The nightmares always came at the blood moon.
Not every time. Not like clockwork. But when the veil between worlds thinned, when the old magic stirred in the stones beneath the Spire, when the air tasted of iron and forgotten oaths—then, they returned.
And tonight, the moon hung low and swollen, crimson as a wound, its light pooling on the obsidian floor like spilled blood. The city below was quiet—too quiet. No laughter from the undercity. No distant howl of a wolf in heat. Just silence, thick and waiting.
I lay awake, my body pressed against Kael’s, my ear over his heart. Not beating. Not like a human’s. But pulsing—slow, deep, *alive*—a second rhythm beneath my skin, synced with the bond. His arm was slung around my waist, heavy, warm, *certain.* He was asleep. Or pretending to be. I couldn’t tell anymore.
But I wasn’t.
Not fully.
Because I could feel it—the pull. The whisper. The memory that wasn’t mine, but *his.*
And then—
It began.
—
I wasn’t in our chambers anymore.
I was in the crypts. The same ones beneath the Spire, older than kings, older than oaths. 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—
Her.
The woman from his past. The one they’d executed for treason. The one whose death had broken him before I ever existed.
She knelt on the cold stone, her wrists bound by glowing sigils, her mouth sealed with silver. Her hair—dark, long, streaked with silver—fell over her shoulders, hiding her face. But I knew her. Not from sight. From *feeling.* From the way the bond ached when I thought of her. From the way Kael’s breath caught when her name was whispered in the halls.
And then—he stepped forward.
Not the Kael I knew. Not the man who kissed my scars, who held me through fever, who let me stab him to prove he loved me.
This was the Hollow King.
Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable.
His coat whispered against the stone. His fangs were bared. His crimson eyes burned with something I’d never seen—*regret,* buried so deep it looked like rage.
“You swore loyalty,” he said, his voice low, guttural. “And you betrayed us.”
She didn’t speak. Just lifted her head. Her eyes—storm-colored, just like mine—locked onto his. And in them, not fear. Not hatred.
Pity.
“I didn’t,” she whispered, the silver gag cracking as she forced the words through. “You know I didn’t. And you’re letting them kill me anyway.”
He didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until he was inches from her face. “Then prove it,” he said. “Swear the oath. Let the blade judge you.”
She laughed. A broken sound, sharp with grief. “You know what they’ve done to it. You’ve seen the tampering. You’ve read the reports. And yet—you do nothing.”
“I am the King,” he said. “Not a rebel. Not a traitor. I uphold the law.”
“And what of justice?” she asked. “What of *love?*”
He didn’t answer. Just turned to the High Magistrate. “Proceed.”
And then—
The blade came down.
Not a sword. Not a dagger.
The fae oath-blade—black steel, etched with runes that pulsed with stolen power. It pressed to her palm. She spoke the words—*“I swear by blood and bone, I have not betrayed the Council.”*
The blade glowed silver.
And then—black.
“She lied,” Kael said, his voice cold, final. “Sentence: Erasure.”
But I knew the truth.
The blade had been tampered with. The oath hadn’t been broken.
She’d been framed.
And then—fire.
The pyre. The silver ink burning. The silence where her name used to be.
And then—him.
Kael, standing at the edge of the dais, his face cold, his eyes empty. But beneath it—*grief.* A flicker. A crack. A whisper of something he’d buried for centuries.
And then—he fell.
To his knees. His hands pressed to his face. His body shaking. Not with sobs. With *rage.* With guilt. With the weight of a choice he couldn’t take back.
And then—
I woke.
Gasping. Jerking. My hands flying to my head, my witch-mark flaring beneath my palm, glowing faintly in the dark.
Kael was already awake.
Not startled. Not confused.
Just… still.
His arm tightened around me. His breath warmed my neck. His heartbeat—slow, deep, *alive*—pulsed beneath my ear.
“Again?” he asked, his voice low, rough.
I didn’t answer. Just turned in his arms, my storm-colored eyes locking onto his crimson ones. The moonlight caught the scar at the corner of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his side—always ready, always restrained.
“You didn’t save her,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze, his jaw tight, his breath steady. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
“And you let them erase her.”
“Yes.”
“And you watched.”
“Yes.”
My breath caught.
He saw it. But he didn’t look away. Just reached up, slow, deliberate, and brushed 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.
—
We didn’t speak.
Not for a long time.
Just lay there, pressed together, the bond pulsing between us—slow, deep, *alive*—a second heartbeat beneath our flesh. The moonlight bled across the floor, painting the room in shades of red and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck three. The hour of ghosts. The hour of truth.
And then—
He spoke.
Not to the world. Not to the Council.
To *me.*
“Her name was Lysara,” he said, his voice low, raw. “Daughter of the Unseelie Court. A diplomat. A truth-seer, like you. She came to me with proof that Vexis was tampering with the oath-blades. That he was framing dissidents. That he was building a power base in the shadows.”
I didn’t move. Just listened, my fingers splayed over his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath, the warmth, the life.
“I believed her,” he said. “But I was Regent, not King. The Council was divided. The Seelie had influence. And if I acted without proof—”
“—you’d be accused of conspiracy,” I finished.
He nodded. “So I told her to wait. To gather more evidence. To be careful. And then—she was summoned to the High Court. Accused of treason. And when they brought out the oath-blade—”
“—it was already corrupted,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “And I knew. I *knew.* But I was bound by law. By duty. By the very system I was sworn to protect. And so I stood there. And I let them kill her.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
But I didn’t let them fall.
“And after?” I asked.
“I buried the report,” he said. “Destroyed the evidence. Made sure no one else could use it against me. And I became the Hollow King. Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable. Because if I let myself feel—if I let myself *care*—I’d break. And then the whole damn world would burn with me.”
My breath hitched.
He felt it. But he didn’t press. Just held me tighter, his hand sliding to the small of my back, his thumb brushing the scar at my hip—the one from the rebellion, the one he kissed every night like it was sacred. “You don’t get to touch me,” I whispered.
“I already do,” he said, his thumb circling my pulse point, 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.
—
I didn’t ask him to forgive himself.
Didn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault.
Because it *was.*
And he knew it.
And that was the point.
Instead, I did something else.
I reached into the bond.
Not to take. Not to control.
To *give.*
My fingers tightened on his chest. My breath steadied. And then—I opened myself. Not just my mind. Not just my magic.
My *memory.*
The night they burned my mother’s name. The silence where her voice used to be. The way my hands had pressed to my mouth, my breath silent, my heart breaking. The way I’d stood there, and watched them erase her. The vow I’d made in the dark: *I will burn him alive.*
And then—me, turning away. My hands clenched into fists, my heart pounding like a war drum.
And then—Nyx. In his chambers. Her hand on his chest. Her lips on his neck. Her voice, low, seductive. *“You used to beg for my blood. For your touch. For your scream.”*
But it wasn’t true.
It was a lie. A performance. A knife meant for me.
And then—Kael’s voice, quiet, firm: *“You’re not what I think?”* And then, softer: *“She’s not what you think.”*
The memory shifted.
Now he was in the crypts. Nyx on her knees, gasping, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t name—fear? Regret? *Envy?* And me, my hand still around her throat, my voice low, deadly: *“You will not touch her. You will not speak her name. And if you ever come near her again, I will bury you with the kings and let the worms feast on your lies.”*
And then—him, standing in the courtyard. Cold wind on his face. The sky black. The moon a sliver of bone. And me, carrying him through the keep, my face pale, my jaw tight, my hands gripping him like he might vanish. *“Don’t leave me,”* I murmured. *“Not now. Not ever.”*
And then—him, pressing his palms to my chest, whispering the incantation—*Sanguis aperio, veritas regnat.* Blood opens, truth reigns.
And then—connection.
Not just through the bond.
Through *us.*
I felt him—his pain, his fear, his love, his guilt, his need. I saw his memories—his first love’s execution, his century of silence, the moment our hands touched, the way his breath caught when I walked into a room.
And I let him feel me.
My mother’s trial, the pyre, the silence where her name used to be. The dagger in my boot. The vow to kill him.
And then—us.
The near-kiss in the war room. The blood-sharing ritual. The way his hands felt on my skin. The way his voice sounded when he said, *“You’re already mine.”*
The memory shifted.
Now I was in his chambers. His lips brushing mine. Not a kiss. A *promise.* And then—my mouth crashing down on his—hard, desperate, *needing.* Not to dominate. Not to possess.
To *connect.*
My hands fisted in his hair, my body pressing him into the bed, 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.
But this wasn’t just desire.
This was *surrender.*
And then—
Stillness.
I gasped, my body arching, my hands flying to his waist. His skin cooled. His breath steadied. The blood at his lip stopped.
He was alive.
And I was—
Shattered.
Because I hadn’t just healed him.
I’d *felt* him.
And I’d liked it.
And then—
Darkness.
—
The chamber snapped back into focus.
The runes dimmed. The memory faded. The Council stood frozen, their faces pale, their eyes wide. Even Virel looked shaken. Torin had his claws dug into the armrest of his seat, his amber gaze sharp.
And Vexis—
He was sobbing.
Not silently. Not with dignity.
With *terror.* His body trembled, his breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with the horror of what he’d done—and what he was about to lose.
I didn’t pity him.
Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, and drew the dagger from my thigh.
Not the one from my boot.
The new one.
Forged from Nyx’s ring. Tempered by truth. Bound by memory.
“This is not for vengeance,” I said, holding it high, the cracked ruby in its pommel catching the light. “This is not for blood. This is for *balance.* For the ones who were silenced. For the ones who were erased. For the ones who were *lied* to.”
And then—I turned to the Council.
“You will not forget her,” I said. “You will not pretend she never existed. You will not let another lie take root in this hall. And if you do—”
I pressed the blade to the sigil on the dais.
It flared—bright, blinding, *unbearable.*
“—then you will answer to *me.*”
The chamber stilled.
Then—
A single clap.
Then another.
And then—the entire hall erupted.
Cheers. Shouts. Tears.
And in the center of it all—me.
Not as an avenger.
Not as a weapon.
But as *Crimson.*
Daughter of Seraphine.
Heir to the Unseelie Bloodline.
Mate of the Hollow King.
And for the first time in my life—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.
—
I didn’t kill him.
Not with the blade.
Not with fire.
Not with blood.
Just with truth.
The High Magistrate stepped forward, her voice echoing as if from a thousand throats. “Vexis of the Seelie Court, you are found guilty of treason, conspiracy, and the unlawful execution of Seraphine Veyra. By the power of the Fae High Court, by the blood of the innocent, by the silence of the erased, your life is forfeit.”
And then—she raised her hand.
Not with a blade.
With a *sigil.*
Drawn in air, glowing with ancient magic. A mark of erasure. Not of name. Not of memory.
Of *power.*
It descended upon him—slow, deliberate, *unforgiving.*
And then—
He screamed.
Not in pain.
In *loss.*
His magic unraveled. His title dissolved. His bloodline severed. His name—still intact, still remembered—stripped of its authority, its influence, its *legacy.*
And when it was over, he was not dead.
But he was *nothing.*
Just a man. A broken, trembling thing, his hands pressed to his face, his breath ragged, his power gone.
And I—
I didn’t gloat.
Didn’t triumph.
Just turned and walked away.
Because justice was not in his death.
It was in his silence.
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I stood at the balcony, barefoot on cold obsidian, my gown gone, my witch-mark glowing faintly beneath my palm. The city below was alive—lights flickering in the undercity, voices rising in song, the scent of burning blood and fae dreams replaced by something sweeter. Something *clean.*
Kael came up behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. “You’re thinking,” he said.
“I’m always thinking,” I replied.
“Not like this,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “This is the kind of thinking that leads to peace.”
I leaned into him, my body a furnace against his. “Then let’s make it last.”
He didn’t answer.
Just held me, his arms tight around my waist, his breath warm against my skin.
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.