The infirmary was silent, lit only by the soft glow of witch-lamps that pulsed like slow heartbeats. The air smelled of herbs and healing—sage, moonroot, and something deeper, older: the quiet hum of magic mending what violence had torn. Maeve sat in a high-backed chair beside the only occupied bed, her silver-streaked hair loose, her dark eyes closed. She wasn’t sleeping. She was listening. To the keep. To the Veil. To me.
When I stepped inside, she opened her eyes.
“You’re alive,” she said, voice low, not a question, but a statement. A confirmation.
“So are you,” I replied, closing the door behind me. My armor clinked with every step, heavy, cracked, still warm from the fire. I didn’t take it off. Not yet. It felt like the only thing holding me together.
She didn’t smile. Just nodded, her gaze sweeping over me—the scorched runes, the ash on my boots, the fresh bite mark pulsing at my throat. Then she looked past me, as if expecting someone.
“He’s not with you,” she said.
“He’s securing the keep,” I said. “There’s still work to do.”
“And you’re here,” she said, “because you need something he can’t give you.”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, my boots echoing on the stone. I stopped at the foot of the bed. Empty. Clean. Waiting.
“You knew,” I said. “About Cassia. About Malrik. About the bond.”
“I knew,” she said. “But knowing isn’t the same as telling. Some truths must be earned. Some wounds must be lived.”
“And what about her?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Did she earn her death?”
Maeve didn’t flinch. Just looked at me—those ancient eyes seeing through bone, through blood, through lies. “She died for the truth. And now, so have you.”
“I’m not dead.”
“No,” she said. “But the woman who came here to kill Kaelen Duskbane? She’s gone. Burned in the fire of her own rage. And from those ashes, something new has risen.”
I pressed my palm to the armor over my heart. “I don’t know who I am without that rage.”
“Then you’re finally ready to find out,” she said. “Sit.”
I didn’t want to. I wanted to pace. To burn. To scream. But I sat. On the edge of the bed, my back straight, my hands clenched in my lap.
She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “You took the shadow fire into yourself.”
“To save him.”
“And it should have killed you.”
“It didn’t.”
“Because the bond is true,” she said. “Because your magic isn’t just fire. It’s *will*. And when you chose him—not out of duty, not out of magic, but out of love—your power changed. It evolved. It became something greater.”
I looked down at my hands. Still trembling. Still stained with ash. “I erased him. Not just his body. His *soul*.”
“And you feel no guilt?”
“No,” I said. “I feel… quiet.”
She nodded. “Good. Guilt is a chain. You’ve broken enough of those.”
I exhaled, long and slow. “What now?”
“Now?” she said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Now you take your throne.”
“I don’t want a throne.”
“You already have one,” she said. “You stood on the Obsidian Spire and made a vow. You fought at the Western Gate and burned a tyrant to ash. You are no longer just Kaelen’s mate. You are his equal. His queen. And if you do not claim your place, others will try to take it.”
I thought of Lirien—burned in the Council Chamber, her shadow gone, but her whispers still echoing in my mind. Of Malrik’s allies, scrambling in the dark, waiting for weakness. Of the Dregs, the Nobles, the Ancients—watching, testing, wondering if the fire would burn them too.
“They’ll challenge me,” I said.
“Let them,” Maeve said. “You are not the witch who came here to kill a monster. You are the woman who *became* the fire. And fire does not beg. It *rules*.”
I didn’t answer. Just stared at my hands. At the dried blood on my palm. At the scar from the locket. At the power that still hummed beneath my skin.
“I’m afraid,” I whispered.
“Of what?”
“Of failing her,” I said. “Of failing *him*. Of becoming what I hated.”
She reached out, her hand cool against my cheek. “You will fail. You will rage. You will burn. And you will rise again. That is not weakness. That is *power*. That is *truth*. And that is what makes you worthy.”
Tears spilled over, silent, relentless. I didn’t wipe them away.
“I miss her,” I said.
“So do I,” Maeve said. “But she’s not gone. She’s in you. In your fire. In your voice. In the way you stand, unbroken, even when the world tries to crush you.”
I closed my eyes. “She told me to live. To fight. To love.”
“And you will,” Maeve said. “But not as a ghost. Not as a shadow of her. As *you*. As Athena. As queen.”
I opened my eyes. “Then I’ll need a crown.”
She smiled—fully, finally. “No crown. Just fire.”
She stood, moving to a chest in the corner. She opened it, pulling out a long, folded piece of fabric—black silk, threaded with gold, the sigil of Blackthorne embroidered at the center: a fanged sun, blazing. She held it out to me.
“This was hers,” she said. “Cassia’s cloak. She wore it the night she came to me, the night she told me about Malrik. She said, *‘If I don’t come back, give it to my sister. Let her know I fought to the end.’*”
I took it, the fabric soft, warm, humming with magic. I unfolded it slowly, my breath catching. It was beautiful. Not ornate. Not ceremonial. But *true*. Like her.
“I can’t wear it,” I said.
“You must,” Maeve said. “Not to replace her. But to honor her. To carry her fire forward.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. I stood, shrugging off my cracked armor, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy clink. I was bruised, singed, aching—but alive. I draped the cloak over my shoulders, fastening it at the throat with a simple silver clasp. It settled around me like a second skin, like a vow.
Maeve stepped back, studying me. “Now,” she said. “You’re ready.”
“For what?”
“For the Council.”
I stilled. “They’ll be here?”
“They’re already gathering,” she said. “The Spire trembles with it. Twelve seats. Three per species. And one of them—Kaelen’s—is empty. Unless he claims it. Unless *you* claim it with him.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Then we claim it.”
She nodded. “Good. But remember—power is not just in fire. It’s in presence. In silence. In the space between words. They will test you. They will try to break you. And you must not break. You must *burn*.”
I touched the sigil at my throat. “Then let them try.”
She smiled. “That’s my girl.”
I left the infirmary with the cloak swirling around me, the weight of it both light and immense. The halls were still quiet, but I could feel the keep waking—the pulse of servants, the whisper of guards, the hum of magic reweaving itself. The Veil was whole. The bond was true. And the world was watching.
Kaelen found me at the entrance to the throne room.
He stood in the archway, coat open, fangs retracted, red eyes burning. Not with hunger. Not with rage. But with something quieter. Something *real*. He didn’t speak. Just looked at me—at the cloak, at the sigil, at the fire still flickering in my eyes.
“You wore it,” he said.
“She gave it to me,” I said. “Maeve. It was Cassia’s.”
He stepped forward, his hand lifting to touch the sigil at my throat. His fingers were cool, steady, but I could feel the tremor beneath. “You look like her,” he said. “But you’re not.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not. I’m *me*.”
He met my eyes. “And you’re mine.”
“I am,” I said. “But I’m also *mine*.”
He didn’t smile. Just nodded. “Then let’s go claim what’s ours.”
We entered the throne room together.
The Council was already assembled—twelve figures seated in a wide arc, their faces shadowed, their presence heavy. Three vampires. Three werewolves. Three fae. Three witches. The air hummed with tension, with power, with the weight of centuries of lies.
Kaelen stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “The Blood Tribunal is disbanded. Malrik is dead. The Veil is sealed. And I stand before you not as a warlord, but as a guardian. And she—” He gestured to me. “Stands as my equal. My queen. My *vow*.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber. A fae lord leaned forward, his eyes glittering with malice. “And if we refuse?”
I stepped forward, my voice calm, steady, carrying. “Then you burn.”
He laughed. “You think fire frightens us, little witch?”
“No,” I said. “I think *truth* does.”
I raised my hand.
Fire erupted—not at him, not at the Council—but at the ceiling. Golden-white flames spiraled upward, coiling around the chandelier, consuming it in a burst of light and heat. The room flared, shadows fleeing, every face exposed. The werewolves flinched. The witches stilled. The fae lord’s smile faded.
“I am not here to beg,” I said. “I am here to *rule*. With him. For her. For the Veil. And if you stand against us—” I lowered my hand, the flames dying, the room plunging back into shadow. “You will not survive the fire.”
Silence.
Then—
A single clap.
From the far end of the chamber.
A witch elder, her hair white as bone, her eyes sharp as flint. She stood, her voice clear, carrying. “The bond is true. The Veil is whole. And the fire has spoken. I accept.”
Another witch stood. Then a werewolf. Then a vampire noble—Silas, stepping forward from the shadows. One by one, they rose. Not all. But enough.
Kaelen turned to me, his red eyes burning. “It’s done.”
“It’s not done,” I said. “It’s just beginning.”
He didn’t argue. Just reached for me—his hand finding mine, cool and steady, fingers lacing with mine. The bond flared—hot, deep, a pulse between us, not of magic, but of *need*.
And then—
A voice.
Not from the Council.
Not from the keep.
From *within*.
“You did it,” Cassia said, her voice soft, bright, like sunlight through stained glass. “You’re not just surviving. You’re *living*.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m trying.”
“Then keep trying,” she said. “And keep burning.”
I opened my eyes, looking at Kaelen. At the man who’d let me hate him to keep me alive. At the man who’d worn her locket every night as a penance. At the man who’d fought beside me, bled for me, *lived* for me.
And I knew—
This wasn’t just about vengeance.
It was about *her*.
And me.
And the fire that had survived even death.
I stepped forward, pressing a hand to his chest. “We rebuild,” I said. “Together.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, his lips finding mine—slow, deep, devouring. Not fire. Not teeth. But *truth*.
And I answered back.
Because I was no longer afraid.
Because I was no longer alone.
Because I was *home*.