The first time I saw her, she was standing in the Blood District market, wrapped in a hooded cloak the color of storm clouds, her scent masked by cheap glamour and river water. It wasn’t her beauty that caught me—though she was beautiful, with silver-blonde hair like moonlight on snow and eyes that shifted between gray and green depending on the light. It was the way she moved. Not like a Fae noble, gliding with practiced grace. Not like a spy, tense and calculating. But like someone who didn’t belong. Like someone who was searching.
I was on patrol—low-profile, shadowed, watching for Malrik’s informants. The Blood Courts were unstable. The Oath was fraying. And Kaelen… Kaelen was changing. I’d seen it before anyone else. The way his gaze lingered on River when he thought no one was looking. The way he hesitated before giving an order. The way he *listened*.
It scared me.
Not because I doubted him.
Because I *knew* him.
And I knew what happened to men like him when they loved.
They burned.
They broke.
They died.
So I was watching. Always watching. For threats. For weakness. For anything that might tear us apart.
And then I saw *her*.
She was examining a vial of moon-dipped ink, her fingers trembling slightly, her breath too even—forced calm. A tell. I moved closer, boots silent on the cobblestones, my wolf senses cutting through the market’s chaos—sweat, blood, iron, spice. And beneath it all… something sweet. Not perfume. Not magic. Grief.
She looked up.
Our eyes met.
And the world… shifted.
Not with magic. Not with fate.
With recognition.
Like we’d known each other in another life. Like we’d already said goodbye.
“You’re not from here,” I said, voice low.
She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head, studying me. “And you’re not just a guard.”
“No.” I stepped closer, close enough to smell the truth beneath the glamour—salt, sorrow, and something wild. Fae of the Winter Court. Rare. Dangerous. “You’re looking for someone.”
Her breath hitched. Just once. A crack in the mask. “I’m looking for *answers*.”
“About what?”
“About a man who died protecting a queen he didn’t owe.”
My breath caught.
Because I knew.
She was talking about *me*.
Not yet. Not in this life. But she already knew how it would end.
And so did I.
“His name was Torin,” I said, voice rough. “Beta of the Ashen Pack. Loyal to the Duskbane line. Died in the Battle of Blackthorn.”
She didn’t blink. Just stared at me, those shifting eyes seeing too much. “And why did he die?”
“Because he believed in something greater than survival.”
“And what was that?”
I didn’t answer. Just looked at her, at the way her fingers curled around the vial, at the way her throat moved when she swallowed. “You already know,” I said. “You’re not here for answers. You’re here for *him*.”
She didn’t deny it.
Just stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of her, the low hum of her magic, the grief radiating off her like a second skin. “He saved her,” she whispered. “He died for *her*.”
“Yes.”
“And you… you *knew*.”
“I did.”
“Then why didn’t you stop him?”
I didn’t flinch. Just met her gaze, steady, unrelenting. “Because some men aren’t meant to be saved. Some men are meant to *burn*.”
She didn’t cry. Didn’t rage. Just nodded, slow, like she’d expected the answer. Like she’d known all along.
And then—
She reached out.
Not to strike. Not to grab.
To *touch*.
Her fingers brushed my wrist, just once. A jolt of sensation shot through me—cold fire, sweet pain, the scent of winter frost and crushed violets. The bond between us—not fated, not magical, but something deeper—chosen—flared to life.
And I knew.
This woman. This Fae. This *stranger*.
She was mine.
And I was already dead.
“I’m Elara,” she said, voice low. “Of the Winter Court. And I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Even though you know how it ends?”
“Especially because I know how it ends.”
And then—
We began.
Not with declarations. Not with promises.
With silence.
With stolen moments in the back rooms of blood bars, where no one asked questions. With quiet walks through the Fae Quarter, where the trees whispered secrets and the air shimmered with illusion. With hands brushing in the dark, with breath shared in the space between heartbeats.
We didn’t speak of the future.
Didn’t speak of love.
Because we both knew—
There wasn’t one.
But still, we met. Night after night. Week after week. Until the silence between us became louder than any words.
Until I started to hope.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
“You shouldn’t come here,” I said one night, standing in the shadowed alley behind the Blackthorn Keep, rain falling in sheets, my coat soaked through. “If they find you—”
“They won’t,” she said, stepping into the light, her cloak gone, her hair unbound, her eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “I’ve been hiding from the Courts for years. I know how to disappear.”
“Not from Kaelen.”
“Not from you,” she said, stepping closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of her, the rise and fall of her chest. “You’re the only one who’s ever seen me.”
My breath caught.
Because it was true.
I *had* seen her.
Not just her face. Not just her body.
Her.
The woman who’d defied her Court. Who’d stolen forbidden knowledge. Who’d run, not for freedom, but for *truth*.
And in that moment—
I wanted to keep her.
Not as a secret. Not as a lover.
As mine.
“Stay,” I said, voice breaking. “Just one night. Just—”
“No,” she said, pressing a finger to my lips. “If I stay, I’ll never leave. And if I never leave, I’ll destroy you.”
“Let me be destroyed,” I said, grabbing her wrist, pulling her against me. “Let me burn with you.”
She didn’t pull away. Just looked at me, those shifting eyes full of sorrow. “You don’t understand. My Court… they don’t forgive. They don’t forget. And if they find me with you—”
“Then let them come,” I growled. “Let them try to take you. I’ll kill every one of them.”
She smiled—soft, sad. “You’d die for me.”
“I already have,” I said, voice raw. “Every night I let you walk away, I die a little more.”
And then—
She kissed me.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hard. Desperate. A clash of teeth and tongue and breath, a surge of heat so intense it stole my breath. My hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, my body arching into hers, my wolf howling inside me, *claiming, claiming, claiming*.
She groaned, low and deep, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “Torin,” she whispered against my lips. “I can’t—”
“Then don’t,” I said, lifting her, pressing her against the wall. “Just feel. Just *be*.”
And she did.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of fate.
But because, for one terrible, shameful moment, she *wanted* it.
Wanted me.
Needed me.
And when it was over, when the wind returned, when the rain soaked us to the bone, when the bond settled into a quiet, insistent hum—
She was still in my arms.
Still breathing hard.
Still mine.
She pulled back, just enough to look at me. Her eyes were dark, her lips swollen, her breath uneven. “Better?” she asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at her, those shifting eyes seeing too much. “You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“Neither are you.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched me, like I was something precious, not prey.
And that?
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because if she wasn’t the spy I’d believed her to be—
Then what did that make me?
What did that make us?
I didn’t have an answer.
Not yet.
But as I stood there, her arms still around me, her breath warm against my neck, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want her to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met her eyes in the dim light, when I saw the hunger still there—barely restrained, barely contained—I didn’t look away.
Because part of me—shameful, traitorous, hungry—wanted to say yes.
Wanted to arch into her.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let her touch me, let the bond pull me under—I wouldn’t just lose my mission.
I’d lose myself.
And then, there’d be nothing left to save.
So I stayed still.
Stayed silent.
And when she finally leaned in, when her lips hovered over mine, when her breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into hers.
And then—
I let her go.
Not with words. Not with violence.
With silence.
I stepped back. Turned. Walked away.
And didn’t look back.
Because if I had—
I would’ve stayed.
And if I’d stayed—
I would’ve destroyed us both.
But I kept seeing her.
Not in the flesh.
But in the quiet moments. In the space between breaths. In the way my wolf growled when the wind carried the scent of violets.
And I knew—
She was still out there.
Waiting.
Watching.
Loving.
And when the battle came—when Malrik’s forces stormed the Keep, when River fought for her life, when Kaelen roared my name—I didn’t hesitate.
I threw myself in front of her.
Not because I was ordered to.
Not because I owed loyalty to the throne.
Because I’d seen what she was becoming.
What *we* were becoming.
And I believed in it.
Believed in her.
And as the blade pierced my chest, as the world faded to black, as the last thing I saw was Kaelen’s face—shattered, broken, *human*—I didn’t think of duty.
I thought of *her*.
Elara.
My Fae.
My love.
And I smiled.
Because even in death, I’d kept her safe.
And then—
Darkness.
Until now.
Until *her*.
She stands at the edge of my memorial flame, the one Mira lit on the cliffs, the one that still burns with blackthorn blossoms woven into the pyre. The wind tugs at her cloak, the same storm-gray as before, her hair unbound, her eyes shifting between gray and green. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. Just places a single violet in the fire, watching as the petals curl and blacken, the scent of crushed flowers rising into the air.
And I know—
She’s come to say goodbye.
But I also know—
She’s come to begin.
She lifts her head, looking at the Keep, at the thrones, at the woman who now sits beside the king. At the life I helped build.
And then—
She turns.
Not to leave.
But to stay.
Her voice is soft, barely a whisper, but I hear it—clear as moonlight.
“He died for you,” she says, not to me, but to the wind. “And now I serve you.”
And I know—
This isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.
Of her fight.
Of her truth.
Of their story.
And as the fire crackles, as the violet turns to ash, as the wind carries her scent away—
I let go.
Not with sorrow.
But with peace.
Because even in death, love doesn’t end.
It evolves.
It fights.
It lives.
And somewhere, in the shadows of the Keep, a Fae with shifting eyes and a heart full of violets begins to move.
Not as a spy.
But as a warrior.
And I—
I watch.
And I smile.