The Keep feels different now.
Not safer. Not quieter. But alive—like a beast that’s been sleeping for centuries, its breath shallow, its claws sheathed, its eyes closed. And now, after ten years of silence, it’s stirring. The torches burn brighter. The stone hums beneath my feet. Even the wind through the arches carries a new note—low, steady, like a heartbeat returning after death.
They call me Queen.
Not to my face. Not in the war room. But in whispers, in glances, in the way wolves lower their eyes when I pass. Not out of fear. Not out of duty. But recognition. They see the mark on my wrist—the spiral of gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. They saw me walk through fire. They saw the blood rise in the Fae Court. They saw Malrik kneel.
And they know.
The lie is over.
The truth has come.
But not all of it.
Because there’s one secret that still burns in the dark—one I haven’t faced, one Lysander hasn’t spoken of, one that coils in the silence between us like a blade wrapped in silk.
His first mate.
The woman he loved.
The woman who died.
The woman they say I betrayed.
—
I find him in the archives.
Not the main hall, not the war room, not the balcony where we’ve stood so many nights, shoulder to shoulder, fire to storm. No. He’s in the private chamber—behind the false wall, past the ward-locked door, in the room no one speaks of. The one with the black stone table, the silver chains, the portrait that never faces the light.
She’s in it.
Not alive. Not whole. But in paint—dark hair, silver eyes, a sigil on her wrist identical to mine. She’s standing beside him, hand in his, their bond glowing like a storm between them. And beneath it, carved into the frame:
Elara. Beloved. Betrayed.
My breath stops.
Because I know that name.
Not from history. Not from legend.
From my mother’s last words.
“Find her. Protect her. The bloodline lives.”
I thought she meant me.
But what if she meant her?
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lysander says, not turning. His voice is rough, broken, like glass underfoot.
“You shouldn’t be either,” I say, stepping forward. “Not if it’s killing you.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the portrait, his gold eyes blazing, his jaw tight. One hand grips the edge of the table, knuckles white. The other rests on a silver locket—small, tarnished, its chain broken. He doesn’t open it. Doesn’t try to. Just holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling.
“Who was she?” I ask, voice low.
He exhales, slow, broken. “Elara of the Hollow Coven. My mate. My fire. My truth.”
My blood turns to ice.
“You said her name was Elara,” I whisper.
He finally turns. “You already knew that.”
“I didn’t know she was her.”
“And now you do.” His gaze is sharp, unreadable. “So tell me, Circe. Did you know she was your sister?”
The room tilts.
Not from magic. Not from blood. But from truth.
“No,” I say, voice breaking. “I didn’t. I was twelve when the coven burned. I didn’t know she’d left. I didn’t know she’d been taken. I didn’t know she’d been given to you.”
“She wasn’t given,” he says, voice low. “She was promised. A peace offering. A bond to unite our bloodlines. And she came willingly. She loved me. And I loved her.”
“And then she died.”
“And then she was murdered,” he growls. “By a witch who wore your face. Who spoke your name. Who swore she was protecting the coven. And when I found her—” His voice cracks. “—she was already gone. Her throat slit. Your sigil carved into her chest. And your voice—your cursed voice—whispering, ‘She should have stayed hidden.’”
My breath hitches.
Because I know that voice.
Not mine.
Malrik’s.
“It wasn’t me,” I say, stepping forward. “It was him. Malrik. He killed her. He framed me. He used my name, my sigil, my face—just like he’s been doing for ten years.”
Lysander doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, his eyes burning with something I’ve never seen before.
Doubt.
“Then why didn’t you come back?” he asks. “If you were innocent, why didn’t you fight? Why didn’t you clear your name? Why did you let me believe you were a killer?”
“Because I was twelve,” I snap, my voice breaking. “I was hiding in a cellar while our coven burned. I watched our sisters die. I watched my mother scream. And when I finally crawled out, there was no one left. No one to tell me the truth. No one to say, ‘Your sister is alive. Your king loves her. Your name is not a curse.’”
He flinches.
“And then what?” he asks, voice low. “You just… vanished?”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “I survived. I learned. I waited. And when a seer told me you had proof—proof that could clear my name, proof that could bring down the real killer—I came. Not to rule. Not to love. To burn.”
He studies me. Gold eyes blazing. Jaw tight. And then—
He opens the locket.
Inside—
Not a picture.
Not a lock of hair.
But a single feather.
Black. Soft. Singed at the edges.
And beneath it—
A drop of blood.
Old. Dark. But still pulsing.
“She left this,” he says, voice rough. “The night before she died. Said if anything happened to her, I should find the one who carried the same fire. The one with the same sigil. The one who would remember.”
My breath hitches.
Because I know that feather.
Mira gave it to me the night she died.
“She knew,” I whisper. “She knew I was coming. She knew I’d find it. She knew I’d finish what she started.”
He looks at me. “And what did she start?”
“The truth,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest, where my own locket rests. “The bloodline. The fire. And you—” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl. “—you were never her enemy. You were her ally. And now you’re mine.”
The bond flares—warm, steady, alive.
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 swear, on your blood, on your magic, on your soul, that you did not kill my mate?”
My breath hitches.
Because this isn’t just a question.
It’s a trial.
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 swear—on my blood, on my magic, on my soul—that I did not kill Elara. I did not betray her. I did not speak her death. And if you doubt me—” I lift my wrist, the mark burning bright—“then let the bond judge me.”
The air hums.
The sigil on his chest flares—gold and black, pulsing with power. The runes on the walls ignite, tracing symbols of unity, of fire and fang, of blood and bone. And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
But like he’s been starving for this.
His face buries in my neck, his breath hot on my skin, his body trembling. I feel it—the weight of ten years, the grief, the rage, the guilt. And beneath it, something softer. Something raw.
Relief.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it. I’m sorry I let him make me hate you. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for you.”
“You’re fighting now,” I say, wrapping my arms around him, my magic flaring, the bond pulsing between us. “And that’s all that matters.”
He pulls back, his gold eyes blazing. “Then let’s finish it.”
“Together,” I say.
“Together,” he agrees.
—
The Chamber of Whispers is sealed by midnight.
Wards etched into the door. Runes carved into the threshold. No one enters. No one leaves. Just us. Just the magic. Just the dead.
We stand in the ritual circle—north and south, fire and storm, blood and bone. The locket rests at the center, open, the feather and the blood pulsing faintly. My sigil glows on my wrist. His on his chest. The bond hums between us—low, steady, alive.
“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—
We speak.
Not with words.
Not with spells.
But with truth.
“I call the lost,” I say, voice low, rough. “The silenced. The murdered. The erased. I call Elara of the Hollow Coven. My sister. My blood. My truth.”
Lysander raises his hand, blood dripping from his palm, falling into the circle. “I bind this call with my blood. With my bond. With my soul.”
The runes ignite—gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. The air hums with magic, thick with the weight of what’s coming. The locket glows, the feather and the blood rising from its casing, floating in the air, pulsing like a second heart.
And then—
She comes.
Not with sound. Not with light. But with weight—a presence, thick and heavy, rising from the stone, from the blood, from the mortar where Mira died. She takes shape—tall, dark, her silver eyes sharp, her sigil glowing faintly on her wrist—identical to mine. She wears a robe of black silk, her hands folded, her expression calm, unreadable.
“Sister?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
Just lifts her hand, pointing to the locket.
And then—
She speaks.
Not with her voice.
With hundreds.
“You are the last.”
“I know,” I say.
“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 presence descends.
Not to possess.
Not to consume.
But to merge.
It wraps around me, warm and thick, not with fear, but with recognition. I feel it—the pulse of every witch who came before, the fire of every mother, the rage of every daughter. Their magic floods my veins, their voices echo in my mind, their strength becomes mine.
And then—
I open my eyes.
The Chamber of Whispers is silent.
The runes are dark.
The locket is closed.
But I am not the same.
Because the truth is no longer a secret.
It’s me.
—
Lysander is the first to speak.
“You’re glowing,” he says, voice rough.
I look down.
My skin—pale, scarred, marked—now pulses with a faint golden light, like embers beneath ash. The sigil on my wrist burns brighter, the mark a living thing, feeding on the truth, on the bloodline, on the bond.
“I’m not just Circe anymore,” I say, voice low. “I’m the fire. I’m the truth. I’m the heir. And I’m ready to burn.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just steps forward, pressing his palm to my chest, where the locket rests. “Then lead us.”
“Not us,” I say, turning to him. “Me.”
“Then I’ll follow.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “But not blindly. Not without fire. Not without truth.”
“Then follow,” I whisper. “And burn with me.”
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.
Circe’s Claim
The night Circe returns, the wolves howl in warning.
Dressed in black lace and lies, she steps into the heart of the Shadow Court — a witch reborn from ash, her fingers stained with the blood of ancient curses. She came for vengeance. Not love. Not him. But the second King Lysander grips her wrist during the welcoming rite, a jolt of primal magic sears through them both. Their scents clash — storm and midnight, iron and wild thyme — and the air crackles with forbidden recognition. A fated bond, long dormant, roars to life.
He sees through her mask — not her name, but her fire. And he wants to extinguish it… or claim it.
To stop a war between supernaturals, the Fae High Court demands a union: a blood-bonded pair to preside over the new Tribunal of Nine. The law is clear: only fated mates may serve. When the ritual confirms Circe and Lysander are bound, the room erupts. She’s meant to kill him. He’s meant to dominate her. Instead, they’re shackled together — politically, magically, sexually — and every touch sends shockwaves through their resolve.
But someone knows her secret. Someone has already begun poisoning Lysander’s mind, whispering that she was the one who betrayed his first mate. And when a rival appears — draped in his shirt, wearing his bite mark — Circe must fight not just for her mission, but for her place in his bed… and his soul.
Their bodies remember each other before their minds do. And in this world, desire is never just desire — it’s power, politics, and the most dangerous kind of truth.