The dawn comes like a blade.
Not with light. Not with warmth. But with silence—thick, cloying, laced with Fae rot and something worse. Anticipation. The Keep is too quiet. No wolves howling. No guards patrolling. No whispers behind hands. Just stillness, like the world is holding its breath.
I stand at the edge of the courtyard, barefoot on cold stone, my black silk gown fluttering in the wind. The locket burns against my chest, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, in time with the bond 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.
Behind me, Lysander stands at the archway, his gold eyes blazing, his coat gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the hard lines of his collarbones, the faint scar across his throat. His side is bandaged, the wound still fresh, but he’s on his feet. He didn’t let the healers keep him down. Not for this. Not when it matters.
He’s here.
Not as a king.
Not as an Alpha.
But as my mate.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because I’ve spent ten years believing I was strong alone.
And now—
Now I know I was wrong.
—
The courtyard fills slowly.
Wolves first—silent, watchful, their eyes tracking me like prey. Then Fae—draped in silk and lies, their smiles sharp, their scents laced with glamour. Vampires come last—pale, elegant, their eyes black with hunger. They gather in the shadows, in the arches, on the balconies, their presence a wall of power and politics.
And at the center—
Malrik.
He stands at the dais, tall, silver-haired, his smile smooth, his eyes black with hate. He’s not alone. Nyx is beside him, still wearing Lysander’s shirt, still smiling like a serpent. But her eyes—flickering, uncertain—betray her. She knows. She knows the truth is coming. She knows the lie is crumbling.
And she’s afraid.
“You ready?” Kael asks, stepping beside me.
I don’t look at him. Just press a hand to the locket, feeling the truth beneath the metal.
“I was born ready,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. Just steps back, falling into formation. The pack parts as Lysander moves forward, boots striking stone, his presence a wall of heat and power. He stops beside me, close enough that our arms brush, close enough that the bond flares—warm, steady, alive.
But not touching.
Not yet.
“They’re waiting,” he says, voice low.
“Let them wait,” I reply. “Let them wonder. Let them doubt.”
He exhales, rough and broken. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know.” I turn to him. “But I have to do it *my* way.”
He studies me. Gold eyes blazing. Jaw tight. And then—
He nods.
“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.
—
Malrik steps forward, hands raised, his voice smooth as poison.
“Today,” he says, “we bear witness to the ancient rite of the Claiming Mark. A test of loyalty. A proof of bond. If the witch Circe is truly fated to our King, if their union is blessed by magic, then let the mark be made. Let the world see.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
But I don’t flinch.
Just lift my chin, my gaze cold, defiant.
“And if it fails?” a Fae noble calls.
Malrik smiles. “Then the bond is broken. The Tribunal is void. And the witch is exiled.”
My breath hitches.
Not from fear.
From rage.
Because he’s not just testing the bond.
He’s testing *me*.
Testing whether I’ll break. Whether I’ll run. Whether I’ll let him win.
And I won’t.
“Then let it begin,” I say, stepping forward.
Malrik’s smile falters.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
—
The ritual circle is carved into the stone—ancient, deep, etched with runes of truth, of blood, of binding. I step inside, bare feet on cold stone, the sigil on my wrist glowing faintly. Lysander follows, his presence a wall of heat and power. We stand across from each other, hands at our sides, eyes locked.
“This will hurt,” he says, voice low.
“I’ve been hurting for ten years,” I reply. “One more wound won’t kill me.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just lifts his hand.
And the blade appears.
Not steel.
Not silver.
But bone—wolf fang, sharpened to a point, etched with runes of unity. The Marking Knife. A relic of the first Alphas. A weapon of claiming.
He presses it to his palm.
Blood wells—dark, thick, pulsing with magic. Three drops fall into the circle, sizzling as they hit the stone. The runes ignite, tracing symbols of fire and fang, blood and bone.
Then he offers it to me.
I don’t hesitate.
I take the blade.
And cut.
Deep.
Blood drips from my palm, warm and thick, falling onto the stone, merging with his. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, pulsing—feeding on the blood, on the bond, on the magic. The air hums with energy, thick with the weight of what’s about to happen.
And then—
He steps forward.
Not to claim.
Not to dominate.
But to ask.
“Circe of the Hollow Coven,” he says, voice rough, “daughter of Elara, heir of blood, keeper of fire—do you stand here of your own will? Do you accept this bond? Do you accept *me*?”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not just asking for a mark.
He’s asking for my truth.
And I give it.
Not with words.
Not with promises.
But with memory.
I press my palm to his chest, where the sigil now glows faintly beneath his skin. “I am Circe of the Hollow Coven. I remember. I fight. I live. And I accept you—not as my king, not as my Alpha—but as my *mate*.”
The bond flares.
Not with pain.
With power.
And then—
He leans down.
And bites.
Not on the neck.
Not on the shoulder.
But on the pulse of my wrist—where the sigil burns, where the blood flows, where the bond is strongest.
Fire explodes through my veins.
Not pain.
Not fear.
But recognition.
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 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 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 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 mark burns.
Not with pain.
With power.
It spreads up my arm, a spiral of gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone, etching itself into my skin, into my soul. The bond flares—warm, steady, alive—and the runes on the circle ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone.
And then—
I look up.
And see it.
The crowd—silent, stunned, their eyes wide. Wolves on their knees. Fae with their heads bowed. Vampires with their fangs bared in awe.
And Malrik—
His face is pale.
His hands are clenched.
His smile—gone.
“It’s real,” someone whispers.
“The bond is true.”
“She’s the heir.”
“The bloodline lives.”
And then—
Nyx steps forward.
Still wearing the shirt.
Still smiling like a serpent.
But her voice—shaking.
“It’s not possible,” she says. “She’s a liar. A killer. She can’t be—”
“She is,” Lysander says, stepping beside me, his hand finding mine. “And if you touch her again—if you speak her name—if you even *look* at her with hate—I will end you.”
She doesn’t move.
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.
Malrik watches her go, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“This changes nothing,” he says, voice smooth. “The Tribunal is still fractured. The Veil is still at risk. And if we do not act—”
“Then you act,” I say, stepping forward. “Resign. Step down. Let the truth rule.”
He laughs—soft, melodic, like wind through dead leaves. “And you think I’ll let a witch with fire in her veins take my place?”
“Not just me,” I say, lifting the locket. “*Us*. The bond. The bloodline. The truth. And if you stand in our way—” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “—then you burn with the lie.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his eyes black with hate.
And then—
He turns.
And walks out.
—
The courtyard empties slowly.
Wolves first. Then Fae. Then vampires. But they don’t leave in silence. They whisper. They murmur. They speak of the mark. Of the bond. Of the truth.
And of me.
“She’s the heir.”
“The bloodline lives.”
“The King claimed her.”
“She’s his queen.”
I don’t listen.
Just stand there, my hand in Lysander’s, the mark still burning on my wrist, the locket pulsing against my chest.
And then—
He turns to me.
“You did it,” he says, voice rough.
“We did,” I correct.
He doesn’t argue.
Just 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 Keep.
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.