The morning after the blood oath, the Keep feels like a powder keg.
Not because of the assassins. Not because of the cursed sigil still pulsing beneath my skin, feeding on hesitation, on fear, on lies. But because of him.
Lysander.
He marked me.
Not with his teeth—though I can still feel the ghost of his bite at my throat, the phantom pressure of his mouth, the way my body arched when he claimed me. No. He marked me with something worse.
Trust.
He let me see him—really see him—last night in the Chamber of Whispers. Not the King. Not the Alpha. But the man who buried his grief beneath duty, who believed the lies, who gave the order to burn my coven because he thought I was already dead. And when I broke down, sobbing over Mira’s blood, her truth, her death, he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t command. He didn’t dominate.
He held me.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because if I can trust him—
Then I can’t kill him.
And if I can’t kill him—
Then what am I fighting for?
—
I find Kael in the training yard at dawn, 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.
—
The Council Chamber is packed by midday.
Wolves, Fae, vampires—all gathered for the weekly Tribunal meeting. The air is thick with tension, the scent of bloodwine and iron and something deeper—fear. The bond murders have shaken the Keep. The cursed sigil has everyone on edge. And Malrik—silver-haired, polished, his smile sharp as a blade—sits at the far end of the table, calm, like a serpent waiting to strike.
I take my seat at the head, Lysander beside me.
He doesn’t look at me.
Just sits, spine straight, his presence a wall of heat and power. But I feel him—every breath, every heartbeat, every flicker of magic beneath his skin. The bond hums, low and steady, a quiet storm beneath the surface.
Malrik speaks first.
“Another body found last night,” he says, voice smooth. “A servant this time. Throat torn out. And on her chest—” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “The Hollow mark.”
Every eye turns to me.
I don’t flinch.
Just lift my chin, my gaze cold, defiant.
“It’s a frame,” Lysander says, voice cutting through the murmurs. “Same as before. Same corruption. Same hand.”
“And you know this how?” a Fae noble asks, voice sharp. “Because your *mate* tells you so?”
“Because I’ve seen the magic,” Lysander says, not looking at him. “Because I’ve tasted the lie. Because I know Malrik’s hand when I see it.”
Malrik smiles. “How convenient. The King defends his witch. The mate protects her mate. It’s almost… *romantic*.”
The chamber murmurs.
“It’s the truth,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “And if you’d stop sniffing his arse long enough to open your eyes, you’d see it too.”
Gasps ripple through the room.
Malrik’s smile doesn’t waver.
But his eyes—his eyes flicker with something darker. Anger.
“Careful, little witch,” he says, voice silky. “You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
“Neither are you,” I snap. “I know what you did. I know what you are. And I’ll make sure everyone else knows too.”
“Oh?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “And what, exactly, do you think I’ve done?”
“You killed Elara,” I say, voice loud, cutting through the silence. “You framed me for it. You used Lysander to burn my coven. And now you’re using the cursed sigil to break our bond—because if we stand together, you lose.”
The chamber erupts.
Wolves growl. Vampires hiss. Fae whisper behind their hands.
Malrik doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, his smile gone, his eyes cold as ice.
“You have no proof,” he says, voice quiet. “No evidence. Just the ravings of a witch who’s clearly unstable. Grieving. Delusional.”
“I have the truth,” I say.
“And I have witnesses,” he counters. “Servants who saw you near the body. Guards who heard you muttering in your sleep. And—” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “A healer who claims you tried to poison me.”
My blood runs cold.
“What?” I snap.
“Last night,” Malrik says, turning to the Council. “I was visited by a healer from the infirmary. She said Circe came to my chambers, offered me a drink laced with blood magic. When I refused, she threatened me. Said she’d make me pay for what I did to her coven.”
“That’s a lie!” I shout.
“Is it?” He pulls a vial from his sleeve—clear liquid, swirling with faint silver threads. “This was found in her chambers. A toxin. Designed to weaken a Fae’s magic. To make them vulnerable.”
Lysander’s jaw clenches.
“Where?” he demands.
“In a hidden drawer,” Malrik says. “Behind a loose stone. The same place we found the cursed sigil.”
The chamber murmurs.
“You’re framing her,” Lysander growls.
“Am I?” He smiles. “Or is she finally showing her true colors? The witch who came to kill you, Lysander. The woman who’s been lying to you from the start.”
Every eye turns to him.
Waiting.
Watching.
And for the first time, I see it—the doubt. Not just in their eyes.
In the bond.
It flickers—not with pain, not with rage—but with fear.
Fear that maybe—just maybe—she’s not who she says she is.
And then—
I laugh.
Low. Dark. A sound that rolls through the chamber like thunder.
“You’re good,” I say, standing. “I’ll give you that. You’ve been planning this for years. Poisoning Lysander’s mind. Framing me for murder. Now this.” I gesture to the vial. “But you made one mistake.”
“And what’s that?” Malrik asks, still smiling.
“You forgot who you’re dealing with.” I step forward, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not just a witch. I’m not just a survivor. I’m Circe of the Hollow Coven. And I don’t use toxins.”
I hold out my hand.
And on my palm—a single drop of blood.
It glows faintly—not red, but silver. Tainted. Fae rot.
“This,” I say, “is the blood of the healer who ‘accused’ me. I found it on the vial. Your magic. Your lie. Your failure.”
The chamber falls silent.
Malrik’s smile falters.
“You don’t believe me?” I challenge. “Test it. Run it through the blood arbitration. Let the magic speak.”
“She’s stalling,” Malrik says, standing. “Trying to distract from her crimes.”
“No.” Lysander rises, his voice cutting through the silence. “She’s proving her innocence. And you—you’re afraid of what the truth will reveal.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his eyes cold, calculating.
And then—
He smiles.
Slow. Knowing.
“Very well,” he says. “Test the blood. Let the magic decide.”
—
The Blood Arbitration Chamber is cold, the air thick with the scent of iron and old magic. A circular table of black stone sits at the center, etched with runes of truth. The vial is placed in the center. My drop of blood beside it.
The High Arbiter—an ancient vampire with eyes like coal—steps forward, hands raised. Chanting begins, low and guttural. The runes ignite, pulsing with light. The air hums with power.
And then—
The blood moves.
Not mine.
Malrik’s.
It writhes in the vial, twisting, turning—and then, with a sharp crack, it splits. One half glows silver—pure Fae. The other—black. Tainted. Fae rot.
The Arbiter turns to Malrik. “The magic speaks. This toxin was not created by the accused. It was created by you. And your lie has been exposed.”
The chamber erupts.
Malrik doesn’t move.
Just stands there, his face calm, his smile gone.
And then—
He laughs.
Low. Dark. A sound that curls through my spine like smoke.
“You think this changes anything?” he says, voice smooth. “You think a single test will undo ten years of work? I am of the Seelie blood. I am of the High Court. And you—” He looks at me. “You are nothing. A witch. A liar. A killer. And you—” He turns to Lysander. “You are a fool. A puppet. A king who lets a woman with fire in her veins rule his heart.”
“Enough,” Lysander growls.
“No.” He steps forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me tell you what happens now. You exile her. You break the bond. You return to your duty. Or—” He smiles. “I make sure the next body has your name on it.”
Lysander’s wolf snarls.
But he holds it.
Because he sees it now.
Not just his threat.
His fear.
He’s losing.
And when a serpent is cornered—
It bites.
“You’re dismissed,” Lysander says, voice cold. “Leave the Keep. Do not return unless summoned.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, his eyes black with hate.
And then—
He turns.
And walks out.
—
Back in my chambers, I pour a glass of bloodwine and stare into the fire.
Lysander stands at the window, his back to me, his gloves off, his sigil glowing faintly.
“He’s not done,” I say, voice low. “That was too easy. He wanted us to test the blood. He *let* us.”
“I know.” He sets the glass down. “He’s planning something. Something bigger.”
“And we’re walking right into it.”
“No.” I step behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “We’re making him think we are. But we’re not waiting. We’re not hiding. We’re not afraid.”
He turns, his eyes blazing. “Then what are we?”
“We’re fire,” I say, voice rough. “And we’re going to burn him to ash.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his breath coming fast, his scent wrapping around me, pulling me in.
And then—
He steps forward.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
But *hungry*. Desperate. A claiming. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, his mouth opening under mine, his tongue meeting mine in a slow, aching dance. My arms wrap around him, lifting me, pressing me against the wall. His body is a wall of heat, his core aching, his magic flaring.
And then—
I pull away.
“Not yet,” I whisper, breathless. “Not until he’s gone.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just nods, his eyes blazing.
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 her.
For her.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both—
Then so be it.
Because this time—
This time, I won’t lose her.
Not to vengeance.
Not to fate.
Not to the fire.
Not to anything.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep her.