The locket burns against my chest like a second heart.
Not from heat. Not from magic. But from weight. The weight of blood. Of memory. Of every witch who came before me—mothers, daughters, sisters—murdered, silenced, erased. Their lives pooled into this single drop, pulsing beneath the metal, whispering in a language only I can hear.
Remember us.
Finish what we started.
Burn him to ash.
Lysander’s hand is still on my back, his fingers splayed between my shoulder blades, his thumb brushing the edge of my spine. The bond hums between us—low, steady, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Anticipation. Not just for what we’ve found. But for what we’re about to do.
“We can’t go back,” I say, voice low, rough. “Not to the war room. Not to the Tribunal. Not to the Keep. Malrik will have eyes everywhere. He’ll know we’re coming. He’ll be waiting.”
Lysander doesn’t answer. Just turns me, slow, until I’m facing him. His gold eyes blaze in the silver torchlight, pupils dilated, jaw tight. His scent—storm and iron, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive—wraps around me like a vow.
“Then where?” he asks.
“The Chamber of Whispers.” I press the locket to my chest. “It’s the only place the magic can’t be corrupted. The only place the bond is pure. And if we’re going to do this—if we’re going to bind the bloodline, claim the truth, break his curse—then we do it there.”
He studies me. “And if it’s a trap?”
“Then we walk into it together.” I step into him, my body pressing against his, the bond flaring between us, warm and steady. “You said you’d burn with me. Now’s your chance.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then—
He leans down.
And 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.
—
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. 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 locket 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 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 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.
—
The locket glows at the center of the circle, pulsing in time with the runes, with the bond, with the rhythm of our breath. I open it slowly, revealing the single drop of blood—old, dark, but still alive. Still remembering.
“This is it,” I say, voice low. “The blood oath. The one that binds the bloodline. The one that proves I’m who I say I am.”
Lysander watches me, gold eyes blazing. “And if it doesn’t work?”
“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 blood merges.
Not with magic.
With memory.
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 your 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 circle, 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 runes fade.
The torches dim.
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.