The assassin’s handler bled out in the lower crypts, his last breath a wet gurgle against the stone. I watched without flinching as Riven slit his throat—clean, efficient. No torture. No grand speeches. The man had been bought, not loyal. His death was a message, not a reckoning.
“Nyx’s mark was on the blade,” Riven said, wiping his knife on the dead man’s coat. “But the coin came from higher.”
I nodded. I already knew. The dagger had been forged in Seelie steel, etched with a sigil only one hand in the Council still used: Vexis.
He’d made his move too soon. Too clumsily. As if he thought an attempt on my life would shatter the bond. As if he understood nothing of what had just been forged between Crimson and me.
Let him try.
The bond was no fragile thing. It was fire in the blood, a current beneath the skin. It had taken root the moment our hands touched, and now it pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a relentless echo of *her.* Crimson. Her scent—storm and iron—still clung to my coat, my skin, the inside of my skull. I could feel her, even now, miles away in my chambers: a flicker of anger, a spike of fear, the quiet hum of her magic as she searched my desk.
She’d found the file.
I felt it the moment her fingers broke the wax seal—the jolt of recognition, the surge of rage, then the slow, dawning shock as she read my marginal note. *Overruled by Vexis. King’s plea for clemency denied.*
Let her see it. Let her know I hadn’t condemned her mother. Let her wonder why I hadn’t told her.
Because the truth was a weapon, and timing was everything.
“Secure the wing,” I ordered Riven. “No one enters or leaves without my say. And double the guard on the royal chambers.”
He hesitated. “You think she’ll try to run?”
“I know she will,” I said. “And when she does, the bond will stop her. But I’d rather she didn’t learn that lesson in the middle of the city, screaming in the streets.”
Riven’s expression didn’t change, but I saw it in his eyes—the flicker of surprise, the unspoken question. *Since when do you care if she suffers?*
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
Because I didn’t just care.
I *needed* her whole. Unbroken. Alive.
And not just because of the bond.
Because the moment our hands touched, I hadn’t just felt hunger.
I’d felt *recognition.*
Like a door long sealed had cracked open. Like a voice I hadn’t heard in centuries had whispered my name.
And I would burn the world before I let anyone take that from me.
I turned and strode back through the obsidian corridors, the sigils flaring beneath my boots. The Spire knew me. It answered to my blood. The walls pulsed faintly as I passed, the stone breathing in time with my steps.
When I reached the Council Chamber, the others were already gathered.
Vexis sat at the far end, his silver hair coiled like a serpent, his smile sharp enough to draw blood. He didn’t look guilty. He looked *pleased.* As if the assassination attempt had gone exactly as planned.
Perhaps it had.
“You’re late,” he said, voice smooth as poisoned honey. “We’ve been waiting to discuss the… *unfortunate* incident with the unity ritual.”
I took my seat at the center throne, the black stone cool beneath me. “The bond is sealed. The alliance stands.”
“An alliance,” Lord Torin, the Werewolf Alpha, growled, “between a vampire king and a half-breed witch? You expect us to believe that’s stable?”
“I expect you to believe,” I said, “that the bond is fated. And fated bonds cannot be broken by politics or prejudice.”
“They can be tested,” Vexis purred. “And if they fail, the consequences could be… catastrophic. Imagine the chaos if the bond collapses. Two powerful beings, unmoored. One with a blood debt, the other with a mother’s name in ashes.”
He was goading me. Trying to make me lash out. To appear unstable. To give him cause to challenge the bond’s legitimacy.
But I didn’t rise to it.
Instead, I leaned forward, steepling my fingers. “Then let’s ensure it doesn’t fail.”
“How?” asked Mirela, the Witch Circle representative, her eyes narrowed.
“By proving it works,” I said. “By putting it to the test where it matters most.”
“And where is that?” Vexis asked, though he already knew.
“Duskrend,” I said. “The border province. Volatile. Lawless. A tinderbox waiting for a spark. Let Crimson and I co-rule it for ninety days. Let us stabilize it. Let the bond prove its strength in action, not just in magic.”
Silence.
Then murmurs. Low, uncertain.
“Duskrend is a death sentence,” Torin said. “Even for a king.”
“Then it’s the perfect test,” I said. “If we survive it—together—then the bond is legitimate. If we fail, the Council can dissolve it. But until then, she stays with me. Under my protection. Under my rule.”
Vexis’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes darkened. He hadn’t expected this. He’d wanted scandal. Humiliation. A public unraveling.
Instead, I’d given him a challenge.
And a trap.
Because Duskrend wasn’t just dangerous.
It was *mine.*
A province carved from war, ruled by blood and shadow. A place where loyalty was bought, not given. Where the air smelled of gunpowder and wet earth. Where the moon hung low and red, like a wound in the sky.
And now, I was taking her there.
Let her see what real power looked like.
Let her see what *I* looked like, stripped of courtly pretense.
Let her decide then if she still wanted to kill me.
“It’s a risk,” Mirela said slowly. “But not without precedent. The Council has used co-rule before to test unstable alliances.”
“Then let it be so,” Vexis said, spreading his hands. “Ninety days in Duskrend. If they succeed, the bond stands. If they fail…” He let the threat hang.
“The vote,” I said.
The others nodded. One by one, their hands rose.
Unanimous.
The decree was sealed.
I stood. “Then we leave at dawn.”
—
She was waiting for me when I returned, standing at the window of my chambers, her back to me. The candlelight caught the edges of her hair, turning it into a river of fire. She didn’t turn as I entered. Didn’t speak.
But I felt her—every pulse of anger, every flicker of fear. The bond thrummed between us, a live wire, taut with tension.
She’d been crying.
Not openly. Not with sobs. But the air was thick with the salt of unshed tears, and the scent of her grief was sharp, like crushed violets.
She’d read the file. She knew I’d tried to save her mother.
And still, she didn’t trust me.
Good.
She shouldn’t.
“You lied,” she said, voice low, controlled.
“I withheld,” I corrected, stepping closer. “There’s a difference.”
She turned then, her eyes blazing. “You let me believe you were the monster. You let me hate you.”
“And?” I asked. “Would you have stayed if you knew the truth? Would you have let me touch you? Let the bond form?”
“You used me.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “I *claimed* you. There’s a difference.”
She backed up, but the wall stopped her. I didn’t touch her. Didn’t need to. The bond was enough. I could feel her heartbeat, her breath, the way her body tensed when I got too close.
“The Council has issued a decree,” I said. “We’re to co-rule Duskrend for ninety days. Prove the bond’s strength. Stabilize the province.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if we refuse?”
“Then the bond is declared invalid. You’re free to go. Free to kill me.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t look relieved. “And if we accept?”
“Then we rule together. You learn how power *really* works. And I…” I let the pause stretch. “I keep you alive.”
“You think I need your protection?”
“I know you do,” I said. “Because in Duskrend, the wolves don’t just howl. They *hunt.* And you, little witch, are half their prey.”
She flinched. Good. Let her feel it. Let her understand the danger.
“Why there?” she asked. “Why not some quiet village? Some neutral ground?”
“Because Duskrend isn’t neutral,” I said. “It’s mine. And if you’re going to rule beside me, you need to know what that means.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then the Council dissolves the bond. But you’ll still carry the sickness. The fever. The hallucinations. And eventually, death.”
She stared at me. “You’re ruthless.”
“I’m honest,” I said. “There’s a difference.”
She turned back to the window, her hands clenched at her sides. “Ninety days.”
“Survive them,” I said, “and you’ll have more than justice. You’ll have power.”
“And if I don’t?”
I stepped close, close enough to feel the heat of her body, close enough to smell the storm on her skin. “Then you die. And I’ll bury you with honor.”
She didn’t answer.
But I felt it—the shift in her pulse, the catch in her breath. The bond flared, a surge of heat that made my vision blur.
She wanted to hate me.
But she was starting to *see* me.
And that was the first step.
“Pack your things,” I said, turning to leave. “We leave at dawn.”
“I don’t have things,” she said. “I came here with nothing.”
I paused at the door. “Then I’ll have clothes sent. Weapons. Whatever you need.”
“I don’t need your gifts.”
“No,” I agreed. “But you’ll take them anyway. Because in Duskrend, survival isn’t about pride. It’s about power.”
I opened the door.
“And you, Crimson,” I said, glancing back, “are going to learn the difference.”
—
She didn’t sleep that night.
I felt her wakefulness like a pulse in the dark, her mind racing, her magic flickering as she traced sigils in the air, testing wards, planning escapes.
Let her try.
The bond would stop her before she made it ten steps.
But I didn’t lock the door.
Let her think she had a choice.
Let her learn the truth on her own.
That she was already mine.
Not because of magic.
Not because of blood.
But because, for the first time in centuries, I *wanted* someone to stay.
And I would burn the world before I let her go.
Dawn came too soon.
We stood at the gates of the Spire, the black sky bleeding into gray. The carriage waited—steel-wheeled, warded, drawn by two shadow-wolves with eyes like molten gold.
Riven stood at attention, his armor gleaming. He’d come with us. Not because I needed protection.
Because she might.
Crimson stood apart, wrapped in a cloak I’d sent—black wool lined with silver thread, woven with protective sigils. She hadn’t thanked me. Hadn’t even looked at it. But she’d put it on.
Progress.
“Ready?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. Just climbed into the carriage.
I followed.
The door closed. The wolves howled. And we rolled forward, into the rising sun.
She sat across from me, silent, her hands in her lap. The bond hummed between us, steady, insistent.
“You smell like storm,” I said.
She looked up, startled.
“And iron,” I added. “Like you’re made of thunder and blood.”
Her breath hitched.
“I’ve never wanted to ruin someone so badly,” I said, voice low. “And never needed them more.”
She didn’t speak.
But her pulse jumped.
And the bond flared, hot and bright, like a star igniting in the dark.
Good.
Let her feel it.
Let her know.
This wasn’t just a bond.
It was a war.
And I intended to win.