The first time I walked into the Council chamber as co-ruler, I didn’t wear a gown.
No velvet. No lace. No ceremonial robes stitched with blood-ink sigils. Just leather—dark, fitted, unyielding—the same tunic and riding pants I’d worn in the rebellion, the same boots that had carried me through the pyre’s ashes, the same gloves I no longer needed. The dagger was still in my boot. Not for protection. Not for vengeance.
For *memory.*
Kael stood beside me, his coat whispering against the obsidian floor, his presence a wall at my back. He didn’t look at me. Just kept his crimson eyes forward, his jaw tight, his hands clasped behind his back. The bond pulsed between us—slow, deep, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
The chamber had changed.
Not in structure. Not in stone. But in *weight.* The air hummed with something new—hesitation, yes, but also something sharper. Something closer to *respect.* The seven Council seats still stood in their semicircle, but now, at the center, where the Regent’s throne once loomed, there was only one.
A shared seat—carved from black diamond and silver bone, its arms shaped like intertwined serpents, their fangs bared, their eyes set with crimson rubies. Our sigil. Our oath. Our truth.
And beside it—
A second chair.
Not for a consort. Not for a subordinate.
For Elias, the Human Liaison.
He sat there now, his cane resting against the armrest, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back, his hands folded in his lap. He didn’t rise when we entered. Just gave a small nod—respectful, not subservient.
Good.
Because this wasn’t about power.
It was about balance.
“You’re thinking,” I said, stepping forward, my boots clicking against the stone.
“I’m always thinking,” Kael replied.
“Not like this,” I said, turning to him. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to war. Or worse—peace.”
He didn’t smile. Just stepped beside me, slow, deliberate, and placed his hand on the back of the shared throne. “Then let’s make it worth fighting for.”
And we did.
—
The first vote was over the Bloodfang Enclave.
Not land. Not resources. Not even justice.
Food.
Simple, human food—grain, meat, preserved fruit—delivered monthly to the werewolf clans in the outer territories. A small thing. A quiet thing. But one that had been denied for decades. “They’re animals,” Virel, the Seelie councillor, had said during the briefing. “Let them hunt. Let them *earn* it.”
Now, seated in the chamber, he repeated it, his voice sharp, his eyes gleaming. “They are not children. They do not need handouts. If they wish to eat, let them prove their worth.”
I didn’t look at Kael.
Just stepped forward, my voice calm, steady, *certain.* “And if they turn to raiding human settlements? If they break the truce for a loaf of bread? Will you call that worth?”
“They are wolves,” he said. “They will always hunger.”
“And we are rulers,” I said. “We do not abandon our people because they are inconvenient.”
“They are not *our* people,” he snapped.
“They are under our protection,” Elias said, his voice quiet but firm. “And if we fail to protect them, we fail the balance.”
“You speak as if they matter,” Virel sneered.
“I speak as if *peace* matters,” Elias shot back. “And peace dies when the hungry are left to starve.”
The chamber stilled.
Then—
Torin, the werewolf Alpha, stood. His claws were retracted, but his amber eyes burned. “You call us animals,” he said, voice low, guttural. “But you are the ones who would let children go hungry. You are the ones who would rather see blood in the streets than share a sack of grain. You are not better than us. You are *weaker.*”
Virel paled.
But he didn’t back down.
“Then let them vote,” he said. “Let the Council decide.”
And so we did.
One by one, the councillors cast their votes.
Two for. Two against. Two abstained.
And Elias—
“For,” he said.
And then—
Kael.
He didn’t speak. Just nodded.
And me?
I didn’t hesitate.
“For,” I said.
The motion passed.
Not with cheers. Not with celebration.
With silence.
But it was a different silence. Not the silence of fear. Not the silence of submission.
The silence of change.
—
Later, in the war room, I stood at the map table, my fingers tracing the borders of the Bloodfang territory. The grain shipments would leave at dawn. Riven had already sent scouts to escort the wagons. No fanfare. No speeches. Just action.
Kael stood behind me, his arms crossed over his chest, his presence a wall at my back. He hadn’t spoken since the vote. Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning.
“You didn’t need to do that,” he said.
“And yet,” I said, turning to him, “I did.”
He studied me—my storm-colored eyes, my chiseled jaw, the scar at the corner of my mouth. The woman who’d come to kill him. The woman who’d tried to hate him. The woman who’d knelt before the Council and refused his life.
“You could have let me handle it,” he said.
“And you could have let me fail,” I replied. “But you didn’t. Just like I didn’t let you silence Elias today. We’re not just ruling, Kael. We’re *leading.* And that means fighting *together.* Not taking turns.”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, slow, deliberate, and reached up to brush a strand of hair from my face. 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 second vote came at dusk.
Over the Blood Oaths.
Not just who could swear them. Not just who could break them.
Who could *enforce* them.
For centuries, only vampires had held the authority to administer the Blood Oaths—binding contracts sealed with a kiss or bite, their violation punishable by agonizing decay. Now, Elias proposed a change: that witches and werewolves be granted equal authority to witness and enforce them.
“It’s not about power,” he said, standing before the Council. “It’s about trust. If we are to be equals, then our oaths must be equal. No more secrets. No more silence. No more lies hidden behind ancient laws.”
Virel laughed. “And who will stop them from twisting the oaths? From using them as weapons? You would hand the power of life and death to *half-breeds* and *beasts*?”
“I would hand it to *rulers*,” Elias said, calm, unshaken. “To those who have proven they can bear it.”
“And what of tradition?” another councillor asked.
“Tradition kept my people in the dark,” Elias said. “Tradition let them sell our blood in the Dusk Market. Tradition called my daughter a traitor for wanting justice. If that’s what tradition is, then I say—burn it down.”
The chamber erupted.
Voices rose. Accusations flew. Torin’s Betas bared their claws. The vampire enforcers tensed.
And then—
Kael stood.
Not with a shout. Not with a threat.
With silence.
He didn’t look at me. Just stepped forward, his presence pressing against the room, his voice low, guttural. “The Blood Oaths were meant to uphold balance. Not to hoard power. If they have become a tool of control, then they are broken. And broken things must be remade.”
He turned to me.
And nodded.
I didn’t hesitate.
“For,” I said.
And one by one, the others followed.
Torin. Elias. The witch councillor. Even one of the vampires.
The motion passed.
And this time—
There *were* cheers.
From the enforcers. From the lieutenants. From the humans in the gallery, their fists raised, their voices loud.
And in the center of it all—
Us.
Standing side by side. Hand in hand. Not as king and queen.
As partners.
—
That night, we didn’t go to our chambers.
Instead, we walked.
Through the lower tunnels. Past the fae-glass walls that pulsed with forgotten light. Through the undercity, where the scent of bread and roasted meat filled the air—new smells, clean smells, *human* smells. The Dusk Market was quiet now. No vials of blood. No stolen dreams. Just stalls selling flour, salt, candles. Life.
And when we passed, the people didn’t flinch.
They *watched.*
Not with fear. Not with hatred.
With *hope.*
“You did that,” Kael said, his voice low.
“We did,” I corrected.
He didn’t argue. Just laced his fingers through mine, his grip firm, *reassuring.*
And then—
A child.
No older than seven. A girl, her hair dark, her eyes wide. She stepped forward, clutching a small loaf of bread in her hands. “For you,” she said, holding it out.
I knelt, my leather creaking, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. “For me?”
She nodded. “My mother says you saved us. So I baked this. It’s not much. But it’s warm.”
My breath caught.
Not with emotion. Not with pride.
With *truth.*
Because this—this small, warm loaf, this child’s quiet courage—was what we were fighting for. Not power. Not revenge. Not even love.
Peace.
Real peace.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the bread. “It’s perfect.”
She smiled. Then turned and ran back to her mother, who stood in the doorway of a small shop, her face lined with exhaustion, her eyes bright with tears.
Kael didn’t speak. Just pressed a kiss to my temple, slow, deliberate, *reverent.*
“You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline. “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.
—
Back in the war room, we stood at the map table again.
But this time, I wasn’t alone.
Kael stood beside me, his hand on my hip, his breath warm against my neck. The city glowed below us, its lights flickering like stars. The grain shipments would arrive by dawn. The new Blood Oath enforcers would be sworn in by midday. The Human Liaison office would open its second location in the northern district.
And yet—
I didn’t feel victorious.
I felt… quiet.
Not empty. Not tired.
Full.
“You’re thinking,” I said.
“I’m always thinking,” he replied.
“Not like this,” I said, turning to him. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to peace.”
He didn’t smile. Just stepped closer, slow, deliberate, and pressed his forehead to mine. “Then let’s make it last.”
And gods help me, I believed him.
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, my breath warm against my neck.
And then—softly—I said, “Prove it.”
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I stood before the mirror.
My gown was gone. My gloves were gone. My dagger was on the table, its blade still stained with blood.
And on my forehead—the sigil glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the bond.
Kael stood behind me, his arms around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline. “And you? You *crave* it.”
I didn’t slap him.
Just leaned back into him, my body a furnace against his, my breath coming fast.
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.
But as I stood there, pressed against him, the bond pulsing beneath our flesh like a second heartbeat, I realized something.
It was too late.
I already had.