The dawn didn’t break over the Fae High Court.
It rose.
Not in silence, not in shadow, but in light—golden, soft, spilling through the newly mended ceiling of the Hollow Chamber like a benediction. The air was still thick with the scent of ozone and old magic, but beneath it—something new. Not the iron tang of blood, not the acrid burn of fear, but the faint, sweet trace of wildflowers. Life. Hope.
I sat on the Hollow Throne, not with a crown, not with a scepter, but with a breath. My hand rested on the armrest, fingers curled around the worn wood, the pulse of the chamber humming beneath my skin. It wasn’t power I felt. Not dominance. Not conquest.
It was recognition.
Lira stood beside me, small and solemn, her silver hair loose, her violet eyes closed. She hadn’t spoken since the coronation—not a word, not a whisper—but her silence wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of memory, of knowing, of the kind of wisdom that doesn’t come with age, but with soul. Her small hand rested on my knee, warm, alive, a tether to something deeper than magic.
And Elion—
He stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breath against the back of my neck. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. Just stood there—solid, real, mine—his presence a wall between me and the weight of what had just happened. The bond hummed between us—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Balance.
The chamber was quiet, but not empty. Riven stood at the front, his silver hair catching the light, his amber eyes sharp, his stance unbroken. My father stood beside him, older than I remembered, his hands trembling, but his gaze steady. Mara knelt near the back, her shadow-witch robes worn thin, her head bowed not in penance, but in offering. Mirelle stood beside her, stripped of her crown, her storm-gray eyes no longer cold, but full of something fragile.
Hope.
And the others—werewolves, witches, vampires, Fae, even humans—remained, not in submission, but in solidarity. They didn’t bow. Didn’t kneel. Just stood, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, a living testament to what we had built not with force, but with truth.
And then—
It happened.
Not with a sound. Not with a light.
With a name.
It rose from the stone, not spoken, not carved, but awakened—a single word, glowing violet, pulsing like a heartbeat. It hovered in the air above the throne, trembling, alive.
Elara.
My breath caught.
Not from pain.
From the way the bond flared—warm, deep, alive—but now it pulsed with something new. Not just love. Not just magic.
Memory.
Lira opened her eyes. Slow. Deliberate. And when she looked at me, I didn’t see a child.
I saw a mirror.
She reached out—small, delicate—and her fingers brushed the glowing name.
And the world shattered.
Not in sound. Not in light.
In memory.
I saw her—my mother—kneeling in the garden, her silver hair loose, her storm-gray eyes blazing. Not in chains. Not in pain. Alive. She was laughing—soft, rich, full of joy—her arms around a child. Me. Small. Smiling. Safe. And beside her—
My father.
Human. Strong. Smiling. His hand on her shoulder, his voice low, his breath warm against her neck. They were dancing—barefoot on the cobblestone, beneath a sky streaked with violet clouds, the air thick with the scent of rain and wildflowers. And in the distance—
The sanctuary.
Intact. Whole. Glowing with old magic.
And then—
The vision shifted.
The garden burned.
Not with fire. Not with magic.
With betrayal.
The Fae came first—robes of silver, eyes of ice, voices like winter wind. They said she had broken the laws. That her magic was chaos. That her child was an abomination. They didn’t ask. Didn’t listen. Just took her—ripped her from my father’s arms, from mine—dragged her into the dark.
And then—
Vexen.
Not as a monster. Not as a tyrant.
As a man.
Young. Pale. Haunted. He stood in the shadows, his hand outstretched, his voice a whisper: “I can save her. But you must let me bind her. It’s the only way.”
My father didn’t hesitate. Just nodded. “Save her. No matter the cost.”
And Vexen did.
Not with cruelty.
With magic.
A bond. Not of slavery. Not of domination.
Of protection.
He bound her to him—not to control her, but to hide her. To keep her from the Fae, from the Council, from the ones who would kill her for being what she was. He took her into the vampire court, not as a slave, but as a secret. As a ward. As a shield.
And then—
The truth.
He never meant to enslave her.
He meant to save her.
But the magic twisted. The bond corrupted. The Fae found out. And by the time he could break it, it was too late.
She was broken.
And so was he.
The vision ended.
I gasped, staggering back, my heart hammering, my breath ragged. Lira didn’t let go. Just held on tighter, her small fingers gripping mine like she was afraid I’d disappear.
“He loved her,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes. “Vexen. He didn’t enslave her to possess her. He did it to protect her.”
Elion didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, his hand lifting, his thumb brushing my cheek. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive.
“And he failed,” he said. “Not because he was cruel. Because he was weak. Because he believed in power when he should have believed in truth.”
“And my father?”
“He didn’t betray her,” Elion said. “He chose her life over her freedom. And that choice cost him everything.”
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.
“All this time,” I said, voice breaking. “I thought I was avenging her. But I was just repeating her prison. I was so busy hating that I didn’t see—she didn’t want me to destroy him. She wanted me to break the chain. Not the man.”
Elion 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.
The chamber was silent.
Not from awe.
From truth.
And then—
Lira stepped forward.
Not toward the throne. Not toward the crowd.
Toward the stone.
She knelt—small, solemn—and placed her palm flat against the ground. And then—
The names came.
Not one. Not two.
Dozens.
They rose from the soil—glowing, trembling, alive—etched in violet fire: Elara. Riven. Mara. Mirelle. Kael. Tide. Forgotten ones. And at the center—
Lira.
Not carved. Not written.
Claimed.
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, stepping forward. “She’s a successor.”
“And if she’s like you?” Elion 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 others stepped forward—Riven, my father, Mara, Mirelle—each placing a hand on the stone, not in submission, but in solidarity. The names pulsed brighter, the air thick with magic, with memory, with something older than war.
And then—
Lira stood.
She didn’t speak. Just looked at me—long, hard, unflinching.
And then—
She reached out.
Not toward the throne. Not toward the names.
Toward me.
Her small hand hovered in the air, and I didn’t hesitate.
I reached for her.
And when our fingers touched—
The world burned.
Not with hate.
With light.
The chamber erupted in violet flame—not destructive, not consuming, but cleansing. The broken grimoires mended. The shattered ceiling knit itself back together. The torches blazed with pure, unfiltered magic. And the throne—
It grew.
Not taller. Not grander.
Wider.
Two seats now—side by side—carved from the same wood, bound by the same roots, linked by the same magic.
And on the backrest—
A single word.
Together.
I turned to Elion.
He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, his hand finding mine, his obsidian eyes searching mine.
And I knew—
This wasn’t just a throne.
It was a promise.
Not of power.
Of choice.
Not of rule.
Of love.
I didn’t hesitate.
Just stepped forward—and sat.
Not alone.
With him.
Our hands remained clasped, our bodies close, our breaths in sync. The bond flared—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Truth.
Lira stood between us, small and solemn, her violet eyes reflecting the fire in the air. She didn’t speak. Just placed her small hands on both of ours.
And then—
She smiled.
Not a child’s smile.
A queen’s.
The chamber erupted in sound—not cheers, not applause, but a single, unified breath. A sigh. A release. A beginning.
And then—
It was quiet again.
But not empty.
Full.
Of what had been broken.
And what had been remade.
I leaned into Elion, my head resting on his shoulder, my hand still in his. Lira stepped forward and curled into my lap, small and warm, her silver hair fanned out like a halo. The bond hummed—warm, deep, alive—not with magic, not with fate, but with something deeper.
Family.
And as the first light of dawn broke through the mended 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.
Elion didn’t speak. Just pressed his lips to my temple, his breath warm against my skin. Lira sighed, her small body relaxing into mine.
And for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t alone.
I was home.
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.