The Keep’s infirmary smells of iron and crushed thyme — a scent that clings to healing, to sacrifice, to the cost of magic. My arm is bound in silver thread and ash, the wound from the Marking Knife still raw beneath the bandages. It pulses with every beat of my heart, a low, insistent throb that echoes the rhythm of the bond. The locket rests against my chest, warm, alive, humming with the weight of Mira’s return, of Elara’s memory, of the bloodline now roaring through my veins.
I should be resting.
But rest is for the dead.
And I am very much alive.
—
Lysander stands in the doorway, bare-chested, his side still wrapped in linen, his gold eyes blazing. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me — bloodied, bound, burning — like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” I say, voice rough.
“So are you,” he replies, stepping inside. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, sealing us in silence. The wards hum faintly along the frame, ancient runes etched into stone, pulsing with protection. Or prison. I haven’t decided which.
He walks to the edge of the cot, his boots silent on the stone. His gaze drops to my arm, to the bandage stained with black and gold. His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, voice low. “You didn’t have to bleed for me.”
“I didn’t bleed for you,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket. “I bled for the truth. For the bloodline. For her.”
He exhales, rough and broken. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I don’t,” I say, lifting my eyes to his. “I get to fight for what matters. And if that means cutting my own flesh to save yours — then so be it.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just steps closer, pressing his palm to my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip. His touch is warm, calloused, grounding. The bond flares between us — low, steady, alive — a thread of fire and fang, blood and bone.
“You’re not just Circe anymore,” he murmurs.
“No,” I say, turning my face into his hand. “I’m the heir. I’m the fire. I’m the revenant. And I won’t kneel.”
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.
—
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.
—
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.