The scream from the hallway isn’t fear.
It’s performance.
Nyx stands in the doorway, draped in Lysander’s black silk shirt, her hair loose, a fresh bite mark glowing faintly on her neck. Her smile is a blade, sharp and knowing. And behind her — Kael, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes burning with the truth she’s just shattered.
“Did I interrupt something?” she purrs, stepping inside, her bare feet silent on stone. “Or was the moment already ruined?”
Lysander is on his feet in an instant, but I don’t let him move. My hand is on his chest, pressing him back, my pulse roaring in my ears. The bond flares — not with desire, not with fire — but with something darker. Violation.
“You’re lying,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “The bite mark is glamoured. The shirt was stolen. And you—” I step forward, magic rippling at my fingertips. “You’re nothing but Malrik’s puppet.”
She laughs — soft, melodic, like wind through dead leaves. “Oh, Circe. Always so certain. So angry. But tell me — if I’m lying, why does his scent cling to me? Why does his blood taste like thunder on my tongue?”
“Because you’re a Fae,” Kael growls, stepping beside me. “And you know how to twist the truth. But you can’t twist this.”
He holds out a vial — clear liquid swirling with silver threads. “We found this in your chambers. A toxin. Designed to mimic pheromones. To make it seem like you’ve been with him.”
Nyx doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head, serpentine. “And who says I didn’t? Maybe he came to me last night. Maybe he needed comfort after being stabbed for you. Maybe he finally realized what a cold, broken thing you are.”
Lysander snarls, but I hold him back.
Because she’s not trying to convince me.
She’s trying to convince him.
To make him doubt. To make him wonder. To make him believe that maybe — just maybe — he’d be better off with someone who doesn’t carry fire in her veins and vengeance in her heart.
And it’s working.
I feel it — the bond flickers, not with pain, but with hesitation. A crack in the fire. A whisper of doubt.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” I say, stepping closer. “Not me. Not Kael. And not him.” I turn to Lysander. “You know the truth. You know where you were last night. You know who held you while you bled. Who carried you. Who kissed you.”
His eyes meet mine.
Gold, blazing, raw.
And for a heartbeat — I see it. The truth. The fire. The bond, roaring back to life.
But then —
Nyx speaks.
“And what if he doesn’t?” she whispers. “What if he’s starting to wonder? What if he’s starting to remember how soft I am? How sweet? How I don’t fight him every second of every day?”
She steps forward, slow, deliberate, until she’s close enough to touch him. “I could give you peace, Lysander. Not war. Not fire. Not this endless battle. Just… quiet. Just rest.”
He doesn’t move.
But I feel it — the bond trembles.
And that’s when I know.
She’s won.
Not because of the shirt. Not because of the bite mark.
But because of the doubt.
And I can’t fight it.
Not here. Not like this.
“Enough.” My voice cuts through the silence like a blade. “You want a show? You want to humiliate me in front of him? Fine. But don’t pretend this is about love. This is about control. This is about Malrik trying to break us.”
I turn to Lysander, my heart breaking with every word. “And if he thinks he can do that by making you doubt me — then he’s already won.”
“Circe—”
“No.” I step back. “Don’t say it. Don’t try to fix it. Not here. Not now.”
And then —
I turn.
And I walk out.
—
The Keep feels like a tomb.
Not because of the assassins. Not because of the cursed sigil still pulsing beneath my skin. But because of the silence.
The bond — my second heartbeat, the fire beneath my ribs — is gone quiet. Not broken. Not severed. Just… muffled. Like someone wrapped it in wet cloth and shoved it into the dark.
I don’t cry.
I don’t scream.
I just walk.
Boots striking stone. Magic flaring at my fingertips. The sigil on my wrist glowing faintly, pulsing in time with the rhythm of my heart — slow, steady, alone.
I pass the war room. The training yard. The infirmary. Every place that’s become ours. Every place where we’ve fought. Where we’ve bled. Where we’ve burned.
And now —
It’s gone.
Because I let it.
Because I couldn’t fight the doubt.
Because I couldn’t make him see.
And then —
I stop.
At the edge of the eastern corridor — where Mira died. Where she threw the locket. Where her blood seeped into the mortar.
I drop to my knees.
Not in grief.
Not in rage.
But in truth.
“You didn’t die for nothing,” I whisper, pressing my palm to the stone. “I know what he did. I know what they’re doing. And I’m not going to let them win.”
The sigil flares.
Warm. Alive. Remembering.
And then —
A whisper.
Not from me.
Not from the bond.
From the stone.
“You’re not alone.”
Mira’s voice.
But not her choice.
The magic — her magic — still lives here. In the blood. In the mortar. In the truth.
And it’s speaking.
“He’s afraid,” I whisper. “Lysander. He’s afraid of needing me. Of loving me. Of letting me in.”
“Then make him see,” the voice says. “Not with fire. Not with fury. But with truth.”
“And if he doesn’t believe me?”
“Then you burn anyway.”
I close my eyes.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe — just maybe — I don’t need him to believe me.
Maybe I just need to be the truth.
—
The Tribunal Chamber is packed by noon.
Wolves, Fae, vampires — all gathered for the emergency session. The air is thick with tension, the scent of bloodwine and iron and something deeper — fear. The bond murders. The assassins. Nyx’s scandal. It’s all boiling over.
I take my seat at the head.
Lysander beside me.
But not close.
Not touching.
Just… apart.
The bond hums — faint, distant, like a radio signal fading into static.
Malrik speaks first.
“This is unacceptable,” he says, voice smooth. “The King lies wounded. The witch is unstable. And now —” He gestures to Nyx, who sits at the far end, still wearing Lysander’s shirt. “— we have proof of infidelity. Of betrayal.”
Every eye turns to me.
I don’t flinch.
Just lift my chin, my gaze cold, defiant.
“She’s lying,” Lysander says, voice cutting through the murmurs. “The bite mark is glamoured. The shirt was stolen. And I didn’t spend the night with her.”
“And you expect us to believe that?” a Fae noble sneers. “You expect us to believe the word of a man who lets a witch with fire in her veins rule his heart?”
“I expect you to believe the truth,” he growls.
“There is no truth,” Malrik says, standing. “Only power. And right now —” He looks at me. “— the power is in chaos. The bond is weak. The Tribunal is fractured. And if we do not act —” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “— war will come.”
The chamber murmurs.
“Then what do you suggest?” a vampire asks.
“Separation,” Malrik says, voice calm. “For thirty days. To stabilize the bond. To prove loyalty. To restore order.”
Gasps ripple through the room.
“You can’t be serious,” Kael says, standing. “The bond sickness—”
“Will be managed,” Malrik interrupts. “With healers. With wards. With discipline.”
“And if we refuse?” I ask, voice low, dangerous.
“Then you exile her,” Malrik says, turning to Lysander. “Or you break the bond. And if you do —” He smiles. “— I will 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 the threat.
The trap.
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.”
Malrik doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, his eyes black with hate.
And then —
He turns.
And walks out.
—
The vote is unanimous.
Separation order.
Thirty days.
No contact. No proximity. No magic sharing.
The bond will be monitored. The sickness managed.
And if either of us breaks the terms —
The bond is severed.
And I’m exiled.
—
They escort me to the outer wing — a cold, forgotten part of the Keep, where the torches flicker and the stone sweats with damp. My new chambers are bare — a cot, a washbasin, a single window that looks out onto the northern cliffs.
They take my gloves.
My dagger.
My locket.
Everything.
And then —
They lock the door.
—
The first night is the worst.
Not because of the cold.
Not because of the silence.
But because of the absence.
The bond — my second heartbeat — is gone. Not broken. Not severed. Just… muffled. Like someone wrapped it in wet cloth and shoved it into the dark.
I press a hand to my chest.
Where the sigil should be pulsing.
Where the fire should be burning.
And feel — nothing.
Not pain.
Not rage.
Emptiness.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because I know what it means.
The curse is winning.
—
By dawn, the emptiness turns to pain.
It starts in my skull — a dull throb behind my eyes, like someone’s driving a nail through my temple. Then my joints. My muscles. My spine. Every nerve screaming, every breath a knife in my ribs.
I try to move.
But my limbs won’t obey.
My vision blurs.
My skin burns, then chills, then burns again.
“Circe?”
I turn.
Kael stands in the doorway, his gold eyes sharp, his jaw tight. “You look like hell.”
“I feel like it.” I press a hand to my temple. “The bond — it’s gone quiet. Not broken. Just… muffled.”
His expression darkens. “Bond sickness.”
“It can’t be.” I try to stand, but my knees buckle. “We’re not denying it. We’re not fighting. We’re—”
“Malrik’s still poisoning it,” Kael says, stepping forward. “The curse isn’t just about lies. It’s about fear. About doubt. About separation. And right now —” He gestures to me. “— you’re radiating it.”
“I’m not afraid,” I growl.
“You’re terrified.” He grabs my arm, steadying me. “Not of him. Of her. Of what happens if you let yourself need him. If you let yourself love him. If you let yourself live again.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“Then fix it,” I say, voice breaking.
“I can’t.” He lowers me onto the cot. “Only he can.”
“He’s not ready.”
“Then you’ll die.”
“I don’t care.”
“He does.”
And that stops me.
Because he’s right.
He does.
—
Days blur.
Night bleeds into dawn. Pain into numbness. Fire into ash.
I don’t eat.
I don’t sleep.
I just lie there — staring at the ceiling, feeling the bond flicker, feeling the curse feed on my fear, on my doubt, on my need to protect him.
And then —
On the seventh night —
I hear it.
A scream.
Not from me.
Not from the Keep.
From the war room.
Lysander.
He’s dying.
And I’m not there.
—
I don’t think.
I don’t plan.
I just move.
My magic surges — blood energy ripping from my palm, shattering the lock, blasting the door off its hinges. I run — boots striking stone, breath coming fast, heart pounding — through the corridors, past the guards, past the wolves, past the silence.
And then —
I see him.
Slumped in the war room chair, shirtless, skin pale, sweat-slicked, his gold eyes half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The bond — faint, distant, like a radio signal fading into static.
“Lysander.”
My voice cuts through the haze like a blade.
He tries to speak, but his tongue feels too thick. Too heavy.
“What’s wrong?” I demand, dropping to my knees beside him.
“The bond,” he manages. “It’s—”
“Silent.” I press a hand to his chest, where the sigil should be pulsing. “Malrik’s magic. It’s feeding on your fear. On your doubt. On your need to protect me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” I grip his shoulders. “You think if you push me away, if you pretend you don’t need me, you’ll keep me safe. But you’re killing yourself. And if you die—” My voice cracks. “I’ll burn this place to the ground.”
His breath hitches.
Because he knows I mean it.
“Then help me,” he whispers. “I can’t—”
“Shut up.” I slap him. Not hard. But sharp. A crack that cuts through the fever, the pain, the fear. “You don’t get to give up. You don’t get to die. Not after everything we’ve fought for. Not after everything I’ve lost.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because I’ve spent ten years believing I was strong alone.
And now —
Now I know I was wrong.
“I’m not letting you go,” I say, voice breaking. “Not to the curse. Not to Malrik. Not to your damn pride. You’re mine. And I’ll burn the world down to keep you.”
And then —
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. My tongue sweeps into his mouth, tasting, devouring, as if I’ve been starving for this. His body arches, pressing against me, his core aching, his magic flaring. My hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants—
And then —
A whisper.
Not from him.
Not from me.
From the bond.
A pulse of magic, sharp and sudden, rips through us both. We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“The curse,” he says, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
I look down.
The sigil on his chest is glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The runes on the war room’s edge — ancient wards etched into stone — ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“It knows us,” I whisper.
“It knows the bond,” he says. “And it’s trying to heal it.”
“How?”
“By forcing us to face it.” I cup his face, my thumb brushing his lower lip. “By making us stop fighting. Stop hiding. Stop lying.”
His breath hitches.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I say, 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 him.
And if that means destroying the man who framed us both —
Then so be it.
Because this time —
This time, I won’t run.
Not from the bond.
Not from the truth.
Not from him.
I’ll stand.
I’ll fight.
And I’ll burn the world down to keep him.