The peace didn’t last.
It never does.
For seven days, Nocturne breathed. The markets hummed with trade, not fear. The undercity glowed with lanterns, not blood-fire. Werewolf pups played in the rebuilt courtyards. Human children laughed in the shadow of the Spire. Even the wind carried something new—jasmine, rain, the faintest hint of hope.
We walked through it like ghosts.
Kael and I. Not as rulers. Not as mates. Just as two people who had survived the fire and didn’t quite know what to do with the quiet.
On the eighth night, the silence broke.
Not with a scream. Not with a siren. Not with the clash of steel.
With a *message.*
Delivered not by courier, not by flame, not by blood-ink scroll.
By *memory.*
I was in the war room, tracing the new patrol routes along the Duskrend border, my fingers brushing the obsidian map table, the dagger from Nyx’s ring strapped to my thigh. Kael stood at the balcony, his coat whispering against the stone, his presence a wall at my back. The bond pulsed between us—slow, deep, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
And then—
I *felt* it.
A ripple in the bond. Not pain. Not fear. Not desire.
*Recognition.*
Like a whisper from a dream I couldn’t remember. Like a scent on the wind that didn’t belong. Like a voice calling my name in a language I’d never learned.
I froze.
My fingers stilled on the map. My breath caught. My witch-mark flared beneath my palm, glowing faintly, pulsing in time with the bond.
Kael turned.
“You’re thinking,” he said.
“I’m always thinking,” I replied, but my voice was distant, strained.
“Not like this,” he said, stepping toward me, his crimson eyes burning. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to war.”
I didn’t answer. Just closed my eyes.
And let it *in.*
—
The vision came in fragments.
Not a dream. Not a memory. A *warning.*
Stone. Cold. Wet. The scent of iron and moss thick in the air. Torches flickering in sconces carved from bone. The low hum of chanting—seven voices, not in unison, but in *harmony,* each tone a different species: vampire, werewolf, witch, fae, human, and two I didn’t recognize—deep, guttural, like the growl of something ancient, something *forgotten.*
And in the center—
A sigil.
Not drawn in blood. Not carved in stone.
Woven from *hair.*
Black. Silver. Red. Gold. Brown. And two shades I’d never seen—purple-black, like a bruise, and white, like bone ash. The strands twisted together in a spiral, pulsing faintly, their energy not of this world. At its heart, a single drop of blood—dark, thick, *familiar.*
My blood.
And then—
A voice.
Not speaking. Not chanting.
*Singing.*
A single note, pure and terrible, rising from the sigil, vibrating through the stone, through my bones, through the bond. And as it rose, the strands of hair *moved,* coiling, tightening, *binding.*
And then—
Me.
Kneeling. Not in submission. Not in surrender.
In *pain.*
My hands pressed to my temples, my back arched, my mouth open in a silent scream. My witch-mark flared—bright, blinding, *unbearable*—and then—
Darkness.
—
I gasped, my body jerking back, my hands flying to my head. The war room snapped into focus. The map. The torches. The balcony.
Kael was already there.
Not standing. Not watching.
Kneeling.
His hands on my arms, warm, steady, *certain.* His crimson eyes locked onto mine, sharp with something I hadn’t seen in weeks—*fear.* Not for himself. For me.
“What did you see?” he asked, voice low, rough.
“A sigil,” I said, my voice trembling. “Made of hair. Blood in the center. *My* blood.”
His jaw tightened. “And the chant?”
“Seven voices,” I said. “But not just our species. Two others. Something… older.”
He didn’t flinch. Just pulled me into his lap, my back to his chest, his arms tight around my waist. His breath warmed my neck. His heartbeat steadied beneath my palm. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered, echoing his words.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb brushing 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.
—
We called the Council at dawn.
Not for debate. Not for ceremony.
For *war.*
They gathered in the throne room—Virel, Torin, Elias, the witch councillor, the new human enforcer, the fae diplomat. All of them. Even the ones who had whispered that peace was fragile, that balance was temporary, that we had won too easily.
Now, they sat in silence.
Kael stood at the dais, his coat whispering against the stone, his presence pressing against the room. I stood beside him, my leather creaking, my dagger on my thigh, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The bond pulsed—slow, deep, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh.
“A new faction has emerged,” Kael said, his voice low, guttural. “Not rogue. Not rebel. *Ancient.* They call themselves the Veilbreakers. They believe the Council is a prison. That the balance is a lie. And that the only way to true power is to break the bonds that bind us.”
“And how do you know this?” Virel asked, his voice sharp.
“Because they’ve marked her,” Kael said, turning to me. “With a sigil woven from the hair of seven species. Including two we’ve never seen. And blood—*her* blood.”
The room stilled.
“And what do they want?” Elias asked.
“To unmake us,” I said, stepping forward. “To sever the bonds. Not just the mate-bond. The Blood Oaths. The treaties. The magic that holds this world together. They don’t want to rule. They want to *burn.*”
“And why her?” Torin asked, his amber eyes sharp.
“Because I’m the key,” I said. “Half-fae. Half-witch. Bound to the Hollow King. I’m the living proof of the balance they hate. And if they can break me—”
“—they can break everything,” Kael finished.
The chamber erupted.
Voices rose. Accusations flew. The vampire enforcers tensed. The werewolf Betas bared their claws.
And then—
Elara appeared.
Not through the door. Not through shadow-walk.
Through *memory.*
She stepped out of the air itself, her silver hair glowing, her eyes sharp with centuries of knowing. She didn’t speak. Just held out a small, flat box—black wood, inlaid with silver serpents.
“Open it,” she said.
I did.
Inside—
A lock of hair.
Not mine. Not Kael’s. Not any of the Council’s.
Purple-black. Like a bruise. Like a shadow given form.
“This is from the first Veilbreaker,” she said. “A being older than the Fae Courts. Older than the Blood Wars. They were sealed away when the world was young, their power bound by the first Blood Oath. But now—”
“—they’re waking,” I said.
She nodded. “And they’ve chosen you. Not because you’re weak. Because you’re *strong.* Because you’ve already survived the fire. Because you’ve already rebuilt from the ashes. And if they can break you—”
“—they prove that even the strongest can fall,” Kael said.
Elara didn’t answer. Just stepped back, her form dissolving like smoke in the wind.
And then—
Silence.
Not the silence of fear. Not the silence of submission.
The silence of war.
—
We didn’t wait.
Didn’t hesitate.
Just moved.
Kael sent Riven to Duskrend to reinforce the border patrols. Mira activated the new Blood Oath enforcers. Elias shut down the undercity trade routes. Torin called in his pack scouts. And I—
I went to the crypts.
Not for answers. Not for power.
For *memory.*
The crypts were deep beneath the Spire, older than the throne room, older than the war room, older than the king who first bore the title of Hollow. The air was cold, thick with the scent of stone and old blood. Torches flickered in sconces carved from bone. The walls were lined with tombs—black diamond, silver bone, their sigils faded, their names eroded by time.
And in the center—
The First Oath.
A slab of obsidian, larger than any other, its surface etched with a sigil I’d never seen—a spiral of seven strands, each one a different color, their ends bound by a single drop of blood. Not painted. Not carved.
*Real.*
My breath caught.
Not with fear.
With *recognition.*
This was the original. The source. The seal that had bound the Veilbreakers when the world was young.
And now—
It was *flickering.*
The blood at its center pulsed—slow, faint, *faltering.* Like a heartbeat on the edge of stopping.
I didn’t hesitate.
Just drew the dagger from my thigh—forged from Nyx’s ring, tempered by truth, bound by memory—and sliced my palm.
The blood welled—dark, rich, *powerful.*
And then—I pressed it to the sigil.
The moment my blood touched the stone, the bond *exploded.*
Not with pain. Not with fire.
With *light.*
A surge so intense I thought I’d die. My vision blurred. My heart pounded. My core clenched, *aching.* The runes beneath my feet flared—silver, then gold, then blood-red—and the sigil *burned,* the blood at its center turning from dark to bright, from faltering to *strong.*
And then—
Memory.
Not mine.
Theirs.
The chamber dissolved. The crypts vanished. And I was back—standing in the heart of the world, beneath a sky of stars that didn’t belong, watching seven figures kneel around a stone. Each one different—vampire, werewolf, witch, fae, human, and two I didn’t recognize—deep, guttural, like the growl of something ancient, something *forgotten.*
And they spoke—
“By blood and bone,” they intoned, “by fang and flame, by truth and fire, we seal the Veilbreakers. Not in hatred. Not in fear. But in *balance.* Let this oath stand until the world ends. Let it be renewed by those who come after. And let the ones who break it know—”
“—they will be unmade,” I whispered, finishing the vow.
The vision faded.
And I was back.
Kneeling. My hand still pressed to the sigil. My blood still seeping into the stone. My breath ragged.
And then—
He was there.
Kael.
Not calling. Not demanding.
Just kneeling beside me, his hand on my back, warm, steady, *certain.* “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.
—
That night, we didn’t go to our chambers.
Instead, we stood at the balcony, barefoot on cold obsidian, our arms around each other, our breath mingling in the silence. The city below was quiet, wrapped in the velvet hush of pre-dawn.
“You’re thinking,” I said.
“I’m always thinking,” he replied.
“Not like this,” I said. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to war.”
He didn’t answer. Just pressed a kiss to my temple, slow, deliberate, *reverent.*
And then—softly—I said, “Prove it.”
He didn’t move. Just held me tighter, his breath warm against my neck.
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.