The silence after Lysander’s vow is not empty. It pulses. Like a second heartbeat beneath the stone, like the breath before the flame catches. The courtyard is gone. The crowd is gone. Malrik’s retreat, Nyx’s exile—they’re echoes now, fading into the wind. But the weight remains. The truth has been spoken. The bond has been tested. And I am still standing.
Still burning.
Still alive.
And now—
Now we wait.
—
The Keep’s inner sanctum is sealed tighter than a tomb. No torches. No whispers. Just the soft glow of the Hollow stone at the center of the war table, its sigil pulsing like a slow, steady pulse. Mira sits cross-legged beside it, eyes closed, hands hovering over the surface. Her lips move in silent chant, drawing power from the bloodline, from the earth, from the remnants of magic still clinging to the walls like ash.
Kael stands at the door, silent, watchful. His wolf is close to the surface—ears pricked, muscles coiled. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. I can feel his tension, his loyalty, his quiet fury. He’s seen too much. Lost too many. And now, he watches over us like a sentinel, knowing the real war hasn’t begun.
Lysander paces.
Not like a caged beast. Not like a king.
Like a man who finally sees the war for what it is.
“He’ll come,” he says, voice low. “Not with an army. Not with lies. With something worse.”
“What?” I ask, not turning. I’m tracing the sigil on my wrist with the tip of my knife. The wound is still raw, still weeping black-gold blood. It doesn’t heal. Not yet. Not until the bond is whole. Not until the fire is fed.
“Fear,” he says. “He’ll use what he knows. Your past. My grief. The Tribunal’s fracture. He’ll twist it. Turn the truth into a weapon.”
I exhale. “Let him.”
He stops. Turns. Gold eyes blazing. “You don’t understand. He’s not just fighting for power. He’s fighting for survival. And when a predator is cornered—”
“It dies,” I say, lifting my head. “And so will he.”
He stares at me. Jaw tight. Breath slow. And then—
He crosses the room.
In three strides, he’s in front of me. Not touching. Not yet. Just standing so close I can feel the heat of him, the pull of the bond, the weight of ten years of hatred and fire and something else—something deeper, darker, truer.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says.
I laugh. Sharp. Bitter. “I’ve been alone since the night they burned my coven. Since the night my mother screamed and I ran. Since the night I swore I’d kill you.”
“And now?” he asks, voice rough.
I look up. Meet his eyes. “Now I know the truth. And the truth doesn’t care about revenge. It only cares about justice.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just reaches out—slow, deliberate—and brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingers are calloused, warm, trembling slightly. Not from weakness. From control.
“Then let me fight with you,” he says. “Not as your enemy. Not as your king. As your mate.”
The word lands like a blade.
Not soft. Not sweet.
Like fire.
Like fate.
I don’t pull away. Don’t speak. Just let his hand linger, let the bond hum between us, low and steady and alive.
And then—
Mira gasps.
Her eyes snap open. Black. Wide. Her breath comes fast. “He’s coming,” she whispers. “Not to the gates. To the heart.”
Kael tenses. “What do you mean?”
“The Veil,” she says, voice shaking. “He’s not attacking the Keep. He’s attacking the Veil. If it falls—”
“The human world sees us,” I finish. “And chaos follows.”
Lysander’s face darkens. “He’d risk everything just to destroy us?”
“He’s not trying to destroy us,” I say, standing. “He’s trying to save himself. If the Veil falls, the Tribunal collapses. The Fae High Court intervenes. And he becomes their hero.”
“A hero built on lies,” Kael growls.
“And blood,” Mira adds. “He’ll sacrifice thousands to save himself.”
I press a hand to the locket. It burns. Pulsing. Like a warning.
“Then we stop him,” I say. “Before he tears the world apart.”
“How?” Lysander asks. “We don’t know where he is. We don’t know how he’s doing it.”
I look at the Hollow stone. The sigil glows—gold and black, fire and fang. And then—
I remember.
“The eastern corridor,” I say. “Where Mira died. Where the blood fell into the mortar. He used that. He used her.”
Mira’s breath catches. “You think he’s channeling her magic?”
“Not her magic,” I say, voice low. “Her death. He’s using the moment of her sacrifice. The drop of blood. The lie. He’s turning her truth into a weapon.”
“Then we go there,” Lysander says. “We stop him at the source.”
I shake my head. “No. We let him come. We let him think he’s winning. And then—” I lift the Marking Knife, its blade humming with power—“—we burn him with his own fire.”
—
The eastern corridor is colder than the rest of the Keep. Not from temperature. From memory. The stone walls are cracked, the torches unlit. The air hums with something old—grief, rage, betrayal. And beneath it, the faintest trace of blood. Not fresh. Not spilled. Sealed.
I press my palm to the wall where the locket cracked. The stone is warm. Pulsing. Like a heartbeat.
“This is it,” I whisper. “This is where she died. Where she gave me the truth.”
Lysander stands beside me, silent. His presence is a wall of heat and power, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Just watches, gold eyes scanning the shadows, his wolf close to the surface.
Kael and Mira stand at the entrance, guarding the way. No words. No movement. Just vigilance.
And then—
The air shifts.
Not with sound. Not with wind.
With tearing.
Like fabric under a blade. Like fate unraveling.
I feel it first in the bond—Lysander’s breath hitches, his hand flying to his chest. Then in the locket—burning, pulsing, screaming with power. And then—
The Veil trembles.
Not visibly. Not to the eye.
But to the magic. To the blood. To the fire in my veins.
“He’s doing it,” I say, voice low. “He’s tearing it open.”
Lysander growls. “Where is he?”
And then—
He appears.
Not with fanfare. Not with force.
With silence.
Malrik steps from the shadows, cloaked in silver, his smile smooth, his eyes black with hunger. In his hand—a dagger. Not bone. Not steel.
Obsidian. Etched with the corrupted sigil.
And in the other hand—
A vial.
Dark. Thick. Pulsing.
Blood.
“You’re too late,” he says, voice smooth. “The Veil is already cracking. The humans will see us. The war will begin. And when it does—” he smiles—“I will be the one who saved them.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just step forward, barefoot on cold stone, the Marking Knife in my hand. “You don’t get to speak her name,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “You don’t get to use her blood. You don’t get to twist her sacrifice.”
He laughs. Soft. Melodic. “And you do? The girl who ran? The witch who hid? You weren’t there when she died. You weren’t there when they burned your coven. You weren’t there when your mother screamed.”
My breath catches.
But I don’t flinch.
“No,” I say. “I wasn’t. But I’m here now. And I remember.”
He steps closer. “Then you know the truth. You know she died for nothing. You know her blood means nothing. You know the bond is a lie.”
“The only lie,” I say, stepping forward, “is you.”
And then—
He moves.
Not at me.
At the wall.
He slams the dagger into the stone where the blood seeped in. The corrupted sigil flares—black, jagged, writhing. The vial shatters. Blood splashes across the sigil.
And then—
The Veil screams.
Not with sound.
With tearing.
I feel it—like a knife in my chest, like my magic being ripped from my veins. The torches along the corridor flare, then die. The stone cracks. The air shimmers—thin, fragile, like glass about to break.
“No,” I whisper.
But it’s too late.
The Veil is unraveling.
—
Lysander roars.
Not in rage.
In denial.
He lunges at Malrik, fangs bared, claws out. But Malrik is faster. He steps aside, raises the dagger—
And slashes.
Not at Lysander.
At the bond.
The air shatters. The thread between us—golden, pulsing, alive—snaps.
I scream.
Not in pain.
In loss.
It’s like my heart stops. Like my magic dies. Like the fire goes out.
And then—
I fall.
To my knees. To the stone. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My vision swims. The locket burns. The sigil on my wrist fades. The Marking Knife hums—weak, broken.
“Circe!” Lysander roars, turning to me.
But Malrik is already moving.
“You see?” he says, voice smooth. “The bond is broken. The fire is gone. The truth is dead.”
I look up.
Through the haze of pain, of loss, of grief.
And I see it.
The Veil is thin. So thin I can see through it—flickers of human cities, of cars, of people walking unaware. One tear. One crack. And the world will see us.
And then—
I remember.
Not the pain.
Not the loss.
The fire.
My mother’s scream. 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.
I press my palm to the locket.
It burns.
Not from magic.
From memory.
“You think breaking the bond breaks me?” I say, standing. Slow. Deliberate. Blood dripping from my arm, my gown fluttering in the wind that shouldn’t be there.
Malrik smiles. “You’re already broken.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m awake.”
And then—
I raise the Marking Knife.
And I cut.
Not into the stone.
Not into the Veil.
Into my palm.
My blood arcs—black and gold, thick and warm—splashing across the corrupted sigil. It sizzles. Burns. The air hums.
“What are you doing?” Malrik snarls.
“Remembering,” I say.
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 corrupted sigil 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 Veil.
It wraps around the tear, 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 Veil screams.
Not in pain.
In relief.
It writhes, twists, pulls back—and the tear seals. Not with magic. Not with force.
With truth.
And then—
It heals.
Not with a bang.
With a whisper.
A soft, broken sound, like glass mending, like a lie being undone. The corrupted sigil 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—
Lysander 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.