The silence after the ritual is heavier than any spell.
Not peaceful. Not calm. But charged—like the air before a storm, thick with the weight of what we’ve seen, what we know, what we’re about to do. The Chamber of Whispers hums around us, the runes still glowing faintly along the floor, the black quartz drinking in the torchlight, swallowing sound, breath, even time. Lysander kneels beside me, his hand on my back, his breath warm against my neck. The bond flares between us—not with pain, not with fire, but with something deeper. Alignment.
We’re not just mated.
We’re awake.
And that changes everything.
“She knew,” I whisper, voice raw. “Mira. She knew I’d find this. Knew I’d need her blood. Her magic. Her truth.”
Lysander doesn’t answer. Just pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me, his chest to my back, his scent—storm and iron, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive—wrapping around me like a vow.
And then—
I feel it.
A pulse.
Not from the bond.
Not from the sigil.
From the wall.
I turn, slow, my breath catching. The stone where Mira threw the locket—where her blood seeped into the mortar—glows faintly, a soft silver light pulsing beneath the surface. It’s not just a memory.
It’s a key.
“It’s her,” I say, standing. “Her magic. It’s still here. Still active.”
Lysander rises with me, his gold eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying she didn’t just leave a clue.” I press my palm to the stone, where the glow is strongest. “She left a gate. A way in. A way to the truth.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“Then we walk into it together.” I turn to him, my voice low, dangerous. “You said you’d burn with me. Now’s your chance.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Just steps forward, pressing his hand to the stone beside mine. Our fingers don’t touch, but the bond flares—warm, steady, alive—and the wall shivers.
Not with magic.
With memory.
The stone cracks.
Not violently. Not with force. But like something waking—slow, deliberate, ancient. A seam splits down the center, widening inch by inch, revealing darkness beyond. Cold air spills out, thick with the scent of earth and old blood and something deeper. Power.
“You first,” Lysander says, stepping back.
“No.” I meet his gaze. “We go together.”
And then—
We step through.
—
The chamber beyond is not stone.
Not torchlight.
Not time.
It’s a memory.
Or a dream.
Or something older.
The walls are made of bone—human, witch, wolf—fused together in a spiral that rises into darkness. The floor is dirt, soft and warm, pulsing like a heartbeat. Torches burn with silver flame, casting long, shifting shadows that move on their own. And at the center—
A pool.
Not water.
Blood.
Thick, dark, swirling with faint silver threads. It pulses in time with the floor, with the walls, with the bond beneath my skin. And floating in the center—
A locket.
Not broken.
Not cracked.
Whole.
And glowing.
“This is not a place,” Lysander says, voice low, rough. “This is a ritual.”
“No.” I step forward, my boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. “It’s a sanctuary. A place where the first witches bound the bloodline. Where they sealed the truth.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I feel it.” I press a hand to my chest, where the sigil flares, warm and alive. “It’s in my blood. In my bones. In my soul.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just follows as I move toward the pool, his presence a wall of heat and power, his magic flaring at his fingertips. The air hums with energy, thick with the weight of what’s been buried here. The first witches. The original bloodline. The ones who built the Hollow Coven. The ones Malrik tried to erase.
And then—
I see her.
Not in the flesh.
Not in memory.
In spirit.
She stands at the edge of the pool, tall, dark-haired, her eyes sharp, her sigil glowing faintly on her wrist—identical to mine. She wears a robe of black silk, her hands folded, her expression calm, unreadable.
“Mother?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
Just lifts her hand, pointing to the locket.
“It’s not just hers,” I say, turning to Lysander. “It’s ours. The bloodline. The bond. The truth. It’s all tied to that.”
“And if we take it?”
“Then we wake the past.” I step forward. “And burn the lie.”
—
The pool is deeper than it looks.
Not with water.
With memory.
My boots sink into the blood, warm and thick, pulling at my legs like hands. The scent is overwhelming—iron, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something older. Life. The bond flares, not with pain, but with recognition, as if the blood knows me, knows my magic, knows my bloodline.
And then—
I hear it.
A whisper.
Not from the chamber.
Not from the spirit.
From the blood.
“You are the last.”
Not my mother’s voice.
Not Mira’s.
Older.
Darker.
“The last of the Hollow line. The last who carries the blood. The last who remembers.”
“I remember,” I whisper.
“Then prove it.”
“How?”
“By giving what you took.”
My breath hitches.
Because I know what it wants.
Not just my blood.
Not just my magic.
But my truth.
“Lysander,” I say, not turning. “I need you to do something.”
“Anything.”
“If I don’t come back—if I sink—if the blood takes me—” I pause, my voice breaking. “—you take the locket. You break the curse. You burn Malrik to ash. And you don’t stop. Not for me. Not for anyone.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, pressing his palm to the small of my back. “You’re not dying today, Circe. Not while I still draw breath.”
And then—
I step into the pool.
The blood rises to my waist, warm and thick, pulling at me, whispering, remember, remember, remember. The sigil on my wrist flares, pulsing in time with the heartbeat of the chamber. I reach for the locket—slow, deliberate—and the moment my fingers brush the metal—
Fire.
Not pain.
Not fear.
But memory.
Images flood my mind—witches in a circle, hands raised, 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 gasp, stumbling back, the blood pulling at me, whispering, more, more, more.
And then—
Another.
Not fire.
Not 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.
It’s not just one woman.
It’s all of them.
Every witch who came before.
Every mother.
Every daughter.
Every one of them murdered by Malrik.
Every one of them silenced.
Every one of them erased.
And then—
The voice speaks again.
“You are the last.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Then claim what is yours.”
“How?”
“By giving what you took.”
My breath hitches.
Because I know what it wants.
Not just my blood.
Not just my magic.
But my truth.
And I give it.
Not with words.
Not with spells.
But with memory.
I press my palm to the locket, letting my blood drip onto the metal, and I whisper—
“I am Circe of the Hollow Coven. Daughter of Elara. Heir of blood. Keeper of fire. I remember. I fight. I live.”
The locket glows.
Not silver.
Not black.
But gold.
And then—
The blood rises.
Not to pull me under.
But to lift me.
It wraps around me, warm and thick, lifting me from the pool, carrying me to the edge, where Lysander catches me, his arms tight around me, his breath hot on my skin.
“You’re back,” he says, voice rough.
“I never left.” I press the locket to my chest. “I was just remembering.”
—
The spirit is gone.
The chamber is silent.
But the locket—
It hums.
Not with magic.
With power.
“It’s not just a relic,” I say, opening it slowly. “It’s a key. A bloodline trace. A way to prove I’m who I say I am.”
Inside—
Not a picture.
Not a feather.
But a single drop of blood.
Old. Dark. But still pulsing.
And beneath it—
An inscription.
“For the last. For the fire. For the truth.”
“Mira,” I whisper.
“She knew you’d come,” Lysander says, stepping closer. “Knew you’d need this.”
“And now we have it.” I close the locket, pressing it to my chest. “Now we have proof. Not just magic. Not just memory. Blood. DNA. A traceable line.”
“And if Malrik tries to destroy it?”
“Then he destroys his own lie.” I turn to him, my voice low, dangerous. “Because this blood—this locket—this truth—it’s not just mine. It’s ours. The bond. The Tribunal. The war. It all hinges on this.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Then we don’t let him touch it.”
“No.” I step into him, my body pressing against his, the bond flaring between us, warm and steady. “We make him come to us. We make him see. We make him burn.”
He exhales, rough and broken.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not soft.
Not slow.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if he’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against him, my core aching, my magic flaring. His hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants—
And then—
A whisper.
Not from him.
Not from me.
From the locket.
A pulse of magic, sharp and sudden, rips through us both. We freeze, breaking the kiss, our breath coming fast, our eyes wide.
“The bloodline,” I say, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
He looks down.
The sigil on my wrist is glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The runes on the chamber’s edge—ancient wards etched into stone—ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“It knows us,” he whispers.
“It knows the bond,” I say. “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 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.