The air in the Hollow Grove still hummed with the aftermath of the Truth-Ordeal—ozone and old magic, the ghost of oaths spoken and broken. The bioluminescent moss pulsed beneath our feet, casting shifting violet light across Crimson’s face. She stood beside me, her storm-colored eyes distant, her body still trembling from the psychic onslaught of the Oathstone. Her gloves were gone. Her gown torn at the shoulder. Her witch-mark glowed faintly beneath the skin of her palm, pulsing in time with the bond.
She hadn’t spoken since we left the chamber.
Not when Malrik dragged Vexis away. Not when Lysara declared her innocent. Not when the Fae nobles bowed their heads in silent acknowledgment of a truth they’d refused to see.
She’d just stood there, breathing, alive, *vindicated.*
And then—she’d turned to me.
Not with triumph. Not with relief.
With *grief.*
Because she’d seen it. In the visions. In the bond. In the way my breath caught when her name was spoken.
She’d seen that I’d loved her long before I’d ever touched her.
And worse—she’d seen that I’d failed someone like her before.
Her mother.
—
We shadow-walked back to Duskrend in silence.
One moment, the Hollow Grove. The next, the obsidian courtyard, torchlight flickering low, the scent of iron and storm thick in the air. Riven waited at the gate, his armor gleaming, his expression unreadable. He bowed his head as we passed, but I didn’t acknowledge him. Couldn’t. My focus was on her—on the way her breath hitched when the wind slapped her face, on the way her fingers twitched at her side, aching to reach for me.
But she didn’t.
Just walked ahead, her boots clicking too loud in the silence, her back rigid, her shoulders tight.
And the bond?
It didn’t scream.
It *wept.*
Not with desire. Not with jealousy.
With *guilt.*
Because she was right.
I hadn’t just failed her mother.
I’d failed *her.*
Every time I’d let her believe I was the monster. Every time I’d stood by while they accused her. Every time I’d let her think I didn’t care.
I’d done it to protect her.
To keep her strong.
To keep her alive.
But in doing so, I’d broken her.
And now, the truth was out.
And I had no choice but to face it.
—
She went straight to her chambers.
I didn’t stop her. Didn’t call after her. Just watched as the door clicked shut behind her, the sound final, like a tomb sealing.
And then—I went to the war room.
Not to work. Not to plan.
To *remember.*
The obsidian table was still scarred from our last encounter—ink stains, claw marks, the faint scent of sex and blood lingering in the air. I didn’t clear it. Didn’t clean it. Just stood there, my hands pressed to the stone, my breath steady, my heart a locked vault.
And then—I reached into the hidden compartment beneath the table.
My fingers closed around cold metal.
The box was small, unadorned, forged from black iron and sealed with a blood-lock. Only my blood could open it. Only my blood had ever touched it.
Until now.
I pricked my thumb with a silver blade and pressed it to the lock.
It hissed, the sigils flaring crimson, and the lid sprang open.
Inside—a single object.
A locket.
Not gold. Not silver. Forged from fae-blackened steel, its surface etched with the sigil of House Veyra—the twin serpents coiled around a shattered crown. I’d taken it from her mother’s body the night they executed her. Not as a trophy. Not as proof of loyalty to the Council.
As a *promise.*
I lifted it, the chain cold against my palm, the metal heavy with memory. I didn’t open it. Didn’t need to. I knew what was inside—two portraits, side by side. One of Seraphine, her raven hair framing a face sharp as a blade, her eyes molten gold, her lips curved in a smile I’d never see again. The other—Crimson, at twelve years old, her storm-colored eyes wide, her expression unbroken, her hand clutching a dagger too big for her.
I’d kept it all these years.
Not out of guilt.
Out of *hope.*
That one day, I’d be able to return it.
That one day, I’d be able to tell her the truth.
That one day, she’d look at me and see not the Hollow King.
But the man who’d tried to save her mother.
—
I found her in the library.
Not her chambers. Not the courtyard. Not the war room.
The library.
A vast, circular chamber lined with ancient tomes bound in leather and blood-ink, their spines cracked, their pages whispering secrets to those who knew how to listen. She stood at the center, her back to me, her gloved hands tracing the edge of a ledger—*The Blood Ledger of Duskbane, Vol. VII.* The very book I’d reviewed weeks ago, the one that held the truth about her mother’s final days.
She’d been looking for it.
Of course she had.
And now, she’d found it.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, voice low, not turning. “This section is restricted.”
“So are your chambers,” I said, stepping closer. “Yet I’ve been in them often enough.”
She didn’t react. Just turned a page, her fingers trembling. “You knew.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was an accusation.
“Knew what?” I asked, though I already knew.
“That Vexis framed her,” she said, voice breaking. “That the oath was tampered with. That the blade was cursed. That she was innocent.”
My breath caught.
She’d seen it in the Truth-Ordeal. In the bond. In the way I’d stood at the edge of the dais, my face cold, my eyes empty—while beneath it, grief tore me apart.
“Yes,” I said, voice rough. “I knew.”
She turned then, slowly, her storm-colored eyes burning. “And you did nothing.”
“I fought for her,” I said. “I pleaded for clemency. I offered my own life in exchange. But Vexis had already decided. He wanted her gone. And when I refused to bow, he made me watch. Made me remember. Made me *fail.*”
Her breath hitched.
And then—she slapped me.
Not hard. Not with magic.
With everything she had.
My head turned, but I didn’t flinch. Just let the sting settle, let the blood well at the corner of my lip.
“You let them erase her,” she said, voice raw. “You let them burn her name. You let them make her a traitor. And you stood there and *watched.*”
“And if I’d stopped them?” I asked, stepping closer. “If I’d broken the oath? If I’d drawn my blade in the Council chamber? Do you think they’d have spared her? No. They’d have killed her faster. And they’d have come for you next. And I couldn’t—*I couldn’t*—lose you too.”
She stared at me.
Not with hate.
With *understanding.*
Because she knew the truth.
I hadn’t failed her mother.
I’d failed *myself.*
Because I’d been too afraid to burn the Council to the ground.
Too afraid to lose my throne.
Too afraid to lose *her.*
And now, centuries later, I was still paying for it.
—
I reached into my coat.
Slow. Deliberate.
Her breath hitched. Her hand flew to her boot—where her dagger waited. But she didn’t draw it. Just watched, her pulse jumping at her throat, her eyes wide.
And then—I held out the locket.
“I took this from her,” I said, voice low. “The night they killed her. Not as a trophy. Not as proof of loyalty. As a *promise.* That I’d find you. That I’d protect you. That I’d make it right.”
She didn’t take it.
Just stared at it, her breath coming fast, her skin pale. “You kept it.”
“Every day,” I said. “In a box sealed with my blood. Because I swore an oath—by fang and flame, by blood and bone—that I’d return it when the time came. And now it has.”
Still, she didn’t move.
Just stood there, trembling, her hands clenched into fists.
And then—softly—she said, “Open it.”
I did.
The clasp clicked, the lid swinging open, the portraits inside glowing faintly in the candlelight. Her mother’s smile. Her own childhood face.
She reached out.
Slow. Hesitant.
And then—her fingers brushed the metal, the witch-mark on her palm flaring, the bond *screaming*—a surge so intense I thought I’d combust.
She didn’t pull away.
Just took the locket, her breath ragged, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed.
“You loved her,” she said, voice breaking.
“Not like that,” I said. “But I respected her. Admired her. She was the only one who ever stood up to Vexis. The only one who ever challenged the Council. And when they came for her, I was the only one who tried to stop them.”
“And failed,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “I failed. And I’ve carried that failure every day since. But I won’t fail you. Not again. Not ever.”
She looked at me then, her storm-colored eyes locking onto mine. “And what if I don’t want your protection? What if I don’t want your guilt? What if I just want—”
“Me?” I finished, stepping closer. “Then take it. Take *me.* Not as king. Not as savior. Not as penance. As yours. As the man who’s loved you since the moment our hands touched. Since the moment the bond ignited. Since the moment you walked into this keep with a dagger in your boot and fire in your eyes.”
Her breath caught.
And then—her hand moved.
Not to push me away.
Not to draw her blade.
To my wrist.
She turned it over, her fingers tracing the veins beneath the skin, the old scars from battles long past. And then—she pressed her palm to the inside of my forearm, over the pulse point.
“Blood-debt,” she whispered.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a *ritual.*
One I hadn’t expected. One I hadn’t prepared for.
But one I’d always known would come.
“Yes,” I said, voice rough. “I owe you. Not just for your mother. For every lie I let you believe. For every wound I didn’t heal. For every time I let you think I didn’t care.”
She looked up, her eyes burning. “Then pay it.”
And before I could react—before I could speak—she drew a silver blade from her boot and sliced open her palm.
Blood welled—dark, rich, *powerful.* The scent flooded the air, thick with iron and storm. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every wall, every lie, every reason I had to keep her at arm’s length.
And then—she pressed her bleeding hand to mine.
“Take it,” she said, voice low, commanding. “Take my blood. Take my pain. Take my *truth.* And swear—by blood and bone, by fang and flame—that you will never fail me again.”
The world spun.
Not from the blood. Not from the magic.
From the *weight* of it.
She wasn’t asking for vengeance.
She wasn’t asking for justice.
She was asking for *me.*
And gods help me, I’d give it to her.
—
I didn’t hesitate.
Just pressed my palm to hers, our blood mingling, the bond *exploding*—a surge so intense I thought I’d die. Images flooded my mind—her mother’s trial, the pyre, the silence where her name used to be. My own failures, my centuries of silence, the way I’d let the world try to break her.
And then—her voice, raw, broken: *“You don’t get to decide that.”*
And then—mine, rough, desperate: *“I already did.”*
And then—
I spoke.
Not in words.
In blood.
My voice was low, guttural, the ancient tongue of the Duskbane kings rising from my throat like a prayer. *“By blood and bone, by fang and flame, I swear—Crimson Veyra, daughter of Seraphine, I will never fail you again. I will protect you. I will fight for you. I will love you. And if I break this oath, may my heart turn to ash and my name be erased from history.”*
The bond flared—white, blinding, *final.*
And then—stillness.
She gasped, her body collapsing against me, her breath hot against my neck. I caught her, my arms tight around her waist, my face buried in her hair. The scent of her—storm and iron—filled my lungs.
“You don’t get to touch me,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“I already do,” I said, my thumb brushing her jawline. “And you? You *crave* it.”
She didn’t slap me.
Just leaned in, her forehead resting against mine, her breath warm against my lips. “You don’t get to love me,” she said. “Not after what you let them do.”
“And yet,” I said, “I do. Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.”
She didn’t answer.
Just kissed me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
A *promise.*
And gods help me, I answered it.
My mouth crashed down on hers—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
Her hands flew to my hair, not to push me away, but to hold on. Her body arched into mine, her breath hot against my lips. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to keep her at arm’s length.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And when I finally pulled back, breathless, my forehead resting against hers, I whispered the only truth that mattered:
“You were right,” I said. “And I don’t know if I can trust you either.
But I know this—I can’t live without you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just held me, her fingers digging into my coat, her body still trembling from the aftershocks.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to destroy the Hollow King.
I was here to *save* him.
And I’d let the world try to break her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She didn’t move. Just stayed in my arms, her breath warm against my neck.
And then—softly—she said, “Prove it.”