The air in the tunnels beneath the Fae Court is thick with memory—damp stone, old blood, 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 beside me—
Mira.
Not a ghost. Not a lie. Not a memory.
My sister.
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.
—
Malrik doesn’t move.
Just stands there, tall, silver-haired, his smile smooth, his eyes burning with something I’ve never seen before.
Fear.
But not for himself.
For what’s coming.
For what he’s already lost.
“You brought her back,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. “The locket called her. The bloodline answered. And now—” he spreads his hands—“you think you’ve won.”
“I didn’t come here to win,” I say, stepping forward, the Marking Knife in my grip. “I came here to end you.”
He laughs—soft, melodic, like wind through dead leaves. “You think breaking the Pact makes you a queen? You think finding a few hidden witches makes you powerful? You’re still just a girl playing with fire.”
“I’m not playing,” I say, lifting my wounded arm. The sigil pulses beneath the silver stitches, gold and black, fire and fang, blood and bone. “I’m burning. And you’re going to watch.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just tilts his head, like a predator assessing prey. “And if I offer you a deal? Power? Peace? A way out?”
“Then I’ll burn it,” I say, stepping closer. “I didn’t come here to bargain. I came here to end you.”
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 answer.
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.
—
Malrik doesn’t speak.
Just watches as the witches step forward, forming a circle around us, their hands raised, their sigils glowing faintly. The air hums with magic, thick with the weight of what’s coming. The torches flare, their flames turning black and gold, burning with the same fire that now courses through my veins.
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.
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 chamber 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 chamber. “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 witches.
“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. Witches 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 chamber empties slowly.
Witches 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 tunnel’s entrance opens.
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 so 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.
Circe’s Claim
The night Circe returns, the wolves howl in warning.
Dressed in black lace and lies, she steps into the heart of the Shadow Court — a witch reborn from ash, her fingers stained with the blood of ancient curses. She came for vengeance. Not love. Not him. But the second King Lysander grips her wrist during the welcoming rite, a jolt of primal magic sears through them both. Their scents clash — storm and midnight, iron and wild thyme — and the air crackles with forbidden recognition. A fated bond, long dormant, roars to life.
He sees through her mask — not her name, but her fire. And he wants to extinguish it… or claim it.
To stop a war between supernaturals, the Fae High Court demands a union: a blood-bonded pair to preside over the new Tribunal of Nine. The law is clear: only fated mates may serve. When the ritual confirms Circe and Lysander are bound, the room erupts. She’s meant to kill him. He’s meant to dominate her. Instead, they’re shackled together — politically, magically, sexually — and every touch sends shockwaves through their resolve.
But someone knows her secret. Someone has already begun poisoning Lysander’s mind, whispering that she was the one who betrayed his first mate. And when a rival appears — draped in his shirt, wearing his bite mark — Circe must fight not just for her mission, but for her place in his bed… and his soul.
Their bodies remember each other before their minds do. And in this world, desire is never just desire — it’s power, politics, and the most dangerous kind of truth.