The silence after Riven left was worse than any battle.
Not empty. Not still. But charged—thick with grief, with guilt, with the echo of what we’d both seen. His loyalty. His pain. The way he’d handed me that locket like it was a final gift, a farewell. The way he’d said, *“I love you, Riven. But not like that. Never like that.”* Like a blade twisting in my chest.
I stood in the suite, the silver locket clenched in my fist, its runes burning against my skin. The fire had died to embers. The torches flickered low. And Kael—no, Elion—stood by the hearth, his back to me, his presence a steady weight in the dark.
He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t tried to touch me.
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.
“He loves you,” Kael said, voice low, rough. “And he’s afraid of losing you.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“And you?” he asked, turning to face me. “Are you afraid of losing him?”
I looked at him—storm-gray eyes searching his—trying to find the lie, the manipulation, the monster I’d sworn to destroy.
But all I saw was truth.
“I’m afraid of losing everything,” I said. “Of forgetting who I am. Of becoming someone I don’t recognize.”
“You’re not losing yourself,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re becoming who you were always meant to be.”
“And who is that?” I challenged.
“The woman who breaks chains,” he said. “Not just for her mother. For herself. For me. For everyone who’s been broken by this world.”
My breath caught.
Not from anger.
From the way his voice dropped—low, rough, intimate.
From the way my body responded—heat pooling low in my belly, the bond flaring beneath my skin.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I whispered.
“I already did,” he said. “The bond doesn’t lie. It knows what it wants. And it wants you.”
I wanted to argue. To rage. To summon lightning and tear the room apart.
But I didn’t.
Because he was right.
And that was the worst part.
The door burst open.
Not with a bang. Not with a threat.
With noise.
Voices. Shouts. The clatter of boots on stone. And then—
Riven.
He stumbled in, his amber eyes wild, his breath ragged, blood streaking his temple. Behind him—guards. Fae. Vampires. All armed. All furious.
“Tide,” he gasped. “They’ve taken her.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“Lyra,” he said. “She’s alive. She’s been working with Mirelle. They’ve taken her to the eastern dungeon. They’re framing her for the attack on the northern gate.”
“Lyra’s alive?” Kael demanded, stepping forward. “But we left her broken. Not dead. Not exiled. Just… shattered.”
“And she used it,” Riven said. “She played the victim. Said you two ambushed her. That you tortured her. That you forced her to reveal the location of the anchor. The Council believes her. They’re calling for your heads.”
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
From the way the bond flared—hot, then cold, then hot again.
From the way Kael’s hand found mine—cool, deliberate, a silent claim.
“We have to go,” I said, turning to him. “We have to stop this.”
“It’s a trap,” he said. “They want us to run. To fight. To give them proof of treason.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then they’ll execute her,” Riven said. “And then they’ll come for you.”
I looked at Kael.
He didn’t flinch. Just met my gaze—steady, unyielding.
And then—
He nodded.
“We go,” he said. “But we go on our terms.”
The eastern dungeon was colder than I remembered, the air thick with the scent of old magic and something darker—despair. The torches flickered low, casting long shadows across the damp stone. The cells were carved into the rock, their bars blackened with age, their locks sealed with blood sigils. And in the center—on a stone slab, pale and trembling—lay Lyra.
Her silver hair was matted with blood. Her lips were cracked. Her hands were bound with iron chains, her wrists raw from struggling. She wasn’t broken anymore.
She was performing.
“There she is,” she whispered, her voice weak, trembling. “The storm-witch. Come to finish what she started?”
My breath caught.
Not from guilt.
From the way her eyes flicked to Kael—sharp, calculating, not broken at all.
“You’re not hurt,” I said, stepping forward. “You’re faking it.”
She didn’t answer. Just turned her head, her gaze locking onto Kael. “You left me,” she said, voice breaking. “You said you’d protect me. You said you’d never let her take me.”
He didn’t flinch. Just stepped in front of me, his body a shield. “You betrayed us. You worked with Mirelle. You tried to kill Tide.”
“And you tried to kill me,” she shot back, her voice rising. “You shattered my blade. You broke my spirit. You left me to die.”
“You’re not dying,” I said. “You’re not even hurt. This is a lie. All of it.”
She turned to me, her eyes blazing. “And what about you? You kissed me. You touched me. You used your magic to make me see things. To make me feel things. You broke me from the inside.”
My stomach dropped.
Because she was right.
I had.
Not to kill her.
Not to hurt her.
But to make her see. To make her understand.
And now she was using it against me.
“The Council has already decided,” a voice said from the shadows.
High Queen Mirelle stepped into the torchlight, her silver crown gleaming, her eyes sharp as daggers. The elders followed—cloaked in their house colors, their faces cold, their breaths shallow.
“Tide of the Storm-Witch Line,” she intoned. “Kael Valen, Prince of the House of Blood. You stand before the Council to answer for your crimes. You attacked a loyal subject. You tortured her. You used forbidden magic to break her mind. How do you plead?”
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
From the way the bond flared—warm, deep, alive.
From the way Kael’s hand found mine—cool, deliberate, a silent claim.
“Not guilty,” I said, voice steady. “Lyra is not a victim. She’s a traitor. She worked with Vexen. She tried to kill us. And now she’s lying to save herself.”
“And you have proof?” Mirelle asked, voice sharp.
“I have the truth,” I said. “And the bond knows it.”
“The bond is not evidence,” an elder snapped. “It’s magic. It’s manipulation. It’s lies.”
“Then let’s test it,” Kael said, stepping forward. “Let’s use the Blood Mirror. Let’s show them what really happened in the watchtower.”
The chamber erupted.
“Impossible!”
“The Blood Mirror is forbidden!”
“You cannot demand such a thing!”
But Mirelle didn’t flinch. Just studied us—long, hard, unreadable. Then, finally: “Very well. The Blood Mirror will be prepared. But know this—if the mirror shows you guilty, you will be executed. Immediately.”
“And if it shows us innocent?” I asked.
“Then Lyra will be exiled,” she said. “And you will be granted full access to the Valen archives. To find the truth. To destroy Vexen.”
I looked at Kael.
He didn’t flinch. Just gave me the smallest nod.
And I understood.
This wasn’t about justice.
This was about power.
And we were walking into the fire.
The Blood Mirror was deeper than I remembered, hidden beneath the Fae High Court in a cavern of obsidian and silver, its surface still as glass, its edges etched with ancient runes. The air was thick with the scent of old magic and something darker—truth. The Council waited in silence, cloaked in their house colors, their eyes sharp, their breaths shallow. Mirelle sat at the front, her silver crown gleaming, her gaze like ice. No whispers. No judgment. Just silence.
And expectation.
“The Blood Mirror reveals truth,” she intoned. “It cannot be lied to. It cannot be manipulated. It shows only what is real. Do you accept its judgment?”
“I do,” Kael said, voice steady.
“And you?” she asked, turning to me.
I hesitated.
Not because I was afraid.
But because I knew what it would show.
Me. Kael. The battle. The chalice. The kiss on Lyra’s forehead. The magic. The truth.
And I didn’t know if I could survive it.
“I do,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded. “Then begin.”
Kael stepped forward, sliced open his palm with a dagger, and pressed it to the mirror’s surface. Blood—rich, ancient, laced with sorrow—spread across the glass. I followed, doing the same. Our blood mingled—storm and shadow, fire and ice, life and death—merging into a single, pulsing force.
And then—
The mirror changed.
Not with images.
With memory.
The watchtower. The storm. The battle. The vampires. Lyra lunging at Kael. Me intercepting. Our blades clashing. The lightning. The shattered blade. Her collapse. The kiss on her forehead. The magic. The truth.
And then—
The final moment.
Me, kneeling beside her, my fingers brushing her skin, my magic pouring into her. Not to hurt. Not to kill.
To see.
To show her the truth.
And in that moment, she’d seen it.
Not as a rival.
Not as a villain.
As a woman.
Lost. Alone. Desperate for love. For power. For meaning.
And I’d felt pity.
The chamber was silent.
Not from shock.
From awe.
And then—
Mirelle turned to Lyra. “Is this true?”
Lyra didn’t answer. Just stared at the mirror, her eyes wide, her breath ragged. And then—
She screamed.
Not in rage.
In grief.
“You made me see it,” she sobbed. “You made me feel it. You broke me from the inside.”
“And you used it to lie,” I said, stepping forward. “You used my mercy to frame us. To save yourself.”
“I had no choice!” she screamed. “They would’ve killed me!”
“And now?” Mirelle asked, voice cold. “Now that the truth is revealed?”
Lyra looked at Kael. At me. At the mirror.
And then—
She broke.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
The chamber was silent.
And then—
Mirelle stood. “Lyra of House Virell, you are hereby exiled. You will leave the Fae High Court by dawn. If you return, you will be executed. Do you understand?”
Lyra nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“And you,” Mirelle said, turning to us. “You are cleared of all charges. And as promised, you are granted full access to the Valen archives. To find the truth. To destroy Vexen.”
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 risk the mirror. You could’ve let them execute her.”
“And let you carry the guilt?” he asked, stepping closer. “No. You’re not a killer, Tide. Not like that. Not when it’s not necessary.”
“And if she comes back?”
“Then we’ll deal with her,” he said. “But not with lies. Not with blood. With truth.”
My breath caught.
Not from anger.
From the way his voice dropped—low, rough, intimate.
From the way my body responded—heat pooling low in my belly, the bond flaring beneath my skin.
“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.