The Hollow Throne didn’t demand ceremony.
It demanded truth.
And so we gave it none of the trappings of power—no crown of bone, no scepter of shadow, no robes stitched with stolen magic. No fanfare. No oaths sworn on blood. No declarations from the High Queen or the Vampire Senate. Just silence. And the weight of what had been broken. And what had been remade.
The chamber had changed.
Not by force. Not by magic.
By memory.
The ruins were still there—splintered oak, scorched parchment, the ghosts of ancient wards—but they no longer felt like a tomb. The ceiling had not fully mended, but shafts of dawn light now fell like blessings, not blades. The torches burned with violet flame—the same hue as my lightning, the same color as Lira’s eyes. The grimoires floated in midair, their pages open, their ink glowing with forgotten spells. And at the center—
The throne.
Still plain. Still cracked. Still made of wood.
But now—
It breathed.
Not with life. Not with magic.
With recognition.
Lira stood beside me, small and solemn, her silver hair loose, her violet eyes reflecting the light. She hadn’t spoken since we left the garden, but her silence wasn’t empty. It was full—of knowing, of waiting, of the kind of wisdom that doesn’t come with age, but with soul. She held my hand—small, warm, alive—and when she looked up at me, I didn’t see a child.
I saw a mirror.
Elion stood at my other side, his presence a steady shadow, his hand resting on the hilt of a blade he wouldn’t need. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me. Just stood there—solid, real, mine—his obsidian eyes scanning the chamber, not for threats, but for truth. The bond hummed between us—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Balance.
They came not in silence, but in stillness.
Riven first—his silver hair catching the light, his amber eyes sharp, his body still carrying the weight of old wounds, but his stance unbroken. He didn’t bow. Didn’t kneel. Just stepped forward and placed a single wolf fang on the stone before the throne—a token, not of submission, but of solidarity.
Then my father—older than I remembered, his hands trembling, but his gaze steady. He didn’t look at the throne. Just at me. And when he reached out, I didn’t hesitate. I took his hand. And the bond flared—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Family.
Then Mara—her shadow-witch robes worn thin, her hands stained with ink and guilt. She didn’t speak. Just knelt before the throne, her head bowed, her breath shallow. Not in penance. In offering.
Then Mirelle—the High Queen, stripped of her crown, her storm-gray eyes no longer cold, but full of something fragile.
Hope.
And then—
The woman from the Underground.
She walked in last, her body bandaged, her hands empty, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. She didn’t speak. Just stepped forward and placed a single vial on the ground—a vial of violet liquid, my mother’s blood, stolen, but now returned.
“I didn’t know,” she said, voice breaking. “Not at first. But I do now. And I won’t let them do it again.”
I didn’t forgive her.
Not yet.
But I didn’t turn her away.
Because she was right.
We couldn’t do this alone.
And then—
The others.
Not just the leaders. Not just the powerful.
The ones who had been forgotten.
Werewolves from packs long scattered. Witches from covens burned to ash. Vampires who had refused to drink. Fae who had chosen exile over tyranny. Humans who had risked their lives to hide the hunted. They came in silence, in pairs, in families, and they didn’t bow. Didn’t kneel. Just stood—shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart—and filled the chamber with a presence that wasn’t magic.
It was truth.
I didn’t speak at first. Just looked at them—long, hard, unflinching. At the ones who had fought. The ones who had bled. The ones who had believed in something better when all they’d seen was ruin.
And then—
I stepped forward.
Not with ceremony.
Not with pride.
With grief.
“This is not a coronation,” I said, my voice carrying through the chamber. “This is not a conquest. This is not a throne of power. This is a seat of memory. Of loss. Of choice.”
I turned to look at Lira—her small hand still in mine, her violet eyes searching mine.
“You do not bow to me,” I said. “You stand with me. Not because I command it. Because you choose to.”
No one moved.
No one spoke.
And then—
Riven stepped forward.
Not to kneel.
To speak.
“I stand with you,” he said, voice rough. “Not because you are my queen. Because you are my sister.”
My chest ached.
Not from anger.
From the truth in his voice.
And then—
My father stepped forward.
“I stand with you,” he said. “Not because you are a storm-witch. Because you are my daughter.”
And then—
Mara.
“I stand with you,” she said. “Not because you are my student. Because you are my redemption.”
And then—
Mirelle.
“I stand with you,” she said. “Not because you wear the Hollow Crown. Because you are the future.”
And then—
Elion.
He didn’t speak.
Just stepped forward, his hand lifting, his thumb brushing my cheek. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive.
And I knew—
He didn’t need to.
Because his presence was his vow.
The chamber was silent.
Not from awe.
From truth.
And then—
I turned to the throne.
Not as a queen.
Not as a weapon.
As a woman.
I didn’t hesitate.
Just walked to it—slow, deliberate—and placed my hand on the backrest. Felt the hum deepen. Felt the bond flare—not with magic, not with fate, but with truth.
And then—
I sat.
Not with a crown. Not with a scepter.
With a breath.
The moment I lowered myself onto the wooden seat, the chamber changed.
Not with light.
Not with sound.
With presence.
The dust settled. The torches flared—not with fire, but with violet flame, the same color as my lightning. The broken grimoires rose from the floor, their pages mending, their ink glowing with ancient power. The shattered ceiling knit itself back together, not with stone, but with woven light. And from the walls—
Shadows.
Not of the dead.
Of the living.
Figures stepped forward—werewolves, vampires, Fae, witches, even humans—each one a guardian, a leader, a voice. Riven stood at the front, his amber eyes steady, his head bowed not in submission, but in solidarity. My father stood beside him, his face lined with grief, his eyes full of something I hadn’t seen in twenty-five years.
Hope.
And behind them—
Mara. Mirelle. The woman from the Underground, her body bandaged, her hands empty, her eyes searching mine not with hatred, but with something fragile.
Regret.
And then—
Lira.
She didn’t step forward. Just stood beside the throne, her small hand resting on the armrest, her violet eyes closed. And then—
She spoke.
Not with her voice.
With mine.
“Break the chain,” she whispered. “Not the man. Be the storm. Be the light. Be the name.”
My breath stopped.
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 answering, roaring to life.
“She’s not just a child,” I said, turning to Elion. “She’s a successor.”
“And if she’s like you?” he asked.
“Then we don’t fear her,” I said. “We don’t hide her. We don’t control her.”
“We love her,” he said.
And I knew he was right.
The throne didn’t make me a queen.
It made me a vessel.
Not for power.
For truth.
And the truth was this—
I had come here to destroy.
But I had stayed to build.
I had come to avenge.
But I had learned to love.
I had come to break a bond.
And in doing so, I had forged a new one—deeper, stronger, not of magic, but of choice.
And as I sat there—my hand on the throne, my daughter beside me, my lover at my side—I knew—
The mission had changed.
The enemy was gone.
And the world—
Was finally ready to burn.
Not with hate.
But with light.
Elion didn’t leave. Didn’t retreat. Just stood beside me, his hand finding mine, his presence a steady weight in the quiet. The others remained—Riven at the front, my father beside him, the rest arrayed like sentinels of a new world. And for the first time, I didn’t feel alone.
I felt seen.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, turning to him. “You were supposed to be my ruin.”
“And I am,” he said, his voice low, rough, intimate. “And my salvation.”
And then—
He kissed me.
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 did it,” he said. “We broke the chain.”
“And found something else,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, his body shielding mine, his breath warm against my neck. The bond hummed—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Love.
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.
Fated Tide: Blood & Bond
The night Tide’s mother died, she whispered two words: Break the bond.
Now, twenty-five years later, Tide walks into the Fae High Court with those words etched into her bones. A half-fae, half-witch with storm-born magic and a mother’s vengeance, she’s spent a decade mastering blood sigils, shadow spells, and the art of deception. Her mission: infiltrate the vampire elite, locate the original bond contract, and sever the curse that turned her mother into a blood-slave—then burn the prince responsible to ash.
But Prince Kael is not the monster she expected. He’s colder. More dangerous. And when their hands touch during a peace ritual, a forbidden fated bond flares to life between them—one that hasn’t existed in centuries. The High Court declares it divine will. The elders demand they unite. And Kael, with eyes like black ice and a voice that curls around her spine, offers her a choice: play the devoted fiancée, or die as a spy.
Trapped in a gilded cage of silk and secrets, Tide fights to keep her mission intact. But between forced proximity, blood-sharing rituals, and the way his scent makes her pulse throb, her control is slipping. When a rival vampiress flaunts her past with Kael—wearing his mark, whispering his secrets—Tide’s jealousy explodes into a duel that ends with her pinned beneath him, breathless, aching, and seconds from surrender.
Their bond is both salvation and damnation: it could free her mother’s soul… or chain Tide to the very monster she came to destroy. And as war brews between the courts, one truth becomes undeniable—when their bodies touch, magic surges. When they fight, empires tremble. And when they love? The world will burn.