The first light of dawn had long since faded into morning when the summons came.
Not with a knock. Not with a messenger.
With blood.
A single drop, suspended in midair above the Hollow Throne, trembling like a tear. It wasn’t red. Not human. Not even vampire. It was violet—the same shade as my lightning, the same hue as my mother’s magic. It hung there, pulsing, glowing, a silent call from something deep beneath the earth, from the roots of the world where old magic still bled.
Kael—no, Elion—felt it before I did. His hand tightened around mine, his body shifting subtly, instinctively placing himself between me and the throne. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—but now it carried a warning. Not of danger. Not of betrayal. Of memory.
“It’s not just a summons,” he said, voice low. “It’s a test.”
“And if I don’t answer?”
“Then it will come to you,” he said. “And it won’t be gentle.”
I didn’t move. Just stared at the drop—this tiny, trembling thing that held the weight of centuries. My mother’s blood. My magic. My legacy. It wasn’t just calling me to a place. It was calling me to a truth.
“I’m not afraid,” I said.
He turned, his obsidian eyes searching mine. “You should be.”
And for the first time, I believed him.
We didn’t take the tunnels. Didn’t walk through the ruins of the archive or the shattered halls of the Fae High Court. The blood drop led us deeper—down, always down—through a fissure in the stone that hadn’t been there yesterday, through a passage lined with veins of glowing crystal that pulsed like heartbeats. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of iron and ozone, of old magic and something darker—grief, not mine, not his, but hers.
And then—
We found it.
Not a chamber. Not a tomb.
A wound.
The earth had split open, not by force, not by magic, but by sorrow. A cavern stretched before us, its walls slick with moisture, its ceiling lost in shadow. At its center—
A pool.
Not of water. Not of blood.
Of memory.
It shimmered—black and violet, swirling like storm clouds beneath a moonless sky. And floating within it—
Names.
Not written. Not carved.
Alive.
Elara. Riven. Mara. Mirelle. Kael. Tide.
And one more.
Vexen.
“This is the Bloodwell,” Elion said, stepping forward. “Where the first bond was forged. Where the first betrayal was sealed. Where the first lie was written in blood.”
“And now?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Now,” he said, “it demands the truth.”
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
From the way the bond flared—hot, then cold, then hot again.
From the way my body responded—heat pooling low in my belly, the storm within me stirring, restless, hungry.
“What truth?”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped to the edge of the pool, his hand lifting, his fingers hovering over the surface. The moment he touched it, the liquid screamed—not in sound, but in magic, in pain, in the weight of every broken vow, every stolen life, every lie told in the name of power.
And then—
The vision came.
Not of the past.
Of the present.
London. The streets. The ruins of the Red Veil’s lab. The woman—the scientist with storm-gray eyes—lying in the rubble, her body broken, her breath shallow. But she wasn’t alone.
They came at dawn.
Not soldiers. Not fanatics.
Children.
Dozens of them. Pale. Thin. Clad in red armbands, their faces hollow, their eyes empty. They carried her—gently, reverently—into a hidden chamber beneath the city, where the walls were lined with vials of stolen magic, where the air hummed with the same synthetic frequency that had tried to suppress us. And in the center—
A cradle.
Not of wood. Not of steel.
Of bone.
And inside—
A child.
No older than five. Hair silver, eyes amber. A wolf. But not just a wolf.
A hybrid.
Human. Werewolf. Something else.
And as the woman reached into her coat and pulled out a vial of violet liquid—my lightning, my storm, my mother’s blood—I knew.
They weren’t just harvesting magic.
They were breeding it.
“They’re creating hybrids,” I said, staggering back. “Using our blood. Our magic. Our essence.”
Elion didn’t flinch. Just watched me—steady, unyielding. “And they’re not the only ones.”
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped back, his hand lifting, his fingers brushing the surface of the pool again.
And then—
Another vision.
The Northern Woods. The sacred clearing. The Trial of Flame.
But it wasn’t empty.
Riven stood at the center, his silver hair loose, his amber eyes blazing. And around him—
Wolves.
Not just Northern Pack. Not just wild. Dozens of them—males, females, young, old—kneeling, not in submission, but in oath. And at their front—
A woman.
Fae. Unseelie. Her skin pale, her eyes black, her lips stained with blood. She held a dagger—not steel, not silver, but obsidian—and with a single cut, she opened her palm, letting the blood drip into a stone bowl.
And then—
She offered it to Riven.
“You would bind us,” he said, voice rough. “With blood that is not ours.”
“No,” she said. “I would free you. From the Fae. From the vampires. From the chains of loyalty. Join me. Rule with me. Be more than a pack. Be a kingdom.”
He didn’t take the bowl.
Just looked at her—long, hard, unreadable. “I am not yours to claim,” he said. “I am Tide’s. And I will not betray her.”
She smiled—a cold, hollow thing. “And if she falls? If she chooses him over you? If she forgets what you sacrificed?”
“Then I will still stand,” he said. “Not for her. For what is right.”
And then—
The vision shattered.
I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth, my heart hammering. “He’s still fighting. He’s still loyal.”
Elion didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, his hand lifting, his thumb brushing my cheek. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive. “He’s not the only one.”
“And the woman?”
“Morgana,” he said. “Last of the Unseelie Bloodline. She’s been in hiding for centuries. Waiting. Watching. And now—now she sees weakness. She sees opportunity.”
“And if she unites the wolves?”
“Then she’ll have an army,” he said. “One that answers to no court. No king. No queen.”
“And if she fails?”
“Then the pack will fracture,” he said. “And the Red Veil will pick up the pieces.”
My chest ached.
Not from anger.
From the truth in his voice.
From the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing left that mattered.
“We have to stop her,” I said. “Before she turns them against us.”
“And the children?”
“We save them,” I said. “All of them. Not just the wolves. Not just the Fae. The humans too. They’re not monsters. They’re victims.”
He didn’t argue. Just stepped closer, his body pressing against mine, his breath warm against my neck. “Then we do it together,” he said. “Not as queen and prince. As partners.”
“And if we lose?”
“Then we lose together,” he said. “But we don’t run.”
The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—and this time, I didn’t fight it.
I let it pull me in.
Not with magic.
Not with command.
With need.
I reached for him—slow, deliberate—my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his collarbone, the hard planes of his chest. He didn’t move. Just let me touch him, like he was giving me time to remember, to believe, to choose.
And I did.
I pulled him down, my mouth finding his, not with desperation, not with anger, but with truth. 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, his obsidian eyes searching mine. “We did it,” he said. “We broke the chain.”
“And found something else,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me again—deeper, hungrier, more real. His hands slid under my shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine, the heat of his touch searing through me. I gasped, my body trembling, my breath ragged. The bond flared—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Need.
I tore at his coat, my fingers fumbling with the buttons, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He didn’t stop me. Just let it fall, then shrugged it off, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was giving me time to change my mind. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
His shirt followed—white, crisp, now undone, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that marked his past, the pulse of his heart beneath his skin. I touched him—slow, reverent—my fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone, the ridges of his abdomen, the heat of his body under my hands.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, voice hoarse.
“Neither are you,” he said, his hands sliding to my hips, pulling me against him. “You were supposed to be my ruin.”
“And I am,” I whispered. “And my salvation.”
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 lifted me—effortless, like I weighed nothing—and carried me to the edge of the pool. The blood shimmered, not in warning, but in invitation. And then—
He knelt.
Not in submission.
Not in reverence.
In oath.
His hand found mine, cool and deliberate, a silent claim. “If you go,” he said, “I go with you.”
“And if I fall?”
“Then I’ll fall with you,” he said. “And rise with you.”
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
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.
“Then let the storm rise,” I said.
And I stepped into the Bloodwell.
Not with magic.
Not with power.
With trust.
The moment my foot touched the surface, the world shattered.
Not in sound.
Not in light.
In memory.
I saw her—my mother—kneeling in the dungeon, her wrists bound, her storm-gray eyes blazing. Vexen standing over her, his fangs bared, his hands dripping with blood magic. And Elion—so young, so pale—stepping between them, shielding her, whispering, *“I won’t let you break her.”*
I saw Riven—running through the woods, his silver hair matted with blood, his body broken, his voice breaking—*“You have to go. You’re not just a witch. You’re a queen.”*
I saw my father—standing in the rubble, his face lined with grief, his eyes full of hope—*“I kept this. Every day. Because it was the only thing that kept me alive.”*
I saw Elion—kneeling beside me in the throne room, his hand lifting, his thumb brushing my cheek—*“You’re not just my bond. You’re my truth.”*
And I saw myself—kneeling before my people, not in submission, but in solidarity—*“I will not rule you. I will stand with you.”*
The visions came faster, sharper, until they weren’t just images.
They were truths.
And then—
The pool released me.
I gasped, staggering back, my heart hammering, my breath ragged. Elion caught me, his arms wrapping around me, his body shielding mine. “You saw it,” he said, voice rough. “You saw what we’ve done. What we’ve broken. What we’ve freed.”
“And now?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Just looked at me—obsidian eyes unreadable, yet filled with something I couldn’t name. Something that made my breath catch.
And I knew—
He wasn’t just fighting for me.
He was fighting with me.
The blood drop still hovered above the Hollow Throne when we returned.
But it wasn’t alone.
Another had joined it—crimson this time, pulsing with the rhythm of a vampire’s heart.
Elion’s.
And beneath them—
A third.
Silver. Wolf-born. Riven’s.
The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Family.
And as the first light of dawn broke through the broken ceiling, painting the chamber in gold and shadow, I knew—
The mission had changed.
The enemy was gone.
And the world—
Was finally ready to burn.
Not with hate.
But with light.