The locket rests against my chest like a brand.
Not heavy. Not cold. But alive—pulsing in time with my heartbeat, in time with the bond, in time with the bloodline that now hums beneath my skin. It’s not just proof. It’s power. A weapon. A vow. And for the first time since I stepped into this cursed Keep, I don’t feel like a ghost.
I feel like a queen.
Lysander watches me from across the Chamber of Whispers, his gold eyes sharp, his jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken since we left the blood pool. Not a word. Just followed, silent and steady, his presence a wall of heat and power. The bond flares between us—low, steady, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Need.
He wants to touch me.
Not to claim.
Not to control.
But to know.
To feel the truth in my veins, in my breath, in the way my magic now sings with something older than vengeance.
And I want to let him.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
“We need to move,” I say, voice low, rough. “Malrik knows we’re close. He’ll be watching. Waiting. And if he finds the locket—”
“Then we burn him before he can take it,” Lysander says, stepping forward. “You don’t have to do this alone, Circe.”
“I’ve been doing it alone for ten years,” I snap, turning away. “I don’t need you playing hero now.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just steps closer, until his breath is warm on my neck, his chest pressing against my back. The bond flares—hot, urgent—and I feel it—the way his body betrays him, the way his cock strains against the fabric of his pants, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to grab me, to spin me around, to claim me.
“You think this is about heroism?” he growls, voice low, dangerous. “You think I’m doing this because I want to play the savior? I’m doing this because you’re mine. Because the bond is real. Because every time you walk away, it feels like my soul is being ripped out.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s right.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“Then why did you let them separate us?” I whisper, turning to face him. “Why did you let them lock me away? Why did you let Malrik make you doubt me?”
His jaw tightens.
“Because I was afraid,” he says, voice breaking. “Afraid that if I let myself need you, if I let myself love you, I’d lose you. Like I lost her. Like I lost everything.”
“And now?”
“Now I know I already have.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’re not just my mate. You’re my truth. My fire. My life. And I won’t lose you to fear. Not again.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because he’s not just saying it.
He means it.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
“Then prove it,” I whisper.
“How?”
“By letting me do this my way.” I step back, breaking his touch. “By trusting me. By standing behind me, not in front of me. By letting me lead.”
He studies me. Gold eyes blazing. Jaw tight. And then—
He nods.
“Together,” he says. “But not like before. Not with lies. Not with silence. With truth. With fire.”
I don’t answer.
Just turn and walk toward the door.
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.
—
The Keep is too quiet.
No wolves sparring. No guards patrolling. No whispers behind hands. Just silence—thick, cloying, laced with Fae rot and something worse. Manipulation.
I know that silence.
It’s the calm before the storm.
Malrik is waiting.
And he’s not alone.
We move through the shadows, boots silent on stone, magic flaring at our fingertips. Lysander stays close—too close—but he doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. Just follows, a wall of heat and power at my back. The bond hums between us—low, steady, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Anticipation.
And then—
I feel it.
A flicker.
Not from the Keep.
Not from the pack.
From the war room.
I move fast.
Boots striking stone. Heart pounding. Magic flaring at my fingertips.
And then—
I see them.
Kael and Nyx.
Standing in the center of the war room, her back to the map table, his hands fisted at his sides. She’s still wearing Lysander’s shirt. Still smiling like a serpent. But her eyes—black with hate—flick to me the second I step inside.
“You’re early,” she says, voice smooth. “I was just telling Kael how much I enjoyed last night.”
Kael doesn’t flinch.
Just turns, gold eyes sharp, jaw tight. “She’s lying,” he says, stepping beside me. “The bite mark’s glamoured. The shirt was stolen. And you—” He looks at Nyx. “You’re a puppet. A pawn. And Malrik’s going to discard you the second you’re useless.”
She laughs—soft, melodic, like wind through dead leaves. “And you’re a Beta who thinks he can protect a king who doesn’t need him.”
“I don’t need to protect him,” Kael says, voice low. “I need to protect her.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not just saying it.
He means it.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
“Then you’re already too late,” Nyx says, stepping forward. “Because the King has made his choice. And it’s not her.”
“He made it ten years ago,” I say, stepping forward. “When he burned my coven. When he let Malrik frame me. When he made me a ghost.”
“And now?” she asks, tilting her head. “Now that he’s seen the truth? Now that he knows what you are?”
“Now,” I say, lifting the locket, letting it catch the torchlight, “he knows what you are.”
Her smile falters.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
“You think that changes anything?” she says, voice smooth. “You think a single test will undo ten years of work? I am of the Unseelie blood. I am of the High Court. And you—” She looks at me. “You are nothing. A witch. A liar. A killer.”
“And you’re a liar too,” Kael growls. “You think we don’t know? You think we don’t see the way Malrik controls you? The way he feeds you lies? The way he uses you to drive a wedge between them?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her eyes black with hate.
And then—
She turns.
And walks out.
—
The silence after she leaves is heavier than any battle cry.
It doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like the calm before the storm—thick, still, charged with something darker than magic. Kael watches her go, fists clenched, jaw tight. Lysander steps beside me, his presence a wall of heat and power. The bond hums between us—low, steady, alive—but beneath it, something darker pulses. Need.
“She’s not done,” Kael says, voice low. “Malrik won’t let her fail. Not now. Not when we’re this close.”
“Then we move first,” I say, stepping to the map table. “We expose him. In front of the Tribunal. In front of the pack. In front of everyone.”
“With what?” Kael asks. “A locket? A drop of blood? A dead healer’s magic?”
“With truth.” I press the locket to the center of the map. “With the bloodline. With the bond. With the proof that I’m who I say I am.”
“And if they don’t believe you?”
“Then we make them.” I turn to Lysander. “You said you’d stand with me. Not in front of me. Not behind me. With me.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Just steps forward, pressing his hand to the locket, lacing his fingers with mine. The bond flares—warm, steady, alive—and the runes on the map table ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
“Together,” he says.
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.
—
The Tribunal Chamber is packed by dusk.
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… present.
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 the locket, still resting on the map table. “—we have proof of deception. Of manipulation. Of witchcraft.”
Every eye turns to me.
I don’t flinch.
Just lift my chin, my gaze cold, defiant.
“She’s not lying,” Lysander says, voice cutting through the murmurs. “The locket is real. The bloodline is real. And she—” He looks at me. “—is the last of the Hollow Coven. The heir. The truth.”
“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.
“The claiming mark,” Malrik says, voice calm. “A public ritual. A test of loyalty. If she truly is his mate, if the bond is real, then let him mark her. Let the world see.”
Gasps ripple through the room.
“You can’t be serious,” Kael says, standing. “The bond is already confirmed. The Tribunal—”
“Is failing,” Malrik interrupts. “And if we do not restore order, if we do not prove loyalty, then the Veil will fall. The humans will know. And we will all burn.”
“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.
Claiming mark.
At dawn.
In the courtyard.
Before the pack.
Before the Tribunal.
Before the world.
And if the bond fails—
The bond is severed.
And I’m exiled.
—
That night, I don’t sleep.
I stand on the balcony of my chambers, barefoot, my black silk gown fluttering in the cold wind. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly—not with fear, not with pain, but with power. The locket burns against my chest, pulsing with every heartbeat. I press a hand to it, feeling the truth beneath the metal.
Not just mine.
Not just Lysander’s.
But ours.
And then—
I feel it.
A presence.
Not behind me.
Not beside me.
But inside me.
The bond flares—warm, steady, alive—and I know.
He’s here.
“You’re up late,” Lysander says, stepping behind me.
“I didn’t sleep,” I reply, not turning. “I keep seeing Mira’s face. The way she looked at me the night she told me to run. Like she already knew she’d die for it.”
My chest tightens.
“She didn’t die for nothing,” he says, stepping closer. “She gave you the truth. And now we have it.”
“We have pieces,” I correct. “Not the whole picture. Malrik’s still out there. Still watching. Still waiting to break us.”
“Then we don’t give him the chance.” He reaches out, slow, and lifts my wrist. The sigil pulses beneath his fingers, warm, alive. “We move first. We strike. We burn his lies to ash before he can use them.”
I turn to him, my dark eyes blazing. “And how do you propose we do that? Walk into the Fae Court and accuse a Seelie prince of treason? They’ll laugh us out of the room.”
“Then we don’t go to them.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “We make them come to us. We expose him here. In front of the Tribunal. In front of the pack. In front of everyone.”
“With what?” she challenges. “A cursed sigil? A feather? A dead healer’s blood in the mortar?”
“With you.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “With your truth. With your magic. With the bond that ties us—not as enemies, not as lies, but as mated.”
Her breath hitches.
“You don’t get to say that,” she whispers. “You don’t get to act like this changes everything.”
“It doesn’t change what I did,” I say, voice rough. “I gave the order to burn your coven. I let Malrik frame you. I made you a ghost. But it changes what I am. And what I’ll do to fix it.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Just stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her scent—fire and thyme, yes, but beneath it, something sweeter, something alive—wrapping around me like a vice.
And then—
She leans in.
Not to kiss me.
But to press her forehead to mine, her breath warm on my skin.
“Then prove it,” she whispers. “Not with words. Not with promises. With action. With fire.”
“I will.” I kiss her temple, slow, tender. “But not yet. Not until we’re ready.”
She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Why wait?”
“Because Malrik’s watching,” I say. “And if we move too soon, he’ll vanish. He’ll hide. He’ll make us look like fools. But if we let him think you’re still broken, still doubting, still hating me—then he’ll get careless.”
“And when he does?”
“Then we destroy him.” I step back, my voice dropping to a growl. “Together.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, her gaze sharp, unreadable.
But the bond—the bond hums between us, warm and steady.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just maybe—she’s not the enemy.
Maybe she’s the only one who can save me.
—
The attack comes at midnight.
Not with fanfare. Not with a siege. But with silence.
I’m in my chambers, maps spread across the table, my back to the door, hands braced on the edge, when the bond screams.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Need.
I’m moving before I think, boots striking stone, magic flaring at my fingertips. The corridors are dark, the torches guttering, the air thick with the scent of blood and iron. By the time I reach the eastern hall, the fight has already begun.
Wolves howl. Blades clash. Magic crackles through the air like lightning.
And in the center—
Circe.
She’s surrounded.
Three assassins—cloaked in shadow, faces hidden, their blades etched with the same corrupted sigil from the archives. They move like smoke, fast, precise, their magic laced with Fae rot. One slashes at her throat—she ducks, counters with a brutal twist, snapping the man’s wrist. Another lunges for her back—she spins, elbow driving into the assassin’s ribs, sending him crashing into the wall. But the third—
He’s faster.
He’s already inside her guard, blade raised, aimed for the heart—
And I’m not fast enough.
My magic surges—blood energy ripping from my palm—but I won’t make it.
Time slows.
The blade descends.
Circe doesn’t flinch.
And then—
I move.
Not with magic.
With my body.
I throw myself between them.
The blade sinks into my side.
Fire explodes through my ribs, white-hot, blinding. I gasp, stumbling, blood welling beneath my fingers, black in the torchlight. The assassin pulls back, surprised, but I don’t let him recover.
I grab his wrist, twist—
And snap it.
He screams.
I don’t care.
My other hand finds his throat, magic surging, blood energy ripping through him like a blade. He convulses, eyes wide, then collapses, lifeless.
Behind me, Circe roars.
Not pain.
Rage.
She moves like a storm—fists, teeth, claws—tearing through the remaining assassins with brutal efficiency. One tries to run—she catches him by the neck, slams him into the wall, and breaks his spine with a single twist.
Silence.
Blood pools on the stone. The torches flicker. The bond hums—wild, frantic, screaming with pain and power and something deeper.
And then—
She’s at my side.
“Lysander.” Her voice is raw. “No.”
I try to speak, but blood fills my mouth. I cough, dark and thick, staining the front of my gown. My vision blurs. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, pulsing—feeding on the wound, on the blood, on the bond.
“Don’t move,” she growls, hands pressing against the wound. “Don’t you dare move.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, blood on my lips.
She lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and carries me through the Keep, boots striking stone, her breath coming fast. The bond flares with every step, every heartbeat, every breath. I press my face into her chest, her scent flooding me—fire and thyme, iron and power—anchoring me, keeping me from slipping into the dark.
“Hold on,” she says, voice rough. “Just hold on.”
“I’m not letting go,” I whisper.
—
The infirmary is cold, the air thick with the scent of herbs and iron. She lays me on the cot, hands still pressing against the wound, her jaw clenched, her eyes blazing with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“Kael!” she roars. “Now!”
Footsteps. Boots on stone. Kael bursts in, followed by two healers, their hands glowing with magic.
“He’s lost too much blood,” one says, voice tight. “The blade nicked his lung. He needs healing. Now.”
“Do it,” Circe growls.
They move fast—cleansing the wound, sealing the tear, pouring magic into my body. The sigil on my wrist pulses, feeding on the healing, on the bond, on the blood. I feel it—every pulse, every breath, every flicker of magic—as if it’s not just my body being mended, but my soul.
And then—
It’s over.
The healers step back. “He’ll live,” one says. “But he needs rest. No magic. No movement.”
Circe doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, her hand still on my side, her thumb brushing the edge of the bandage. Her eyes are dark, but beneath them—something softer. Something raw.
“You could’ve died,” she says, voice low. “You should’ve died.”
“And you would’ve,” I whisper. “If I hadn’t.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Just cups my face, her thumb brushing my lower lip. “Why?”
“Because you’re mine,” I say, voice breaking. “And I’m not done hating you yet.”
A ghost of a smile.
Then—
She leans in.
And kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
But hungry. Desperate. A claiming. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, devouring, as if she’s been starving for this. My body arches, pressing against her, my core aching, my magic flaring. Her hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants—
And then—
A whisper.
Not from her.
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,” she says, voice rough. “It’s reacting.”
I look down.
The sigil on her lower back is glowing brighter, pulsing in time with the bond. The runes on the infirmary’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,” she says. “And it’s trying to heal it.”
“How?”
“By forcing us to face it.” She cups my face, her thumb brushing my lower lip. “By making us stop fighting. Stop hiding. Stop lying.”
My 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 she’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.”
She leans in, her 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 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 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 her.