The power doesn’t settle. It roars.
Not in my ears. Not in my chest. But in my blood—thick, ancient, singing with the voices of every witch who came before me. The Bloodline’s Heir isn’t just a title. It’s a living thing, coiled beneath my skin, pulsing in time with the mark on my wrist, with the locket against my heart, with the bond that now burns between me and Lysander like a storm made flesh.
I feel them all.
Mother. Mira. The daughters. The sisters. The silenced. The murdered. The erased.
And they’re not ghosts.
They’re fire.
I stand at the edge of the balcony, barefoot on cold stone, my black silk gown fluttering in the wind. The Keep sprawls below—shadowed courtyards, torch-lit corridors, the war room still glowing with activity. Wolves patrol. Fae whisper. Vampires watch. And somewhere beyond the walls, Malrik waits. I can feel him—like a thorn in the dark, like a lie in the blood. He’s not gone. He’s gathering. Planning. And when he strikes, it won’t be with blades.
It’ll be with truth.
Twisted. Corrupted. Weaponized.
And I’ll be ready.
—
Lysander finds me there, silent, his boots striking stone, his presence a wall of heat and power. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch me. Just stands beside me, close enough that our arms brush, close enough that the bond flares—warm, 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.
“You’re not sleeping,” he says, voice low.
“Neither are you,” I reply, not turning.
He exhales, rough and broken. “The healers said your magic is unstable. That the Heir… it’s changing you.”
“It’s not changing me,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket. “It’s awakening me.”
“And if it consumes you?”
“Then it consumes me.” I turn to him, my dark eyes blazing. “But it won’t. I’m not just Circe. I’m the fire. I’m the truth. I’m the heir. And if the cost of stopping Malrik is my soul—then I’ll pay it.”
His jaw tightens.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, voice rough.
“I know.” I step into him, my body pressing against his, the bond flaring between us, warm and steady. “But I have to do it my way.”
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.”
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 war room is colder than I remember.
The torches flicker low, casting long, shifting shadows across the stone. Maps are scattered across the table, ink smudged, edges torn. The scent of blood and iron still lingers in the mortar, a ghost of the assassins’ last stand. Kael stands at the far end, arms crossed, gold eyes sharp, jaw tight. He doesn’t speak as we enter. Just watches. Waits.
“We have a problem,” he says, stepping forward. “The Fae High Court has issued a summons. They’re demanding a Tribunal session. Tonight.”
My breath hitches.
“And if we refuse?”
“Then they declare us in violation of the Veil Accord,” Kael says. “They send enforcers. They strip Lysander of his title. They exile you.”
Lysander’s wolf snarls.
But he holds it.
Because he sees it now.
Not just the threat.
The trap.
“They want me gone,” I say, stepping to the map table. “They want the bond broken. They want the truth buried.”
“And Malrik’s behind it,” Lysander growls.
“Of course he is,” I say, lifting the locket. “But this time, we don’t run. We don’t hide. We go to them. We face them. We make them see.”
Kael shakes his head. “It’s a death sentence. You walk into the Fae Court, and they’ll tear you apart with words before you even reach the dais.”
“Then we give them fire,” I say, voice low. “We give them truth. We give them the bloodline.”
“And if it’s not enough?”
“Then it’s not enough,” I say, turning to him. “But I’d rather burn standing than live on my knees.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps back, falling into formation.
And then—
We move.
—
The Fae Court is not a building.
It’s a dream.
Or a nightmare.
Carved into the heart of a mountain beneath Lyon, the chamber rises into darkness, its ceiling lost in shadow. The walls are made of living crystal, pulsing with faint silver light, reflecting endless versions of ourselves—dozens, hundreds, all watching, all whispering. The air hums with glamour, thick with the scent of honey and decay, of pleasure and pain. And at the center—
The dais.
Not stone. Not wood. But bone—fused from centuries of fallen Fae, etched with runes of power, of lies, of control. The High Court sits in a circle, their faces beautiful, their eyes black with hunger. Malrik stands at the head, tall, silver-haired, his smile smooth, his gaze locked on me. And beside 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.
“Welcome,” Malrik says, voice smooth. “Circe of the Hollow Coven. Lysander, King of the Northern Pack. You stand before the Fae High Court, summoned for violation of the Veil Accord, for manipulation of the Tribunal, for deception of a fated bond.”
I don’t flinch.
Just step forward, barefoot on cold crystal, my black silk gown fluttering in the wind that isn’t there. The mark on my wrist burns—gold and black, pulsing with power. The locket rests against my chest, the drop of blood still alive, still remembering.
“I stand here of my own will,” I say, voice low, rough. “Not as a prisoner. Not as a witch. But as the Bloodline’s Heir. As the last of the Hollow Coven. As the truth you’ve tried to bury.”
A murmur ripples through the Court.
Malrik smiles. “And what truth is that?”
“The truth,” I say, lifting the locket, “that you murdered my mother. That you slaughtered my coven. That you framed me. That you’ve been poisoning the Tribunal for ten years. And that you’re not of the bloodline.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
“You have no proof,” a Fae noble sneers.
“I have this,” I say, opening the locket. The single drop of blood rises, floating in the air, pulsing like a second heart. “Mira’s blood. Her magic. Her truth. And if you doubt me—” I press my palm to the blood, letting my own drip onto it—“then let the blood speak.”
The air hums.
The blood glows—gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. And then—
Images flood the chamber—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.
The Court is silent.
And then—
Another.
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.
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 gasp, clutching my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.
And then—
Malrik speaks.
“Lies,” he says, voice smooth. “A trick. A glamour. You think a drop of blood can prove anything?”
“It can,” I say, stepping forward, “when it’s tied to the bloodline. When it’s tied to the bond. When it’s tied to the truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That you’re not of the Hollow blood,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “That you’re not of any blood. That you’re a fraud. A parasite. A liar.”
“And you are?” he sneers.
“I am Circe of the Hollow Coven,” I say, lifting my wrist. The mark glows—gold and black, pulsing with power. “Daughter of Elara. Heir of blood. Keeper of fire. I remember. I fight. I live. And you—” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “—are on trial.”
The Court murmurs.
Malrik’s smile falters.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
And then—
He moves.
Not with magic.
Not with force.
But with a single word.
“Prove it.”
My breath hitches.
Because I know what he wants.
Not just a test.
Not just a trial.
But a sacrifice.
“You want proof?” I say, stepping forward. “Then let me give it to you.”
I press my palm to the locket.
And I bleed.
Not from a cut.
Not from a wound.
But from the soul.
Blood drips from my palm—dark, thick, pulsing with magic—falling onto the crystal floor, spreading in a spiral of gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. The sigil on my wrist flares. The mark burns. The locket glows.
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 floor, carrying me to the dais, where I stand, barefoot, unburned, untouched, my gown fluttering in the wind, my eyes blazing with fire.
“This is my blood,” I say, voice echoing through the chamber. “This is my magic. This is my truth. And if you doubt me—” I press my palm to my chest, where the locket rests—“then let the bloodline judge you.”
The blood surges.
Not at me.
But at him.
It wraps around Malrik, thick and heavy, pulling at him, whispering, remember, remember, remember. He screams—not in pain, but in fear—as the blood forces open his mouth, his eyes, his soul, and the truth pours out.
Images flood the chamber—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.
The Court is silent.
And then—
They kneel.
Not all. Not at once.
But one by one, the Fae lower their heads, their eyes wide, their breath coming fast. The wolves in the chamber howl. The vampires bare their fangs in awe. And Malrik—
He falls.
Not to his knees.
But to his face.
And the blood—
It burns.
Not with fire.
But with truth.
And then—
Nyx steps forward.
Still wearing the shirt.
Still smiling like a serpent.
But her voice—shaking.
“It’s not possible,” she says. “He’s a prince. A noble. He can’t be—”
“He’s nothing,” I say, stepping down from the dais. “And if you touch him again—if you speak his name—if you even look at him 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 Court empties slowly.
Fae first. Then wolves. Then vampires. But they don’t leave in silence. They whisper. They murmur. They speak of the blood. Of the mark. Of the truth.
And of me.
“She made him kneel.”
“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.