The blade bites deep.
Not into skin. Not into muscle.
But into soul.
As the Blood Pact activates, I don’t wait. I don’t hesitate. I press the edge of the Marking Knife to my palm and slice—hard, deep, straight across the sigil. Blood wells, thick and dark, pulsing with magic, dripping onto the cold stone in a spiral of gold and black. The moment it hits, the bond screams.
Not metaphorically.
It screams.
A raw, guttural sound that tears from my throat and rips through the air, echoing across the courtyard like a dying animal. My knees buckle. My vision whites out. The world tilts, spins, fractures into shards of light and shadow. I taste iron. Smell fire. Hear a thousand voices—my mother, Mira, Elara—whispering, screaming, burning.
But I don’t fall.
I stand.
Because this is the only way.
The Blood Pact can only be broken by the mate. By blood. By fire. By truth. And if I don’t sever it now, before it fully rips the bond apart, Lysander won’t just be weakened.
He’ll be dead.
And I can’t lose him.
Not like this.
Not after everything.
—
The air shimmers.
Not with heat. Not with magic.
With tearing.
A jagged line of black light splits the space between me and Malrik, pulsing with the corrupted sigil. It writhes like a living thing, feeding on the lie, on the stolen blood, on Nyx’s false testimony. I feel it—cold, invasive, wrong—crawling up my spine, into my chest, into the core of the bond.
It’s trying to sever us.
And for a second—just a second—I feel it.
Not pain.
Loss.
Like something vital has been ripped from my chest. Like my heart has stopped. Like my magic has gone dark.
And then—
I scream.
Not in pain.
But in defiance.
And I raise the knife.
And I cut.
Again.
This time, I don’t stop at the palm.
I drag the blade down my arm, along the spiral of the mark, carving through flesh, through magic, through the very thread of the bond. Blood sprays. The sigil flares—gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone—pulsing in time with my heartbeat, with the bond, with the bloodline now roaring to life beneath my skin.
And then—
The blood rises.
Not from the wound.
Not from the stone.
But from the air.
It lifts—thick, warm, alive—rising in a spiral around me, coiling like a serpent, pulsing with power. The locket at my chest burns. The Marking Knife hums in my hand. The sigil on my wrist glows so bright it hurts to look at.
And then—
I speak.
Not with my voice.
But with hundreds.
“You cannot sever what is already whole,” I say, voice echoing, layered, ancient. “You cannot break what was never yours to take.”
The black light shudders.
And then—
I step forward.
Barefoot. Bleeding. Burning.
And I push.
With my blood. With my fire. With the truth.
The spiral of blood surges—not at me. Not at the crowd.
At the Pact.
It wraps around the jagged line of black light, thick and heavy, pulsing with gold and black fire. The air hums. The ground cracks. The torches flare, their flames turning black and gold, burning with the same fire that now courses through my veins.
And then—
The Pact screams.
Not in pain.
In fear.
It writhes, twists, tries to pull back—but the blood holds it. The fire consumes it. The truth burns it.
And then—
It shatters.
Not with a bang.
With a whisper.
A soft, broken sound, like glass underfoot, like a lie collapsing in on itself. The black light fractures, splinters, dissolves into ash that drifts to the stone, carried away by the wind.
And then—
Silence.
Not peaceful.
Not quiet.
But charged—thick, still, like the moment before a storm breaks.
I sway on my feet, blood dripping from my arm, my vision swimming. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My magic flares, unstable, wild, barely contained. The sigil burns. The locket pulses. The bond—
Still there.
Still alive.
And then—
From the Keep—
A howl.
Not from the wolves.
From him.
Lysander.
Alive.
Whole.
And free.
—
Malrik’s smile is gone.
Not faltering.
Not flickering.
Gone.
His face is pale. His jaw tight. His eyes—black with hate—burn into me like twin suns. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares, his hands clenched at his sides, his breath coming fast.
And then—
He laughs.
Soft. Melodic. Like wind through dead leaves.
“You think this changes anything?” he says, voice smooth. “You think breaking one spell makes you a queen?”
I don’t answer.
Just press a hand to my wound, letting my blood drip onto the locket. It glows—gold and black—feeding on the truth, on the fire, on the bloodline.
“It doesn’t make me a queen,” I say, stepping forward. “It makes me righteous.”
“And what good is righteousness without power?” he asks, spreading his hands. “You’ve proven nothing. The bond stands. The Tribunal remains. The Veil still holds. And I—” he steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper—“—am still here.”
“You’re not,” I say, lifting my wrist. The mark burns, pulsing with power. “You’re a ghost. A lie. A shadow. And I’m done letting you haunt me.”
He smiles. Sharp. Cold. Victorious.
“Then do it,” he says. “Kill me. Prove you’re just like me. A murderer. A traitor. A witch.”
I don’t flinch.
Just raise the Marking Knife.
And step forward.
“No,” I say. “I won’t kill you.”
His smile falters.
“I’ll do something worse.”
And then—
I turn.
Not to him.
But to the crowd.
“You all saw it,” I say, voice loud, clear, echoing across the courtyard. “You saw the Pact. You saw the lie. You saw the truth. And you saw him—” I point at Malrik—“—try to sever a fated bond. To kill a king. To destroy the Tribunal.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
“And yet,” I continue, “some of you still stand with him. Some of you still believe the lie. Some of you still think a witch with fire in her veins is more dangerous than a Fae noble with blood on his hands.”
I step forward, blood dripping from my arm, my gown fluttering in the wind.
“So I’ll ask you this—” my voice drops, low, dangerous—“who is the real monster? The one who fights for truth? Or the one who hides behind lies?”
No one speaks.
No one moves.
And then—
One by one—
They kneel.
Not all. Not at once.
But slowly. Deliberately. Wolves first. Then Fae. Then vampires. Heads bowed. Eyes down. Hands open on their thighs.
And Malrik—
He doesn’t kneel.
Just stares, his face pale, his breath coming fast.
And then—
Nyx steps forward.
Still wearing Lysander’s 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 courtyard empties slowly.
Wolves first. Then Fae. 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 broke the Pact.”
“Unburned.”
“Untouched.”
“The bloodline lives.”
“She’s the heir.”
“She’s his queen.”
I don’t listen.
Just stand there, my hand pressed to my wound, the Marking Knife still in my grip, the locket pulsing against my chest.
And then—
The Keep’s doors open.
Lysander stands in the threshold, bare-chested, his side still bandaged, his gold eyes blazing. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stares at me—bloodied, broken, burning.
And then—
He steps forward.
Not to claim.
Not to dominate.
But to ask.
“Are you hurt?” he says, voice rough.
“Only where it matters,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest, where the locket rests.
He doesn’t flinch.
Just steps closer, pressing his palm to my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to bleed for me.”
“I didn’t bleed for you,” I say, stepping into him, my body pressing against his, the bond flaring between us, warm and steady and alive. “I bled for the truth. For the bloodline. For her.”
He studies me. Gold eyes blazing. Jaw tight. 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.