The message hangs in the air like smoke—thick, cloying, laced with the scent of Fae rot and something darker. The fire will fall with the queen. Not a threat. Not a boast. A prophecy. A promise. And for the first time in ten years, I don’t feel rage.
I feel hunger.
Not for blood. Not for vengeance.
For truth.
Malrik thinks he’s won. Thinks fleeing makes him clever. Thinks scattering whispers in his wake will make us doubt. But he doesn’t understand. He never did. I’m not just a witch with fire in her veins.
I’m the heir.
I’m the storm.
And I don’t wait for storms to come to me.
I become them.
—
The war room is silent now—no barking orders, no sharpening blades, no hushed whispers. Just the crackle of torchlight, the hum of wards, the weight of what’s coming. Kael stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, gold eyes sharp, jaw tight. Mira leans against the far wall, her silver eyes unreadable, her fingers tracing the sigil on her wrist. And Lysander—
He stands beside me.
Not behind. Not in front.
Beside.
His presence is a wall of heat and power, his gold eyes blazing, his breath steady. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, close enough that our arms brush, close enough that the bond hums between us—low, steady, alive. And for the first time, I don’t pull away.
I lean into it.
Because I’ve spent ten years believing I was strong alone.
And now—
Now I know I was wrong.
“He’s not running,” I say, voice low. “He’s hunting.”
Kael exhales, rough and broken. “Then we hunt him first.”
“We don’t know where he is,” Mira says, stepping forward. “He could be anywhere—Lyon, Prague, Edinburgh. He could be in the Fae Court, whispering lies to the High King.”
“He’s not in the Court,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket at my chest. “He’s beneath it. In the tunnels. In the dark. Where the bloodline sleeps.”
“How do you know?” Lysander asks.
“Because he’s afraid,” I say, lifting my wounded arm. The sigil pulses beneath the silver stitches, gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. “And fear doesn’t run to light. It runs to shadow. To silence. To the places where truth can’t follow.”
Kael studies me. “And if you’re wrong?”
“Then we lose time,” I say. “But if I’m right—” I step closer, my voice dropping to a growl—“then we end this.”
“You can’t go alone,” Lysander says, stepping forward. “Not after what he did to you. Not after what he’s still capable of.”
“I’m not going alone,” I say, turning to him. “I’m going with her.”
I nod to Mira.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just steps forward, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her silver eyes sharp, her sigil glowing faintly on her wrist. “I know the tunnels. I know the wards. I know the bloodline’s secrets. And I know him.”
“You?” Lysander growls. “You let her believe you were dead.”
“I let her survive,” Mira says, stepping closer. “I let her become the Heir. And now—” she lifts her hand, revealing the feather—black, soft, singed at the edges—“we fight. Together.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his gold eyes blazing.
And then—
He nods.
Not in surrender.
In trust.
“Then go,” he says. “But if you scream—”
“You come,” I say, stepping into him, my body pressing against his, the bond flaring between us, warm and steady and alive. “No questions. No hesitation. But not before. Not unless I call you.”
He studies me. Jaw tight. Gold eyes blazing.
“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 the Fae Court 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.
Mira 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.
“He’ll be waiting,” Mira says, voice low. “He’ll have wards. Traps. Illusions.”
“Let him,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket. “I’m not afraid of illusions. I’m not afraid of traps. I’m not afraid of him.”
She studies me. “And if he offers you a deal? Power? Peace? A way out?”
“Then I’ll burn it,” I say, lifting my wrist. The mark glows faintly. “I didn’t come here to bargain. I came here to end him.”
She doesn’t smile. But her eyes—cold, sharp, alive—flicker with something like pride.
And then—
The fire finds us.
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.
“You’re late,” a voice says, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade.
Malrik steps from the shadows, tall, silver-haired, his smile smooth, his gaze locked on me. He wears a long coat of black velvet, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes burning with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
“You’re not hiding,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re waiting.”
“I’m preparing,” he says, spreading his hands. “For the end. For the fall. For the fire.”
“Then let it come,” I say, lifting the Marking Knife. “Let it burn you.”
He laughs—soft, melodic, like wind through dead leaves. “You think you’ve won? You think breaking the Pact makes you a queen?”
“It doesn’t make me a queen,” I say, stepping closer. “It makes me righteous.”
“And what good is righteousness without power?” he asks, stepping forward. “You’ve proven nothing. The bond stands. The Tribunal remains. The Veil still holds. And I—” he spreads his hands—“—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 sigil.
“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—
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.