not running.
Standing beside him. My hand in his. His mark on my throat. His cock buried deep inside me. Our bond glowing like a storm, black and gold, swirling into a single, pulsing spiral. And then—
Malrik’s voice, whispering: “You think you’ve won? You think the bond makes you strong? It makes you weak. It makes you mine.”
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.
And if I don’t break it—
It will break us.
“Looking for something?”
I freeze.
The voice is smooth. Cold. Familiar.
I turn.
Lysander stands in 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.
“I could ask you the same,” I say, voice steady. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks. “You left without a word. Again.”
“I needed to think.” I roll the parchment, tuck it into my sleeve. “Without you watching.”
“I’m not watching,” he says, crossing the room, stopping just short of me. “I’m protecting.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“No?” He reaches out, slow, and lifts my wrist. The sigil pulses beneath his fingers, warm, alive. “Then why are you trembling?”
My breath hitches.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.
“You’re not afraid of me.” He steps behind me, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “You’re afraid of wanting me. Of needing me. Of letting me in.”
I shiver.
But I don’t move away.
“You think you know me,” I say, turning to face him. “You think because we fucked, because you marked me, because I saved your life—you know me.”
“I know enough,” he says, voice low. “I know you’re not just a witch. I know you’re not just a spy. I know you’re not just a weapon aimed at my throat.”
“And what else?” I challenge. “What else do you think you know?”
“I know you’re afraid,” he says, stepping closer. “Afraid of the bond. Afraid of the fire. Afraid of what happens if you stop fighting it.”
“And if I do?”
“Then you burn with me.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “And I burn with you. And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—then so be it.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper. “You don’t get to act like this changes everything.”
“It doesn’t change what I did,” he says, voice rough. “I gave the order to burn your coven. I let Malrik frame you. I made you a ghost. But it changes what I am. And what I’ll do to fix it.”
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “And right now, I’m going to fix it by making sure you don’t die in this damn archive.”
I pull back, but my eyes stay on his. “I’m not going to die. Not here. Not like this.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to bind a blood oath,” I say, stepping past him. “One that exposes liars. One that forces the truth.”
He stiffens. “You’re not strong enough. Not after last night. Not after the wound. Not after—”
“After you?” I turn, eyes blazing. “After you took everything from me?”
“I didn’t take anything,” he says, voice low. “I gave it back. I gave you truth. I gave you fire. I gave you us.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I don’t want it?”
“Too late.” He steps closer, his presence filling the room like smoke. “You’re marked. You’re claimed. You’re mine.”
“And if I break the bond?”
“Then you break yourself.” He grabs my arms, not hard, but firm. “You feel it. The bond isn’t just magic. It’s life. It’s power. It’s the only thing keeping Malrik from tearing us apart. And if you try to break it—”
“Then I’ll burn,” I say, voice breaking. “I know.”
He exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
He pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me, his face pressing into my neck. “Then don’t run. Don’t hide. Don’t fight. Just trust.”
My breath hitches.
But I don’t pull away.
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.
—
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. Lysander 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 cursed sigil 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 locket, onto the sigil, 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 Lysander.
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,” Lysander 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,” Lysander 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.”
Lysander 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.