The summons came at dawn—etched on a slip of silver leaf, delivered by a raven with eyes like polished onyx. The message was brief, cold, and unmistakable:
“The Summer Court demands audience. Midnight. The Veil of Thorns. Come alone.”
Alone.
As if I’d ever believe that.
I stood at the edge of the balcony, the note burning between my fingers, the scent of blackthorn blossoms thick in the morning air. The Keep was quiet, still wrapped in the hush of early light, but beneath the calm, I felt it—the pulse of tension, the whisper of movement, the low growl of Kaelen’s voice from the war room below. He’d already read the message. Already dismissed it as a trap. Already ordered the guards to double.
But I knew better.
The Fae didn’t send ravens for traps.
They sent them for declarations.
And this?
This was a declaration of war.
I crushed the silver leaf in my fist, letting the ash drift to the stone. The Summer Court had always hated the balance we’d forged—the rewritten Oath, the shared rule, the dismantling of their old alliances with the Blood Courts. They thrived on chaos, on blood, on the intoxicating dance of power and betrayal. And now that the vampire king knelt not to them, but to a hybrid witch-werewolf queen?
They saw weakness.
They saw opportunity.
And they wanted it burned.
“You’re not going,” Kaelen said behind me, voice rough, final.
I didn’t turn. “I have to.”
“It’s a trap.”
“Of course it is.” I finally faced him. He stood in the doorway, coat unbuttoned, fangs just visible, eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not anger. Not command. *Fear.* “But if I don’t go, they’ll say I’m afraid. That I can’t rule. That the bond has broken me.”
“Let them say it.” He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until our bodies were nearly touching. His hand moved to my hip, over the sigil. It flared—hot, sharp—but not with pain. With *recognition*. With *warning*. “You’re not alone. We rule together. If they want a war, they’ll have to fight us *both*.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
But also wrong.
Because this wasn’t about him.
It was about *me*.
“They don’t want to fight you,” I said, voice low. “They want to break me. To humiliate me. To prove that a woman like me—half-witch, half-wolf, born in the shadows—has no place on a throne.”
His jaw tightened. “Then I’ll stand beside you.”
“No.” I placed my hand over his, pressing it against my hip. The bond pulsed between us—steady, warm, alive. “If you come, they’ll see it as a threat. A challenge. They’ll call it an invasion. And then it *will* be war.”
“And if you go alone?”
“Then it’s a negotiation.” I stepped back, slow, deliberate. “And I’m not going alone. I have the bond. I have my magic. I have my mother’s blood in my veins.” I met his eyes. “And I have *you*—right here.” I tapped my chest, over my heart. “Even when I’m not with you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, not gently, not softly—like he was claiming me. One arm wrapped around my waist, the other behind my head, pulling me against him, his mouth crashing down on mine—not a kiss, not a caress, but a *claim*. His fangs grazed my lip, sharp and sweet, and I tasted blood—mine, his, ours.
And the bond—
It *screamed*.
Not with pain.
Not with need.
With *warning*.
“Be careful,” he murmured against my skin, breath hot, voice breaking. “If they touch you—”
“They won’t.” I pulled back, just enough to look at him. “Because if they do, I’ll burn their court to ash.”
He 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 he wasn’t the monster I’d believed him 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, his arms still around me, his breath warm against my neck, I had to admit one terrible, shameful truth:
I didn’t want him to let go.
And when I finally lifted my head, when I met his 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 him.
Wanted to beg.
But I didn’t.
Because if I gave in—if I let him 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 he finally leaned in, when his lips hovered over mine, when his breath ghosted over my skin—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.
Midnight.
The Veil of Thorns rose from the mist like a crown of knives—ancient, shimmering, its gates woven from black vines and moonlight. The air was thick with the scent of crushed petals and something sharper—magic, raw and untamed, pulsing beneath the roots. I stepped through the archway, barefoot, dressed in a gown of silver silk edged with thorns, the sigil on my hip glowing faintly beneath the fabric. No crown. No weapons. No fear.
Just me.
And the bond.
The courtyard beyond was alive with Fae—Summer Court, all of them, their skin kissed by firelight, their eyes sharp with hunger, their voices low with amusement. They watched me, not with awe, not with respect, but with *curiosity*. Like I was a creature they’d heard of but never seen. Like I was a myth. A mistake.
And at the center—
Lysara.
Fae queen of the Summer Court, her hair like spun moonlight, her voice like silk and poison. She stood on a dais of living ivy, dressed in crimson, her fangs just visible, her scent thick with glamour and desire.
“River Duskbane,” she purred, voice carrying across the courtyard. “Or should I say… *prisoner*?”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until I stood before her. “I’m not your prisoner. I’m your equal.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
But Lysara didn’t smile. Just studied me, those ancient eyes seeing too much. “Equal? You? A hybrid? A saboteur? A woman who crawled out of the dirt and claimed a throne she didn’t earn?”
“I earned it,” I said, voice steady. “With blood. With fire. With the rewriting of an ancient Oath.”
“And what of the Blood Courts?” she asked, stepping down from the dais, slow, deliberate, until we were nearly face to face. Her breath was hot, her scent thick with magic. “Do they truly accept you? Or do they only bow because they fear your mate?”
“They accept *us*,” I said. “Not because of fear. Because of justice.”
“Justice?” She laughed, low, dangerous. “You call rewriting a contract *justice*? You call breaking centuries of tradition *justice*?” Her hand moved to my cheek—soft, possessive, her fingers trailing down my neck. “You’re not a queen. You’re a *disturbance*. A ripple in the order of things. And ripples… must be *stilled*.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Just let her touch me, let her feel the heat of my skin, the pulse of my blood, the quiet hum of the bond beneath my skin.
And then—
I smiled.
“Then try,” I said, voice low. “Try to still me. Try to break me. Try to take what’s mine.” My hand moved to my hip, over the sigil. It flared—white-hot, searing. “And I’ll show you what happens when a ripple becomes a *storm*.”
Her eyes widened.
And the courtyard—
It fell silent.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Respect.
And then—
She stepped back.
Just enough.
And she turned to her court.
“You see?” she said, voice sharp, carrying. “She thinks she’s strong. Thinks she’s untouchable. Thinks she’s *free*.” She turned back to me, those ancient eyes dark with something I couldn’t name. Not hatred. Not envy. *Grief.* “But you’re not free, River. You’re bound. To him. To the bond. To the Oath you claim to have broken.”
“I am bound,” I said, voice steady. “But not by chains. By choice. By love. By *truth*.”
“And what if the truth changes?” she asked, stepping closer, slow, deliberate. Her hand moved to my chest, over my heart. “What if I told you the Oath wasn’t truly broken? That the magic still lingers? That your bloodline is still cursed?”
My breath caught.
And the bond—
It pulsed, low, insistent.
Because she was lying.
I could feel it—the sigil on my hip, burning not with pain, but with *denial*. The Oath was broken. I’d rewritten it with my own blood, my own magic, my own will. It was over.
But she didn’t know that.
And she didn’t care.
She wanted war.
She wanted chaos.
She wanted me *broken*.
“Then I’d say you’re desperate,” I said, stepping closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. My hand moved to her wrist, gripping it tight. “You’re losing your power. The Fae Courts are divided. The Winter Court watches. The Twilight spies. And you? You’re clinging to the past, to the old ways, to the lies that kept you strong.” I leaned in, until my lips brushed her ear. “But the world has changed, Lysara. And if you don’t change with it—” my voice dropped to a whisper—“you’ll be left behind.”
She didn’t flinch.
Just pulled her hand free, slow, deliberate. “You think you’ve won,” she said, voice low. “You think you’ve changed the world.” She stepped back, turning to her court. “But let me show you what happens when a queen forgets her place.”
And then—
She raised her hand.
A wave of magic tore through the courtyard—crimson, violent, sharp with glamour. The air thickened, the scent of roses turning to rot, the firelight flickering, the shadows twisting. And then—
Illusions.
Not of me.
Of *him*.
Kaelen.
Dozens of him—naked, fanged, dripping with blood, his eyes black with hunger, his hands around the throats of Fae children, of human servants, of *me*. He tore through the courtyard, laughing, feeding, claiming, his voice a snarl, his fangs bared.
“This is your king,” Lysara purred. “This is your mate. This is the monster you’ve chained yourself to.”
The crowd roared.
But I didn’t look.
Just closed my eyes.
And listened.
To the bond.
To the truth.
And then—
I laughed.
Not loud. Not cruel.
But with *certainty*.
“You think I don’t know what he is?” I said, opening my eyes, stepping forward, slow, deliberate. “You think I don’t see the monster in him? The hunger? The darkness?” I placed a hand over my heart. “I see it. Every day. In his eyes. In his touch. In the way he holds me like I’m something to be devoured.” I stepped closer to the nearest illusion—Kaelen, his fangs in my neck, his hands on my hips. I reached out, slow, and touched his face.
And it *shattered*.
Like glass.
“But I also see the man,” I said, voice rising. “The one who denied his nature to protect me. The one who let me break him. The one who burns his enemies to ash with his own blood.” I turned to Lysara, those ancient eyes wide. “And you? You show me illusions. You feed me lies. You try to make me doubt.” I stepped closer, until our breaths mingled. “But I don’t doubt. Because I *know* him. And I know *me*. And I know—” my voice dropped to a whisper—“that if you try to take him from me, I’ll burn your court to the ground.”
And then—
I raised my hand.
The sigil on my hip flared—white-hot, searing, not with pain, but with *power*. The illusions shattered. The glamour cracked. The courtyard stilled.
And the bond—
It *screamed*.
Not with magic.
Not with rage.
With *truth*.
Lysara stepped back.
Not in fear.
But in *recognition*.
And then—
She smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. Not cruel.
Respectful.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said, voice low.
“Neither are you,” I said.
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t sneer. Just studied me, those ancient eyes seeing too much. Then—
“The Summer Court will not challenge the Blood Courts.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
But I didn’t flinch.
Just nodded. “Good.”
“But know this,” she said, stepping closer, until our breaths mingled. “If you fail—if the bond breaks, if the Oath is proven false, if the balance falls—” her voice dropped to a whisper—“we will be waiting.”
“And if you come,” I said, stepping back, slow, deliberate, “I’ll be ready.”
And then—
I turned.
And walked away.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just power.
And as I stepped through the Veil of Thorns, as the mist closed behind me, as the bond pulsed steady and strong beneath my skin—
I didn’t look back.
Because I knew—
This wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.
Of peace.
Of power.
Of *us*.
And when I finally reached the edge of the cliffs, when I saw Kaelen waiting, his coat flaring in the wind, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t name—
I didn’t say yes.
But my body arched into his.