The Keep’s inner sanctum is not a chamber. It’s a tomb—carved from black stone, its walls lined with ancient runes that pulse faintly, like a dying heartbeat. The air is thick with the scent of iron, old blood, and something deeper—regret. Not mine. Not Lysander’s. But the kind that seeps into mortar, into memory, into the very breath of those who’ve ruled here. The throne of the Tribunal is gone—shattered, scorched, dragged away like a corpse. In its place, a single dais remains, cracked down the center, its surface etched with the spiral of fire and fang, blood and bone.
I stand at the threshold, barefoot, my gown still stained with ash and blood, the Marking Knife at my hip, its bone blade humming against my thigh. The locket burns against my chest, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, with the bond, with the fire now coiled beneath my skin like a serpent ready to strike. My arm throbs—raw, open, stitched with silver thread and ash—but the pain is distant, secondary. A reminder. A sacrament.
Lysander stands beside me, silent, watchful, his gold eyes blazing. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. Just stands 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.
“This is where it ends,” I say, voice low.
“Or begins,” he replies.
“Same thing,” I say, stepping forward. “When you’re burning.”
—
The Chamber of Whispers 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 a circle—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. Jaw tight. Gold eyes blazing. “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 like a serpent ready to strike. 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.
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 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.