The blade bites deep—not into skin, not into muscle, but into the very thread of fate.
My blood arcs in a hot spray, black and gold, sizzling as it hits the stone. The Marking Knife hums in my grip, its ancient runes flaring with power, feeding on the bond, on the bloodline, on the fire now roaring through my veins. I don’t scream this time. I roar—a sound that rips from my chest, raw and primal, echoing across the courtyard like a storm breaking.
The Blood Pact is tearing the bond apart.
But I am not letting it win.
I press the knife to my palm again—deeper, harder—and drag it down my forearm, reopening the wound, letting my blood spill in a spiral across the sigil carved into my skin. The pain is sharp, electric, but I don’t flinch. I welcome it. Because pain is truth. Pain is power. Pain is memory.
And I remember everything.
My mother’s scream as the flames consumed the coven. Mira’s hand pressing the feather into mine. Elara’s voice whispering in the dark. Lysander’s breath on my neck when he first claimed me, not with love, but with rage. The way his eyes burned when he thought I’d betrayed him. The way mine burned back.
And now—
Now I burn for something else.
Not revenge.
Not rage.
Truth.
The air shimmers—not with heat, not with magic, but 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 lies, on 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.
But 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 war room 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 war room—Lysander, Mira, Kael, and me. 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. But this time, the air hums with something new.
Hope.
Or vengeance.
Or both.
“He’s not done,” Kael says, voice low. “Malrik doesn’t retreat. He regroups. He’ll strike again.”
“Then we strike first,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket. “We find him. We expose him. We end this.”
“How?” Mira asks. “He’s Fae. He has glamours. He has allies. He has the entire Court whispering in his ear.”
“Then we give them a new whisper,” I say, lifting my wrist. The mark glows—gold and black, pulsing with power. “We show them the truth. Not just about the Pact. Not just about the coven. About everything.”
Lysander steps beside me, his presence a wall of heat and power. “Then we make it undeniable.”
“How?” Kael asks.
“By doing the one thing he doesn’t expect,” I say, voice low. “By showing mercy.”
They all stare at me.
“Mercy?” Mira says. “After everything he’s done?”
“Not for him,” I say. “For the ones who believed the lie. For the ones who followed him out of fear. We don’t win by burning them all. We win by showing them there’s another way.”
Lysander studies me. “You’re not just a queen. You’re a leader.”
“I’m not a queen,” I say, turning to him. “I’m the heir. And I’m ready to rise.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just steps forward, pressing his palm to my chest, where the locket rests. “Then lead us.”
“Not us,” I say. “Me.”
“Then I’ll follow,” he says, cupping 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—
The door bursts open.
A wolf staggers in, blood streaking his coat, his breath ragged. “He’s gone,” he gasps. “Malrik—he’s fled. But he left a message.”
“What message?” Lysander growls.
The wolf lifts a hand.
In it—a dagger.
Not steel.
Not silver.
But bone.
Etched with the corrupted sigil.
And wrapped around the hilt—a single strand of black hair.
My hair.
“He says,” the wolf whispers, “the fire will fall with the queen.”
The room goes still.
And then—
I laugh.
Sharp. Bitter. Alive.
“Then let him come,” I say, stepping forward, the Marking Knife in my hand. “Let him try.”
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.