The wound on my arm still burns.
Not with infection. Not with magic. But with memory—the ghost of the Marking Knife’s edge, the echo of blood spilled to save a bond I once wanted to destroy. The gash runs from wrist to elbow, raw and deep, stitched with silver thread and sealed in ash. It aches with every pulse, every breath, every step I take through the Keep’s shadowed halls. But I don’t flinch. Don’t slow. Don’t hide it.
Let them see.
Let them know what I’ve paid.
Let them remember.
The courtyard is quiet now—no enforcers, no Fae nobles, no false witnesses. Just the wind through the arches, the torches burning low, the scent of iron and old fire still clinging to the stone. The blood from the ritual has dried in spirals across the courtyard, black and gold, pulsing faintly in the moonlight. A testament. A warning. A declaration.
The Blood Pact is broken.
Malrik is gone.
And I am still standing.
—
Lysander finds me at dawn.
Not in the war room. Not in the Chamber of Whispers. Not even in our shared chambers, where the bed still bears the imprint of our last desperate ritual. No. He finds me in the eastern corridor—the place where Mira died. Where the mortar still holds her blood. Where the wall still bears the crack from the locket’s impact.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch me. Just stands beside me, close enough that our arms brush, close enough that the bond hums between us—low, 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 should be resting,” he says, voice rough.
“So should you,” I reply, pressing a hand to the locket at my chest. “But we don’t get to rest. Not yet.”
He exhales, slow, broken. “The healers say your magic is unstable. That the Heir… it’s changing you.”
“It’s not changing me,” I say, lifting my wounded arm. The sigil pulses beneath the stitches, gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. “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 Hollow Coven’s sigil has reappeared.”
My breath hitches.
“Where?”
“Beneath the city,” he says. “In the old tunnels. The ones sealed after the massacre. The ones no one’s entered in ten years.”
“Impossible,” I whisper. “There’s no one left. No one to carry the sigil. No one to light the fire.”
“Then someone’s lighting it now,” Kael says, unrolling a scroll. “Wolves on patrol reported a glow—deep underground. Not torchlight. Not magic. But fire. Black and gold. And the air… it smells like thyme. Like blood. Like witches.”
Lysander’s wolf snarls.
But he holds it.
Because he sees it now.
Not just the threat.
The truth.
“You think it’s a trap,” I say, stepping to the map table.
“I know it is,” Kael says. “Malrik’s not done. He’s luring you. Testing you. But—” he hesitates—“what if it’s not a trap?”
My breath stops.
“What if it’s a message?”
“From who?” Lysander growls.
“From the dead,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket. “Or from the ones who never died.”
Kael shakes his head. “The coven was wiped out. You were the only survivor.”
“That’s what I was told,” I say, voice low. “But Mira knew things. Secrets. She saved me once. What if she saved others?”
“Then they’ve been hiding for ten years,” Lysander says. “Why now? Why reveal themselves?”
“Because the bloodline is awake,” I say, lifting my wrist. The mark glows faintly. “Because the Heir has returned. And because Malrik’s fear is louder than their silence.”
Kael exhales, rough and broken. “If you go down there—”
“I’m going,” I say, cutting him off. “Alone.”
“No,” Lysander says, stepping forward. “You’re not.”
“I have to be,” I say, turning to him. “If it’s a trap, I walk in alone, I walk out alone. If it’s not—” my voice cracks—“if there are others… then they won’t trust you. They won’t trust anyone with fangs and gold eyes.”
He studies me. Jaw tight. Gold eyes blazing.
“Then I’ll wait,” he says. “At the entrance. If you scream, I come in. No questions. No hesitation.”
“You’ll get yourself killed,” I say.
“Then I’ll die knowing I fought for you,” he says, stepping closer. “But not before. Not unless you call me.”
My chest tightens.
Because he’s not bargaining.
He’s letting go.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I whisper.
“I don’t,” he says, cupping my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “I get to fight for you. And if that means waiting in the dark so you can face your past—then so be it.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because he’s not just saying it.
He means it.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
—
The tunnels beneath Lyon are not empty.
They never were.
Carved from ancient stone, lined with iron rails from a forgotten age, they twist and turn like a serpent’s gut, descending into darkness. The air is thick with damp and decay, the scent of old blood and older magic. My boots strike stone, echoing through the silence. The Marking Knife is in my hand, its blade humming with power. The locket burns against my chest. The sigil on my arm pulses with every step.
I don’t light a torch.
I don’t need one.
The fire finds me.
At first, it’s just a flicker—deep in the distance, pulsing like a heartbeat. Then a glow—soft, golden, rising from a crack in the wall. Then a flame—black and gold, burning without fuel, dancing in the air like a living thing.
And then—
The sigil.
Etched into the stone, large and deep, its lines carved with blood and ash. The spiral of fire and fang, blood and bone—identical to mine. It pulses with magic, with memory, with something older than fear.
Hope.
Or vengeance.
Or both.
“I am Circe of the Hollow Coven,” I say, voice low, rough. “Daughter of Elara. Heir of blood. Keeper of fire. I remember. I fight. I live.”
The flame surges.
Not in response.
But in recognition.
And then—
From the shadows—
A whisper.
Not one. Not two.
Hundreds.
“You are the last.”
“I know,” I say, stepping forward. “But I’m not alone.”
“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 sigil, letting my blood drip onto the stone, and I whisper—
“I am Circe of the Hollow Coven. I remember. I fight. I live.”
The sigil glows.
Not silver.
Not black.
But gold.
And then—
The wall cracks.
Not with force.
Not with magic.
But with memory.
It splits down the center, revealing a hidden chamber—low ceiling, stone floor, torches burning black and gold. And inside—
Witches.
Not many. Not an army. But a dozen—women, young and old, their faces scarred, their eyes sharp, their hands stained with blood and ash. They wear robes of black silk, their wrists marked with the sigil, their magic pulsing beneath their skin. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch me—like I’m a ghost. Like I’m a queen.
And then—
One steps forward.
Dark hair. Silver eyes. A sigil on her wrist—identical to mine.
“Sister,” she says, voice low. “You’re late.”
My breath stops.
Because I know that face.
Not from portraits. Not from visions.
From childhood.
From memory.
From the night the coven burned.
“Elara?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “Not Elara. Mira.”
My blood turns to ice.
“You’re dead,” I say, stepping back. “I saw you die. Malrik killed you.”
“He killed a body,” she says, stepping closer. “Not a soul. Not a sister. Not a witch.”
“Then how—”
“The locket,” she says, touching her chest. “It wasn’t just a message. It was a key. A beacon. And when the Heir awoke, it called us home.”
“There were others?” I ask, voice breaking.
“Twelve,” she says. “Hidden. Protected. Waiting. And now—” she lifts her hand, revealing a feather—black, soft, singed at the edges—“we return.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because I know that feather.
She gave it to me the night she died.
Or the night she pretended to die.
“You lied to me,” I say, stepping forward. “You let me believe you were dead.”
“I let you believe what you needed to,” she says. “To survive. To grow. To become the Heir. And now—” she steps closer, pressing the feather into my palm—“we fight. Together.”
My breath hitches.
Because she’s not just saying it.
She means it.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
“Then prove it,” I whisper.
“How?”
“By trusting me,” I say, stepping back. “By standing behind me, not in front of me. By letting me lead.”
She studies me. Silver eyes blazing. Jaw tight. And then—
She nods.
“Together,” she 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.
After all.
Fire doesn’t just destroy.
It renews.
And I’m ready to burn.
With her.
With him.
For them.
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 their 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.