The air in the Tribunal Chamber is thick with silence—cloying, heavy, laced with the scent of bloodwine, iron, and something older. Anticipation. Not the kind that hums before a storm, but the kind that settles like ash after one. The kind that knows fire has already come. That it has already burned.
And I am the spark.
I stand at the head of the chamber, barefoot on cold stone, my black silk gown fluttering in the wind that isn’t there. The marking still burns on my wrist—a spiral of gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone—pulsing in time with my heartbeat, with the bond, with the Bloodline’s Shadow now coiled beneath my skin like a sleeping serpent. I can feel them all—the lost, the silenced, the murdered. Their magic hums in my veins, their voices whisper in my mind, their rage fuels my breath.
I am not just Circe.
I am the revenant.
Lysander stands beside me, his gold eyes blazing, his side still bandaged, his presence a wall of heat and power. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. Just stands—close enough that our arms brush, close enough that the bond flares, warm and steady, alive. But not in front of me. Not behind me.
Beside me.
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 chamber 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 arches, on the balconies, in the shadows, their presence a wall of power and politics. But no one speaks. No one moves. They just watch. Wait.
And then—
Malrik steps through the doors.
Not alone.
Not defeated.
But flanked by two Fae nobles—tall, silver-haired, their eyes black with hunger, their hands raised in silent challenge. He wears a long coat of midnight silk, his smile smooth, his gaze locked on me. And behind him—
Nyx.
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’re late,” I say, voice low, rough.
Malrik doesn’t flinch. Just steps forward, boots striking stone. “I was delayed. Matters of state, you understand.”
“And what state is that?” I ask, stepping forward. “The state of your lies? The state of your blood? The state of your *fear*?”
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
He smiles. “You think this changes anything? A mark? A locket? A dead healer’s magic?”
“I think it changes everything,” I say, lifting my wrist. The mark glows—gold and black, pulsing with power. “This isn’t just a claim. It’s a *judgment*. A reckoning. And you—” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “—are on trial.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
“You cannot—” a Fae noble begins.
“She can,” Lysander says, stepping beside me, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “The bond is confirmed. The bloodline is proven. And if Malrik wishes to challenge it—then let him do so. Before the Tribunal. Before the pack. Before the world.”
Malrik’s smile falters.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
“Then let it begin,” he says, voice smooth. “Let the witch prove her truth. Let her face the Trial of Fire.”
My breath hitches.
Not from fear.
From rage.
The Trial of Fire is an ancient rite—a test of purity, of blood, of magic. A witch must walk through flame, unburned, untouched, her truth proven by the fire’s refusal to consume her. But it’s not just a test.
It’s a trap.
Because fire doesn’t just test.
It remembers.
And mine remembers the night my coven burned.
“I accept,” I say, lifting my chin. “But not just for me. For every witch you silenced. For every mother you murdered. For every daughter you erased. I will walk through fire. And I will live.”
Malrik’s smile returns.
Sharp. Cold. Victorious.
“Then let the trial begin.”
—
The courtyard is cleared in minutes.
Stones are laid in a perfect circle—twelve of them, etched with runes of truth, of blood, of binding. Torches are lit, their flames fed with oil and ash, their light casting long, shifting shadows. The air hums with magic, thick with the weight of what’s about to happen. Wolves line the edges, silent, watchful. Fae stand in the arches, their eyes black with hunger. Vampires linger in the shadows, their fangs bared in anticipation.
And at the center—
The fire.
Not kindled. Not lit.
Summoned.
It rises from the stone, a column of flame that twists and writhes like a living thing, its color not orange, not red, but black and gold—fire and fang, blood and bone. It pulses in time with the bond, with the mark, with the Bloodline’s Shadow now coiled beneath my skin.
Malrik stands at the edge, hands raised, his voice smooth. “Circe of the Hollow Coven, accused of deception, of manipulation, of witchcraft—do you stand here of your own will? Do you accept the Trial of Fire?”
“I do,” I say, stepping forward.
“Then walk,” he says. “And may the fire judge you.”
I don’t hesitate.
I step into the flames.
—
Fire explodes through my veins.
Not pain.
Not fear.
But memory.
Images flood my mind—twelve years old, cowering in the cellar as flames consume the Hollow Coven. My mother’s scream. The smell of burning flesh. The heat searing my skin, my hair, my soul. I press my hands to the stone, sobbing, screaming, begging for it to stop—
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 gasp, stumbling forward, the fire pulling at me, whispering, burn, burn, burn.
And then—
Another.
Not of me.
Not of my mother.
Of 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 sob, pressing a hand to my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.
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.
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.
Not one. Not two.
Hundreds.
“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 fire parts.
Not with force.
Not with magic.
But with recognition.
It splits down the center, a path opening through the flames, the heat curling around me like a lover’s touch, the black and gold fire pulsing in time with the bond, with the mark, with the Bloodline’s Shadow now roaring to life beneath my skin.
I stand.
Barefoot. Unburned. Untouched.
And I walk.
Through fire.
Through memory.
Through truth.
—
The silence after I step out 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 me, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“It’s not possible,” Nyx whispers, stepping forward. “She should be ash. She should be dead.”
“She is not,” Lysander says, stepping beside me, his hand finding mine. “And if you speak her name again—if you 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.
—
Malrik doesn’t speak.
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 fire. Of the mark. Of the truth.
And of me.
“She walked through fire.”
“Unburned.”
“Untouched.”
“The bloodline lives.”
“She’s the heir.”
“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.