The Blood Moon Festival began not with a declaration, but with a howl.
Low at first—a ripple through the forested hills surrounding Duskrend, rising from the deep places where the old magic still breathed. Then louder. Sharper. A chorus of voices, wild and untamed, echoing across the valley like a challenge. The sky, already bruised with twilight, deepened into a rich, pulsing crimson, as if the heavens themselves bled in response.
I stood at the edge of the courtyard, barefoot on the cold stone, my gown replaced by a fitted leather tunic and riding pants, my gloves discarded, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The dagger was still in my boot—not for protection, not for vengeance. For *memory.* For balance.
Kael stood beside me, his coat whispering against the stone, his presence a wall at my back. He hadn’t spoken since the first howl. Just stood there, his crimson eyes fixed on the horizon, his jaw tight, his hands clasped behind his back. The bond pulsed between us—slow, steady, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
“They’re testing us,” I said, not looking at him.
“Of course they are,” he replied. “We’ve dismantled their hierarchy, ended their blood taxes, and forced them to negotiate with a half-breed witch. They need to know if we’re strong enough to survive the night.”
“And are we?” I asked.
He turned then, his gaze burning into mine. “We’re not just surviving, Crimson. We’re *leading.* And leadership isn’t proven in war rooms. It’s proven in fire.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t smile. Just stepped closer, his hand lifting, slow, deliberate, to brush my cheek. His touch was warm, steady, *certain.* “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb tracing my jawline, his voice rough. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My core clenched. My skin burned. The bond flared—a hot pulse beneath my skin, like a star collapsing in his chest.
But I didn’t pull away.
Just stayed there, pressed against him, my breath mingling with his, my body aching for more.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to love him.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
—
The festival was held in the Valley of Thorns—a wide, open basin ringed by ancient trees whose bark shimmered with embedded fae-glass. Torches lined the perimeter, their flames dyed red with crushed moonstone, casting long, flickering shadows across the ground. At the center stood a massive fire pit, its flames leaping high, fed by bundles of dried bloodroot and wolf’s bane. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, sweat, and raw magic—sharp, metallic, like the moment before lightning strikes.
The Bloodfang Clan arrived in waves—Alphas first, their silver collars gleaming, their eyes amber and unblinking. Then Betas, Gammas, Omegas—hundreds of them, their forms shifting between human and wolf with restless ease. They didn’t kneel. Didn’t bow. Just stood in a wide circle around the fire, watching, waiting.
And then—
Torin.
He stepped forward alone, his massive frame cutting through the crowd like a blade. No weapons. No armor. Just a simple leather vest, his chest bare, the scars of old battles etched into his skin like runes. He stopped a few paces from the fire, his gaze locking onto mine.
“Crimson Veyra,” he said, his voice deep, resonant. “Daughter of Seraphine. You’ve come.”
“And you’re still alive,” I said, stepping forward. “So we’re both full of surprises.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Even Torin’s lips twitched.
“You’ve broken our laws,” he said. “Ended our traditions. Taken our Alpha’s place in the Council.”
“And I’ve stopped the rogue packs,” I countered. “Ended the blood taxes. Prevented three clan wars. So yes. I’ve changed things. But I haven’t come to rule over you. I’ve come to *dance* with you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You think this is a game?”
“I think it’s a test,” I said. “And if you want to see if I belong here, then show me.”
He studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.
Not to fight.
To *lead.*
I didn’t hesitate. Just placed my palm in his.
And the drums began.
Not human-made. Not crafted. The sound rose from the earth itself—deep, rhythmic, primal—like the heartbeat of the world. The fire roared higher, its flames twisting into spirals, then serpents, then wolves. The werewolves began to move—circling the fire, their steps synchronized, their voices rising in a guttural chant.
And then—
Torin spun me.
Not gently. Not ceremonially.
Hard. Fast. *Challenging.*
I matched him—step for step, turn for turn, my body moving with a grace I didn’t know I had. My blood sang in my veins, my magic humming beneath my skin. The bond pulsed, not with fear, not with anger, but with *power.* Not just mine. Ours.
And then—
Kael joined us.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just stepped into the circle, his movements fluid, precise, his presence a storm in human form. His hand found my waist, his grip firm, *claiming.* Torin didn’t protest. Just shifted, adjusting the rhythm, making space.
We danced—three of us, circling the fire, our movements a silent negotiation, a wordless pact. The werewolves watched, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow. This wasn’t just a dance. It was a declaration.
We weren’t just co-rulers.
We were *united.*
And then—
The drums shifted.
Slower. Deeper. More intimate.
The chant faded. The circle tightened. And then—
Torin stepped back.
And it was just us.
Kael and I, face to face, our bodies pressed close, our breath mingling in the heat of the fire. His hand slid down to my hip, pulling me closer, his thumb brushing the dip of my spine. The bond flared—a wildfire in my veins, burning through every wall, every lie, every reason I had to keep him at arm’s length.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered.
“I already do,” he said, his voice rough, his breath warm against my lips. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath hitched.
But I didn’t pull away.
Just leaned in, my forehead resting against his, my body arching into his. The music swirled around us—soft now, melodic, like a lullaby for wolves. His other hand moved to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my face up.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
A *promise.*
And gods help me, I answered it.
My hands flew to his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on. My body arched into his, my breath hot against his lips. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And when I finally pulled back, breathless, my forehead resting against his, 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.”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me, his fingers digging into my coat, my 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.
He didn’t move. Just stayed in my arms, his breath warm against my neck.
And then—softly—he said, “Prove it.”
—
The crowd didn’t cheer.
Didn’t roar.
Just fell silent.
Then—
One by one, they knelt.
Not to us.
To the bond.
To the fire.
To the *truth.*
Torin was the last. He didn’t bow his head. Just placed his fist over his heart, his amber eyes burning with something I couldn’t name—respect, perhaps. Or awe. Or the quiet recognition of a storm he could no longer fight.
“You’ve earned your place,” he said, voice low. “Not by blood. Not by title. But by *truth.*”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, and offered my hand.
He took it.
Not as a subject.
As an equal.
And then—
The drums returned.
Not the deep, primal beat of challenge, but something lighter, freer—like laughter in the dark. The werewolves rose, their forms shifting, their voices rising in song. Some danced. Some drank. Some shifted fully, their massive wolves circling the fire, their howls rising to the blood-red moon.
Kael pulled me into the shadows at the edge of the clearing, his body pressing mine against the rough bark of an ancient tree, his hand sliding under my tunic, fingers brushing the inside of my leg, slow, deliberate, *teasing.*
“You’re insatiable,” I said, breathless.
“Good,” he replied, his mouth crashing down on mine—hard, desperate, *needing.*
Not to dominate.
Not to possess.
To *connect.*
And gods help me, I answered it.
My hands fisted in his coat, my body arching into his, my breath hot against his lips. The bond roared, a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to keep him at arm’s length.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I hissed, my voice breaking.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
My breath came fast. My skin burned. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
And then—his fingers brushed my clit, slow, deliberate, through the fabric.
I *screamed.*
Not in pain.
In *pleasure.*
Sharp, blinding, *unbearable.* My back arching, my hips grinding against his hand, my body trembling. The bond *screamed,* a surge so intense I thought I’d die. My vision blurred. My heart pounded. My core clenched, *aching* for more.
“You don’t get to want me,” I hissed, my voice breaking. “You don’t get to *touch* me.”
“I already do,” he said, his fingers circling, slow, torturous. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I slapped him.
He didn’t stop.
Just laughed—a low, dark sound—and pressed harder.
I came.
Shuddering, gasping, *breaking.* My body convulsed, my thighs clamping around his hand, my nails digging into his shoulders. The bond *screamed,* a wildfire in my veins, burning through every lie, every wall, every reason I had to hate him.
And when it was over, I collapsed against him, my breath ragged, my skin burning.
He didn’t let go.
Just held me, his arms tight around my waist, his face buried in my neck. “You’re already mine,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath warm against my skin. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”
I wanted to hate him.
Wanted to push him away.
But all I could do was cling to him, my fingers digging into his coat, my body still trembling from the aftershocks.
Because the truth was worse than I’d imagined.
I wasn’t here to kill the Hollow King.
I was here to survive him.
And if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up wanting to keep him.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford.
But as I stood there, pressed against the tree, his body a furnace against mine, his hand still between my thighs, I realized something.
It was too late.
I already did.
I already *wanted* him.
Not just because of the bond.
Not just because of the mission.
But because he’d *fought* for her.
Because he’d *failed* trying.
Because he was broken—and still standing.
Just like me.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.
—
Later, as the moon began to wane, we returned to the fire.
Torin stood waiting, a silver chalice in his hands, filled with dark red wine—laced, I knew, with a drop of werewolf blood. A traditional offering. A test of loyalty.
He offered it to me first.
I didn’t hesitate. Just took it, met his gaze, and drank.
The blood was warm, rich, *powerful.* It flooded my veins, not with magic, but with *connection.* I felt the pulse of the pack, the rhythm of their hearts, the wild joy of their freedom.
And then—I passed it to Kael.
He didn’t flinch. Just drank, his crimson eyes never leaving mine.
And when he handed it back, Torin nodded.
“The bond is seen,” he said. “The pact is sealed. You are no longer guests. You are *family.*”
And for the first time since I’d entered the Obsidian Spire, I didn’t feel the need to run.
Because I wasn’t alone.
I had him.
I had the truth.
And I had my mother’s name.
And that—more than any blade, more than any bond—was the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.