The silence after the watchtower was different.
Not the charged stillness of before, not the electric tension that used to crackle between us like a storm about to break. This was… deeper. Calmer. Like the quiet after a war, when the smoke has cleared and all that’s left is the truth, raw and unvarnished.
We walked back through the corridors in silence, our steps echoing against the stone, the bond humming beneath my skin—not with warning, not with desire, but with something like recognition. Like it had finally stopped fighting me. Like it had won, and I’d stopped resisting.
Kael—no, Elion—walked beside me, close enough that our arms brushed, his presence a steady weight against my side. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t try to. But I could feel him—through the bond, through the way my pulse still hitched when he shifted, when his coat brushed the floor, when his breath ghosted over my neck.
I hated that.
I hated that even now—after everything—I still felt him.
The court was stirring back to life. Torches flickered to light. Servants emerged from hidden passages, eyes down, whispers trailing behind us like smoke.
There she is.
The storm-witch.
Did you see what she did to the archives?
They say she tried to kill herself.
No. I heard she was fighting with him. That he had her pinned—
I clenched my jaw, magic crackling beneath my skin. One word. One spark. I could silence them all.
But I didn’t.
Because Kael was right. I was exhausted. Not just from the storm, not just from the fight with Vexen’s vision, but from the war inside me. The one I’d been losing since the moment our hands touched in the Grand Atrium.
We reached the suite. The fire had been lit, casting long shadows across the black marble floor. The bed—still unmade—loomed like a sacrificial altar.
“Sit,” Kael said, guiding me to the chaise near the hearth.
“I don’t need—”
“Sit.”
His voice wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t a request either. It was a command. One I found myself obeying.
He knelt, pulling off my soaked boots, then reached for the hem of my gown.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, pulling back.
“You’re soaked,” he said, unfazed. “You’ll catch cold. Or worse—Storm Sickness. The bond won’t tolerate it.”
“I can undress myself.”
“Clearly,” he said, eyes flicking to my trembling hands, “you can’t.”
Before I could protest, he lifted the gown over my head, leaving me in nothing but my undergarments—damp, clinging, revealing too much. I crossed my arms, but he didn’t look. Just reached for a thick woolen robe, wrapping it around my shoulders.
His fingers brushed my collarbone.
The bond flared.
Not with desire. Not with anger. But with something quieter. Something that made my breath catch.
Concern.
He felt it too.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, tucking the robe around me. “But I want to.”
He stood, moving to the side table, pouring a glass of heated blood wine. “Drink. It’ll help.”
I took it, sipping slowly. The warmth spread through my chest, calming the storm in my veins. The ring on my finger pulsed, faintly, in time with my heartbeat.
“Why did you save me?” I asked, staring into the fire. “In the archives. You didn’t have to. You could’ve let the storm take me.”
He didn’t answer at first. Just watched me, his obsidian eyes unreadable.
Then, softly: “Because you’re mine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And you keep pretending it’s not true.”
I looked away. “It’s not real. It’s magic. Politics. A lie.”
“Then why does it feel like the only real thing in my life?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
The door burst open.
A servant—pale, breathless—stumbled in. “Your Grace! My lady! The High Queen summons you to the Council Chamber. Immediately.”
Kael’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
“A blood pact has been broken,” the servant said. “Lord Dain of House Virell. He’s dying. The Hemorrhage Curse has taken hold. The Queen demands your presence.”
My stomach dropped.
“No,” I said, standing. “He’s not dying. Not yet.”
“Then you know the cure?” Kael asked, turning to me.
I hesitated. “There is no cure. Not truly. But I can stabilize him. For a time. With my magic.”
“Then we go,” he said, offering his hand.
I didn’t take it. Just walked past him, my boots clicking against the stone. But I could feel him behind me, his presence a steady weight, his silence louder than any words.
The Council Chamber was colder than I remembered, the air thick with the scent of old magic and something darker—fear. The High Queen sat at the center, her silver crown gleaming, her eyes sharp as daggers. The elders stood in a half-circle, cloaked in their house colors. And in the center of the chamber—on a stone slab, pale and trembling—lay Lord Dain.
His skin was gray. His lips were blue. Blood—dark, thick, unnatural—seeped from his pores, pooling beneath him like ink. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one weaker than the last.
The Hemorrhage Curse.
I’d read about it. Studied it. But I’d never seen it in person.
And I’d never been asked to stop it.
“Tide of the Storm-Witch Line,” the High Queen intoned. “You stand before the Council to answer for this. Lord Dain claims you broke his blood pact. Is this true?”
My breath caught.
“No,” I said. “I’ve never met him. I’ve never made a pact with him.”
“Then why is he dying?” an elder demanded.
“Because someone else broke it,” I said. “And they’re blaming me.”
“Or you’re lying,” the High Queen said, voice sharp. “And you’re the one who shattered the pact. If so, you will face the same curse. Unless you save him.”
I looked at Kael.
He didn’t flinch. Just gave me the smallest nod.
And I understood.
This wasn’t about Dain.
This was about me.
A test. A trap. A way to expose me as a fraud, a killer, a threat.
And if I failed, I’d be the one bleeding on the stone.
I stepped forward, kneeling beside Dain. His eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
He nodded weakly.
“I’m going to try to stabilize you,” I said. “It won’t cure you. But it might buy you time. You’ll feel pain. But you’ll live. Do you understand?”
Another nod.
I placed my hands on his chest, just above his heart. Closed my eyes. Reached deep—into the storm, into the blood, into the magic that had been passed down through my line.
And I pulled.
Not lightning. Not fire. Not wind.
Healing.
It wasn’t a spell I’d ever used before. Not like this. But I’d read about it—my mother’s journal, Mara’s teachings, the ancient texts hidden in the Witch Conclave. Storm magic wasn’t just destruction. It was balance. It was life. It was renewal.
I let the magic flow—slow at first, then stronger, a current of energy surging from my palms into his body. His skin began to warm. The blood stopped seeping. His breath deepened.
But it wasn’t enough.
The curse was too deep. Too old. Too powerful.
I needed more.
And I knew what it was.
“Kael,” I said, voice strained. “I need your blood.”
The chamber erupted.
“You cannot ask that!”
“It’s forbidden!”
“He is a prince!”
But Kael didn’t hesitate.
He stepped forward, sliced open his palm with a dagger, and pressed it to my lips.
“Drink,” he said.
I didn’t argue.
I parted my lips, my tongue brushing the wound, tasting the rich, ancient blood—laced with power, with sorrow, with something uniquely him.
And then—
The magic changed.
It wasn’t just storm anymore.
It was blood.
It was shadow.
It was us.
I poured it into Dain—lightning and darkness, fire and ice, life and death—all merging into a single, pulsing force. His body arched. His eyes flew open. And then—
Stillness.
He was breathing. Steady. Strong.
Alive.
I pulled back, gasping, my hands trembling. My vision blurred. My body ached.
But I’d done it.
“He’ll live,” I said, voice hoarse. “For now.”
The chamber was silent.
And then—
“You saved him,” the High Queen said, voice low. “When you had every reason to let him die.”
“I didn’t do it for him,” I said, standing. “I did it because it was right.”
“And if someone had broken his pact?” she asked. “If it had been you?”
“Then I’d have faced the curse,” I said. “But I didn’t. And I won’t let you punish me for a crime I didn’t commit.”
She studied me—long, hard, unreadable. Then, finally: “You are dismissed.”
We left in silence, the weight of the moment pressing between us. Back in the suite, the door clicked shut behind us, and I didn’t wait.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, turning to him. “You didn’t have to give me your blood.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “You were fading. Your magic was draining. You would’ve collapsed.”
“And you would’ve bled for me,” I said, stepping closer. “Just like you said you would.”
He didn’t answer. Just reached for me, his hand lifting to brush a strand of wild hair from my face. His thumb traced my lower lip. The bond flared—warm, deep, aching. My breath hitched. My body leaned into his touch without permission.
And I hated that I didn’t pull away.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, voice hoarse.
“Neither are you,” he said.
And then—
I kissed him.
Not like before. Not angry. Not desperate.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
His lips were cool, but the kiss was fire. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, his body pressing against mine. The bond roared to life, a tidal wave of sensation—her voice, her magic, her love, flooding through us like a river breaking its banks.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
For the first time, I didn’t run.
For the first time, I let myself believe—
That maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t come here to destroy him.
Maybe I’d come here to save him.
And in saving him… save myself.
He pulled back, his thumb brushing my cheek. “We’ll find the truth,” he said. “Together.”
“Together,” I whispered.
And as the first light of dawn broke through the drapes, painting the room in gold and shadow, I knew—
The mission hadn’t changed.
The enemy hadn’t changed.
But I had.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.