The bond flares between us, not with pain, not with fire, but with something deeper—recognition.
It’s not just healing. It’s awakening.
Lysander’s breath comes fast against my lips, his body trembling beneath my hands, his magic surging in time with mine. The runes along the war room walls burn brighter, pulsing with ancient power, tracing symbols of unity—fire and fang, blood and bone, witch and wolf. The cursed sigil in my wrist throbs, not with hunger now, but with memory. And for the first time since I stepped into this cursed Keep, I feel it—
Not just the bond.
But the bloodline.
It hums beneath my skin, older than the Hollow Coven, older than the war, older than the lies. A thread of magic woven into my veins, passed down from mother to daughter, sealed in blood, bound in fire. And it’s alive.
“You feel it,” I whisper, pulling back just enough to see his face. “The bloodline. The truth. It’s not just us. It’s them. The ones who came before.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, gold eyes blazing, pupils dilated, his breath hot on my skin. His hand finds my wrist, fingers pressing against the sigil, and I feel it—his pulse, racing, matching mine. Not from fear. Not from fever.
From knowing.
“Malrik didn’t just corrupt the sigil,” I say, voice low, urgent. “He severed the bloodline. Broke the chain. Made sure no true heir could rise. But he didn’t count on us. On the bond. On what happens when the magic remembers.”
Lysander swallows hard. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we’re not just fighting him.” I press my palm to his chest, where the sigil now glows faintly beneath his skin. “We’re fighting the lie. The silence. The erasure. And if we can trace the bloodline—if we can prove it’s still alive—then we don’t need his permission. We don’t need the Tribunal. We don’t need his approval.”
“We can break him,” he finishes.
I nod. “But we need proof. Not just magic. Not just memory. Blood. DNA. A traceable line.”
“And where do we find that?”
“In the archives.” I stand, pulling him up with me. “In the old records. In the blood oaths. In the bodies they tried to erase.”
He hesitates. “The Tribunal—”
“Can go to hell.” I grab his hand, lacing my fingers with his. “We’ve been playing by their rules. Hiding. Waiting. Letting them control the narrative. Not anymore. If they want to separate us, fine. But they don’t get to silence the truth.”
His jaw tightens. “And if they catch us?”
“Then we burn together.” I pull him toward the door. “But I’m not dying in a cell. Not while the bloodline still lives.”
—
The archives are colder than I remember.
The torches flicker low, casting long, shifting shadows across the shelves that stretch into darkness. Dust hangs in the air, thick and still, like time itself has been buried beneath the weight of parchment and forgotten oaths. My boots strike stone, too loud, too fast. Lysander follows close behind, his presence a wall of heat and power, his hand still gripping mine. The bond hums between us—low, steady, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Anticipation.
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 brittle parchment, ink still glowing faintly. I pull it out, unroll it slowly. The sigil pulses, not with hunger now—but with something deeper. Recognition.
It knows me.
Not just my blood.
Not just my magic.
But my doubt.
My fear.
My need.
“This is it,” I whisper. “The corrupted sigil. The one Malrik used to sever the bloodline. But it’s not just a curse. It’s a record. A map.”
Lysander leans over my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck. “A map to what?”
“To the truth.” I trace the lines with my fingertip. “See here? The branching lines. The names. The blood oaths. This isn’t just a spell. It’s a genealogy. A lineage. And if we can reverse the corruption—”
“We can trace the bloodline,” he finishes.
I nod. “And if we find a match—a living heir—then Malrik’s lies crumble. The Tribunal can’t exile me. They can’t break the bond. They can’t control us.”
He exhales, rough and broken. “And if we don’t?”
“Then we die knowing we tried.” I press my thumb to the center, letting a drop of blood fall. “But I’m not going down without a fight.”
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.
“Again,” Lysander says, voice rough. “Focus. Let it in.”
I close my eyes.
And then—
Another vision.
Not of fire. Not of blood.
Of a woman.
Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A sigil on her wrist—identical to mine. 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.
But not in pain.
In defiance.
“You are not of my blood,” she says, voice strong. “You are not of my line. You are nothing.”
Malrik smiles. “Then let me prove it.”
He raises a dagger—etched with the corrupted sigil—and plunges it into her chest.
She doesn’t scream.
Just falls.
And as she dies, she whispers—
“Find her. Protect her. The bloodline lives.”
The vision ends.
I collapse to my knees, sobbing.
Because I understand now.
She didn’t just die.
She protected me.
And she knew I’d find this.
“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, his arms wrapping around 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.
—
We don’t go back to the outer wing.
We don’t return to the war room.
We go to the Chamber of Whispers.
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 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 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.