The first time I held Circe, she was two days old and screaming like the world was ending.
It was.
Outside the cottage, the sky burned crimson. The wind carried ash and the stench of charred flesh. The Fae guards were coming—boots on stone, blades drawn, orders from the High Court to purge all hybrids, all traitors, all who dared to love across bloodlines. And inside, Lysandra lay on the bed, pale as moonlight, her chest still rising and falling, but her eyes already gone dull with death magic.
She didn’t die in the fire.
Not then.
She died slowly. Over weeks. Over months. In silence. In agony. Because they didn’t burn her right away. They wanted to study her first. Extract her essence. See if a hybrid soul could be used to cheat death.
And when it couldn’t?
Then they burned her.
But not before she gave me her daughter.
“Keep her safe,” she whispered, her fingers weak around mine. “Keep her hidden. And when the time comes—” Her breath hitched. “—make them pay.”
I promised.
And I’ve kept that promise for thirty-two years.
Now, as I lie in the Prince of Ash’s chambers, wrapped in black silk, my body weak from Frost poison, my bones aching with old magic, I feel it—the weight of that promise settling over me like a shroud. I should have told Circe the truth sooner. Should have prepared her. But I was afraid. Afraid of what she’d do. Afraid of what she’d become if she knew the full horror of what they did to her mother.
But she’s not a child anymore.
She’s fire.
And fire doesn’t need protection.
It needs fuel.
—
I wake to silence.
Not the suffocating quiet of the dungeon. Not the heavy stillness of near-death. This silence is different. Lighter. Watchful. Like the calm before a storm.
I open my eyes.
The chamber is dim, the hearth reduced to embers, its glow painting the stone in flickering shadows. The air hums with it—the bond, the magic, the unspoken truth that the world has shifted. Circe sits beside the bed, one hand resting on my chest, the other clenched in her lap. Her face is pale. Her eyes dark. But her spine is straight. Her jaw tight. And when she sees me wake, her breath hitches—just once—but she doesn’t cry.
She never cries.
Not even when she was ten and found her mother’s grimoire in the ruins. Not when she was twenty and learned how they’d burned her. Not when she stood in the Council chamber and faced down Voryn with nothing but fire in her veins.
She doesn’t cry.
She burns.
“You’re awake,” she says, voice steady.
“You’re alive,” I reply.
She smirks. “You taught me better than to die young.”
“I taught you better than to run into traps,” I say.
“I didn’t run,” she says. “I walked. And I brought backup.”
I turn my head.
Kaelen stands by the hearth, tall, regal, untouchable—gold eyes burning as he watches us. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stands there, like a sentinel guarding a secret. And I see it—the way he looks at her. Not with possession. Not with control. With *recognition*.
He sees her.
Really sees her.
And that terrifies me more than Voryn’s dungeon ever could.
Because if he loves her—
Then she might love him back.
And love makes you weak.
Love gets you killed.
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” I say, turning back to Circe. “It was a trap. Voryn wanted you to come. He wanted to test the bond. To see if it would break under pressure. To see if he could sever it and take your soul.”
“Then he should’ve known better,” she says. “I don’t break.”
“No,” I say. “But you *feel*.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses a hand to the sigil on her collarbone—gold, pulsing, *his* name etched in Fae script by magic older than war.
And I know—
She feels it.
Not just the bond.
Him.
And that’s more dangerous than any trap.
“You need to tell her,” Kaelen says, voice low.
I turn to him. “Tell her what?”
“The truth,” he says. “About Project Icarus. About her mother. About what really happened.”
Circe tenses. “I know what happened. Voryn used her. Drained her soul essence for a failed immortality ritual. That’s why he wants mine—he thinks it’s stable. That’s why he’s trying to break the bond.”
“That’s only part of it,” I say.
She looks at me. “Then tell me the rest.”
I exhale. “You were never just a hybrid, Circe.”
“I’m half-Fae, half-witch. I know.”
“No,” I say. “You’re more than that. Your mother wasn’t just *any* hybrid. She was *chosen*. Voryn didn’t just want her soul essence. He wanted her *bloodline*. Because your grandmother—Elara—wasn’t just a Fae noble. She was the last living descendant of the First Coven.”
Her breath catches. “The First Coven?”
“The original witches,” I say. “The ones who forged the first spells, who bent magic to their will. Their bloodline was thought extinct. But Elara survived. And when she fell in love with a Fae lord—your grandfather—he killed her. But not before she gave birth to Lysandra.”
“And Lysandra had me,” Circe says, voice quiet.
“Yes,” I say. “And when Voryn learned of your bloodline, he saw a chance. Not just to extend his life. To *ascend*. To become a god among Fae. But your mother’s magic was too volatile. Her soul essence burned out. It couldn’t be contained.”
“But mine can,” Circe says.
“Because you’re balanced,” I say. “Fae and witch. Fire and ash. Magic and blood. And when the bond ignited—”
“It stabilized,” she whispers.
I nod. “Your soul essence isn’t unstable. It’s *complete*. And Voryn knows it. He’s not just trying to break the bond to destabilize the peace.”
“He’s trying to break it to *take* it,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And if he does?”
“Then he’ll use your soul to make himself immortal. And you’ll burn from the inside out.”
She doesn’t move. Just sits there, her fingers tightening around mine.
“And Kaelen?” she asks.
“If the bond breaks, he dies with you,” I say. “But there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Voryn didn’t act alone,” I say. “He had help. From within the Council. From someone who wanted the hybrids gone. Someone who saw them as a threat not to Fae purity—but to *their* power.”
She looks at me. “Who?”
I hesitate.
And then—
I say it.
“Your father.”
Her breath stops.
“What?”
“His name was Dain,” I say. “A Fae noble from the Ash Court. He was your mother’s lover. The witch she consorted with. But he wasn’t just a rebel. He was a spy. Planted by Voryn to gain her trust. To learn the secrets of the First Coven. And when she told him—when she trusted him—he betrayed her.”
“No,” she whispers.
“It’s true,” I say. “He gave Voryn the location of the grimoire. The spells. The bloodline records. And when they came for her, he stood aside. Let them take her. Let them burn her.”
“He’s dead,” she says, voice hollow.
“No,” I say. “He’s alive. In exile. And Voryn has been protecting him. Hiding him. Because Dain knows things. Secrets. Spells. And if Voryn ascends, he’ll need that knowledge to control the power.”
She doesn’t speak.
Just stares at me, her eyes wide, her face pale.
And then—
She stands.
Fast. Violent. Like a storm breaking.
“You knew,” she says, voice low, deadly. “All this time. You knew who he was. What he did. And you never told me.”
“I was protecting you,” I say.
“From what?” she snaps. “The truth? From knowing that the man who should have loved me—should have *fought* for me—was the one who helped destroy my mother?”
“I didn’t want you to become like him,” I say. “I didn’t want you to lose yourself to hate.”
“Too late,” she says, turning away. “I came here to burn them all. And now I know—there’s one more name on that list.”
“Circe—”
“No,” she says, cutting me off. “You don’t get to lecture me. You don’t get to pretend you did this for me. You kept this from me. You let me believe my father was a martyr. A victim. And he was a *traitor*.”
“I did what I thought was right,” I say.
“And now?” she says, turning back, her eyes blazing. “Now what? Do I forgive him? Do I find him? Do I let him explain? Do I let him *live*?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But you need to decide. Because if you don’t—if you let this consume you—you’ll become the very thing you’re fighting against.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just walks to the window, staring out over the Obsidian Spire, its blackened spires piercing the night sky like blades. The city below pulses with life—vampire conclaves glowing crimson, fae bridges shimmering with starlight, the distant howl of a werewolf under the full moon. A world built on lies. On blood. On silence.
And now?
Now it trembles.
Because of her.
Because of us.
“You came to burn him,” I say softly. “But you’re starting to burn me.”
She doesn’t turn.
Just presses a hand to the sigil on her collarbone.
Still gold.
Still burning.
Still his.
And I know—
She’s not just fighting for revenge anymore.
She’s fighting for *him* too.
And that?
That might be the most dangerous fire of all.
—
Later, when the chamber is quiet, when the embers have died, when the bond hums soft and steady between them, I speak again.
“There’s one more thing,” I say.
Circe turns. “What?”
“The grimoire,” I say. “Your mother’s grimoire. It’s not lost. I have it.”
Her breath catches. “Where?”
“Hidden,” I say. “In the Hollow Coven. Where no Fae can enter. Where no vampire can tread. Where only a witch of the First Blood can unlock it.”
“And I’m the only one,” she says.
“Yes,” I say. “And it’s not just spells. It’s a map. A record. A weapon. And it holds the final piece of the truth—the spell Voryn needs to complete the ritual. The spell that will destroy him.”
She doesn’t move. Just watches me, her dark eyes searching mine.
“Then we get it,” she says.
“It’s not that simple,” I say. “The Hollow Coven is protected. Guarded. And they don’t trust hybrids. They don’t trust *anyone*.”
“Then I’ll make them trust me,” she says. “Or I’ll burn the place down.”
I smile. Faint. Proud. “Always were a terrible liar.”
She smirks. “And you taught me better than to fail.”
Kaelen steps forward. “I’ll go with you.”
She looks at him. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says. “But I want to. Not as your mate. Not as your prince. As your *ally*.”
She studies him—really studies him—for the first time. Not as her enemy. Not as her savior.
As her equal.
And then—
She nods.
“Then be ready,” she says. “We leave at dawn.”
“And if Voryn comes?” I ask.
“Let him,” she says, turning to the window, her voice low, deadly. “I’ve got two names left on my list. And I’m just getting started.”
She doesn’t look at me.
Just presses a hand to the sigil on her collarbone.
Still gold.
Still burning.
Still his.
She didn’t die for love.
She died for his lies.
Circe’s Claim
The first time Circe touches Kaelen, the world burns.
Not metaphorically.
Fingers brush in the shadowed hall of the Fae High Court, and flame erupts along the marble—blue-white fire born of a soul bond thought extinct, a mark of true mates that hasn’t flared in five centuries. The guards draw steel. The court holds its breath. And Circe, disguised as a neutral witch envoy, feels the sear of a silver sigil bloom across her collarbone—his name, etched in Fae script by magic older than war.
She came to destroy him.
Instead, the universe has bound her to him.
Kaelen, Prince of Ash, is everything she despises: cold, regal, untouchable. The architect of the Purge that wiped out hybrid bloodlines. The man who coldly approved her mother’s execution for daring to love a witch. And now, the Council declares their bond a miracle—a chance to end the Species War. They must wed. They must produce an heir. They must pretend this bond is sacred, not sabotage.
But the truth is far more dangerous.
Their bodies crave each other with feverish intensity. A single glance sends heat pooling low in her belly. His scent—smoke and iron—makes her knees weak. And when they’re forced into a ritual trial that requires skin-to-skin contact under moonfire, she comes undone in his arms, trembling, hating how good it feels.
Meanwhile, someone knows her real identity. A rival—his former mistress, the seductive vampire Lady Nyx—wears his mark like a trophy and whispers lies that could get Circe killed. And beneath the court’s gilded lies, a deeper conspiracy stirs: one that used her mother as a pawn… and wants Circe as the final sacrifice.
She will have her revenge.
But first, she must survive the fire between them.