The tunnels beneath Lyon don’t breathe—they watch.
Not with eyes. Not with sound. But with the weight of ten years of silence, of secrets, of blood spilled and magic buried. The air is thick with it—damp stone, old iron, the faintest trace of thyme and fire. My boots strike the floor, echoing through the dark, each step a declaration. The Marking Knife hums in my hand, its bone blade pulsing with power, attuned to the bond, to the bloodline, to the fire now coiled beneath my skin like a serpent ready to strike.
And behind me—
Them.
Not an army. Not a rebellion. But twelve witches—women who should be ash, who should be forgotten, who should be dead. Mira leads them, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her silver eyes sharp, her sigil glowing faintly on her wrist. She walks beside me, not behind, not in front. Beside. Like Lysander. Like a queen walks with her sister.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any spell, any lie.
Because I’ve spent ten years believing I was the last.
And now—
Now I know I was wrong.
—
We emerge through a hidden shaft beneath the Keep’s eastern wall, the stone grinding open with a whisper of ancient wards. The night air hits me like a slap—cold, sharp, laced with the scent of wolves and distant rain. The courtyard is quiet, torches burning low, shadows stretching long across the stone. No one guards this entrance. No one remembers it exists.
Until now.
“They’ll know we’re back,” Mira says, voice low. “The moment we breached the seal.”
“Let them,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket at my chest. “Let the wolves howl. Let the Fae whisper. Let the vampires bare their fangs. We’re not hiding anymore.”
She studies me. “And if they attack?”
“Then we burn them,” I say, lifting my wounded arm. The sigil pulses beneath the silver stitches, gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. “We’ve survived fire once. We’ll survive it again.”
She doesn’t smile. But her eyes—cold, sharp, alive—flicker with something like pride.
And then—
From the shadows—
A growl.
Not from a wolf.
From him.
Lysander steps into the torchlight, bare-chested, his side still bandaged, his gold eyes blazing. Kael follows, silent, watchful, his hand on the hilt of his blade. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just stare at the women behind me—twelve witches, marked, armed, alive.
And then—
His gaze lands on Mira.
“You,” he says, voice rough. “You were dead.”
“I was hidden,” she says, stepping forward. “Protected. Waiting. And now—” she lifts her hand, revealing the feather—black, soft, singed at the edges—“I return.”
His wolf snarls.
But he holds it.
Because he sees it now.
Not just the threat.
The truth.
“You let her believe you were dead,” he says, turning to me.
“She let me survive,” I say, stepping between them. “She let me become the Heir. And now—” I press my palm to the locket—“we fight. Together.”
He studies me. Jaw tight. Gold eyes blazing. And then—
He nods.
Not in surrender.
In recognition.
“Then lead us,” he says.
“Not us,” I say, turning to him. “Me.”
“Then I’ll follow,” he says, stepping closer. “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 courtyard’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.
—
The war room is chaos.
Wolves barking orders. Fae whispering behind hands. Vampires sharpening blades in silence. Maps spread 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 head, arms crossed, gold eyes sharp, jaw tight. He doesn’t speak as we enter. Just watches. Waits.
“They’re not just coming,” he says, voice low. “They’re bringing the Blood Pact.”
My breath hitches.
“The what?” Lysander growls.
“An old Fae rite,” I say, stepping to the map table. “A binding curse. One that severs fated bonds by force. It requires three things — a drop of the Alpha’s blood, a lock of the mate’s hair, and a witness to the betrayal.”
“And Malrik has all three,” Kael says. “He has your blood from the marking ritual. He has a lock of your hair — taken from your chambers. And he has a witness.”
“Who?”
“Nyx,” Lysander says, voice dark. “She’s claiming you tried to kill me. That you used the bond to manipulate me. That you’re not fated — you’re a fraud.”
I laugh — sharp, bitter. “And they believe her?”
“Some do,” Kael says. “The weak. The fearful. The ones who’ve spent ten years believing the lie.”
“Then we make them see the truth,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket. “We expose the Pact. We break it. We burn it to ash.”
“And if they activate it before we can?” Kael asks.
“Then the bond breaks,” I say, voice low. “And Lysander dies.”
The room goes still.
Not from shock.
From understanding.
Because they know it’s true.
Denying a fated bond causes bond sickness — fever, hallucinations, aggression. But severing it by Blood Pact? That’s not denial.
That’s execution.
And Lysander — already wounded, already weakened from the ritual — wouldn’t survive it.
“Then we stop it,” Lysander says, stepping forward. “We intercept the enforcers. We take the Pact. We destroy it.”
“You can’t,” I say, turning to him. “The Pact can only be broken by the mate. By me. And it has to be done in blood. In fire. In truth.”
“Then I’ll be there,” he says. “At your back. At your side. Where I belong.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “You’ll be in the Keep. Safe. Protected. Because if I fail —”
“Then I die,” he finishes. “And you go on. Without me.”
My breath hitches.
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. “You don’t get to sacrifice yourself for me.”
“I don’t,” he says, cupping my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “I get to fight for you. And if that means staying behind so you can do what needs to be done — then so be it.”
My chest tightens.
Because he’s not just saying it.
He means it.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
—
Dawn comes like a blade.
Not with light. Not with warmth. But with silence — thick, cloying, laced with Fae rot and something worse. Anticipation. The outer gates of the Keep stand open, the stone archway framed by torches, their flames burning black and gold. 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 —
Me.
Barefoot on cold stone, my black silk gown fluttering in the wind. The locket burns against my chest, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, with the bond, with the bloodline now singing beneath my skin. The Marking Knife rests in my hand, its blade humming with power. The sigil on my wrist glows — gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone — a spiral of truth etched into flesh.
I am not just Circe.
I am the heir.
I am the fire.
I am the revenant.
And I will not kneel.
—
They come at first light.
Not with fanfare. Not with siege. But with silence — cloaked in shadow, faces hidden, their blades etched with the corrupted sigil. Twelve enforcers — Fae, vampire, werewolf — bound by the Blood Pact, their eyes black with hunger, their hands raised in silent challenge.
And at their head —
Malrik.
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.
“You’re early,” Malrik says, voice smooth. “I was just telling Nyx how much I enjoyed last night.”
I don’t flinch.
Just step forward, barefoot on cold stone, the Marking Knife in my hand. “You’re late. The truth doesn’t wait for liars.”
He smiles. “And what truth is that?”
“The truth,” I say, lifting the locket, “that you murdered my sister. 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 crowd.
“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 courtyard — 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.
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.
The courtyard is silent.
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.
“Activate the Pact.”
The air shatters.
Not with sound.
But with tearing.
I feel it — the bond, the thread between me and Lysander, ripping. Fire explodes through my veins. Not pain. Not fear. But loss.
And then —
I scream.
Not in pain.
But in defiance.
And I raise the Marking Knife.
And I cut.