The night before the hunt, I dreamed of fire.
Not the cold, sharp burn of vengeance—the kind that had fueled me for ten years—but something deeper. Older. A blaze that didn’t consume. It *awakened*.
In the dream, I stood in the ruins of my mother’s palace, the sky torn open above me, stars falling like embers. The throne was gone. The walls were shattered. And in the center—Riven. Kneeling. His head bowed, his hands pressed to the cracked stone, his body trembling. Not from weakness. From *grief*.
And then he looked up.
His eyes—pale gold, fierce—locked onto mine. Not with dominance. Not with challenge. But with something that shattered me.
Regret.
“I didn’t know,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t know what they’d done. I didn’t know what I’d become.”
And I—
I reached for him.
Not to strike. Not to punish.
To hold.
But before our fingers could touch, the ground split. The sky screamed. And I woke—heart pounding, breath ragged, the bond humming between us like a live wire.
The suite was dark. The fire reduced to embers. Moonlight cut through the high window, painting the floor in pale stripes. Riven lay beside me, one arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. His scent—pine and iron and something darker—filled the air. His wrist, bandaged from my bite, was bare now, the linen discarded. The wound was healing fast, the skin already pink, the edges sealed. Werewolf strength. Werewolf resilience.
And yet—
He hadn’t fought me.
He hadn’t pulled away.
He’d let me take what I needed.
And when I’d woken with his blood on my lips, he hadn’t recoiled. Hadn’t called me monster. Hadn’t turned me over to the Council.
He’d said, “I’d give myself to you in the light.”
I touched my lips. My fingers came away clean. But the taste—warm, rich, metallic—still lingered. Not just on my tongue. In my bones. In my blood.
The bond wasn’t just magic.
It was memory.
And I was starting to believe—
Maybe I hadn’t come here to destroy him.
Maybe I’d come here to remember him.
—
We rode at dawn.
The fortress stood silent behind us, its torches flickering low, its gates sealed. Kael led the sentinels—twenty of the most loyal, handpicked, their weapons sharp, their eyes sharper. Borin rode at the rear, his face unreadable, his loyalty still unproven but his truth undeniable. Mira stayed behind, guarding the fortress, the two fae still under watch, the lower tunnels sealed.
And Riven—
Riven rode beside me.
Not in front. Not behind. But beside.
Our horses fell into step, our shoulders brushing, the bond humming between us, low and steady. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The silence wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything we hadn’t said, everything we hadn’t done, everything we *wanted*.
The land was barren, the trees skeletal, the sky a cold, endless gray. The wind howled like a pack of starved wolves, biting at our cloaks, our skin. But I didn’t feel it.
All I felt was him.
And the key.
The Key of Tides burned against my skin, a silver band shaped like a wave, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat. It had flared in the chamber with Borin, unlocking a memory—my mother’s voice, whispering in my mind: *“The throne will choose its sovereign.”*
And now—
Now it was leading us.
Not to the Vault of Echoes.
But to the truth.
—
We found the camp at midday.
Not in the open. Not on the road. But hidden in a ravine, its entrance concealed by a curtain of black vines that shimmered with enchantment. The air was thick with magic—ancient, delicate, humming with power. Fae. But not the Court of Thorns.
Something older.
Something darker.
“It’s a trap,” Kael said, voice low. “The vines—they’re a ward. Anyone who touches them will be paralyzed. Or worse.”
“Then we don’t touch them,” I said.
“And how do you propose we get in?”
I reached into my satchel. Pulled out the vial Mira had given me—moon-drawn energy, laced with a drop of my blood. I uncorked it. Let a single drop fall onto the vines.
They recoiled.
Not in pain.
In fear.
And then—
They parted.
Like a curtain opening.
“Hybrid magic,” I said. “They don’t know how to fight it.”
Kael didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Then let’s move.”
We dismounted. Left the horses. Moved in silence.
The camp was small—tents of black fabric, a fire pit, weapons scattered. But no bodies. No sentinels. No sign of life.
And then—
We found it.
Not in a tent.
Beneath one.
A trapdoor. Iron. Reinforced. Sealed with a sigil I recognized—Thorne’s mark. The same one Lyria had left on the scroll in Londra.
My pulse jumped.
I pressed my palm to the sigil. Felt the magic—old, dark, laced with blood-oaths. It resisted. But not for long.
I whispered the counter-charm Mira had taught me. Felt the sigil crack. Felt the door groan as it opened.
And then—
Darkness.
I stepped inside.
The chamber was deeper than I expected—carved into the mountain’s heart, its walls lined with smooth black stone that shimmered with embedded silver. Torches flickered in sconces set high in the arches, their light casting long shadows across the floor. And in the center—
Thorne.
He sat on a stone dais, his back to us, his shoulders hunched, his hands folded in his lap. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.
Just waited.
“You’re alone,” I said, stepping forward. My voice echoed in the chamber. “No sentinels. No traps. Just you.”
He turned.
His face—old, lined, eyes pale blue, haunted—locked onto mine. And I saw it—not just guilt. Not just shame.
Defeat.
“I knew you’d come,” he said, voice rough. “Tide. Daughter of Mirelle. Heir of the Hybrid Line.”
“And you’re waiting to die,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I’m waiting to tell the truth.”
My breath caught.
“You want the ledger?” he asked. “I have it. Every payment. Every order. Every lie.”
“I already have it,” I said. “Borin gave it to me.”
He didn’t flinch. “Then you know.”
“I know you framed Riven,” I said. “I know you drugged him. I know you made him believe he’d killed my mother.”
“And did you know,” he said, “that I didn’t act alone?”
My pulse jumped.
“House Virelle,” he said. “They funded the coup. They provided the moonblood serum. They promised me power. A Council seat. Control of the Northern Alliance.”
“And Lyria?”
“A pawn,” he said. “A tool. She served her purpose.”
“And Riven?”
He looked at him. Really looked.
“He was my son,” Thorne said. “Not by blood. But by oath. I raised him after his parents died. I taught him to lead. To fight. To rule. And when the vampires came—when they offered me power—I thought I was protecting him. I thought I was securing his future.”
My breath caught.
“But they lied,” he said. “They used me. They used *him*. And when I realized what I’d done—when I saw the pain in his eyes, the guilt he carried like a crown—I couldn’t undo it. So I stayed. I controlled him. I made him believe he was the monster they said he was.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Now,” he said, “I’m done.”
He reached into his tunic. Pulled out a small, flat box—black wood, carved with the sigil of House Virelle.
My pulse jumped.
He opened it.
Inside—no photograph. No note.
Just a single sheet of parchment.
And a ring.
Silver. Shaped like a wolf’s head.
The Seal of the Alpha.
My breath caught.
“It’s yours,” he said, holding it out. “The true seal. Not the one he wears. This one—this one holds the power of the Northern Wilds. The loyalty of the pack. The strength of the bloodline.”
“And you’re giving it to me?”
“I’m giving it to *him*,” he said, looking at Riven. “Because he was never the monster. I was.”
Riven didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just looked at him. Really looked.
And I saw it—the crack in his armor. The way his fingers trembled at his sides. The way his breath hitched when Thorne stepped forward.
“I’m sorry,” Thorne said. “For everything. For the lies. For the guilt. For making you believe you’d killed her.”
Riven didn’t answer.
Just took the seal.
Slipped it onto his finger.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not the slow pulse of proximity. Not the fevered pull of desire. But something deeper. Older. Like a door unlocking in my blood, like a memory rising from the dark.
I gasped.
Images—
My mother, standing in the moonlight, her silver hair flowing, her eyes fierce. Riven on one knee before her, his head bowed, his chest bared. Her hand presses to his skin, her magic flaring, the sigil burning into his flesh. “You are my shield,” she says. “My last hope. Protect my child when I am gone.”
And then—
Her voice, whispering in my mind: “He was never your enemy, Tide. He was your mother’s knight. Her protector. Her *son* in all but blood.”
And then—
Riven, on the floor of the High Court, pale, trembling, his body fighting off the backlash of fae magic. My hands on his chest, my magic humming beneath my skin. “Stay with me,” I whisper. “Don’t you dare leave now.”
And then—
His voice, rough, broken: “I knew what it would do to *you*. And that was enough.”
The visions came fast, one after another, a flood of memory and magic and truth. And with each one, the bond flared—hotter, stronger, *clearer*.
And then—
I felt it.
His pulse, racing beneath my fingers. His breath, ragged on my neck. His body, trembling, not from pain, but from *need*.
And mine—
My thighs clenched. My breath hitched. My magic surged, wild and electric, coiling low in my belly, pulling me toward him like gravity.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered.
He didn’t.
Just held me there, our wrists pressed together, our pulses syncing, the bond thrumming between us like a storm breaking.
And then—
His thumb brushed my wrist.
Just a touch. Light. Barely there.
But it burned.
And I knew—
This wasn’t just a ritual.
This wasn’t just magic.
This was us.
And I was starting to believe—
Maybe we weren’t enemies.
Maybe we never had been.
—
Later, back in the suite, we stood by the window, the bond humming between us, the memory of the ritual still burning in my veins.
“You saw it,” he said, not turning. “The memories. The truth.”
“I did,” I said.
“And?”
“And I believe you,” I said. “Not because of the magic. Not because of the bond. But because I see you. And I know—”
I turned.
Looked at him. Really looked.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said.
He smiled—small, rare, real.
“Neither are you.”
And as the storm raged outside and the fire died to embers, I stood there, heart pounding, breath unsteady, and wondered—
Who was really trapping whom?
And worse—
Did I even want to escape?
No.
Because for the first time in ten years—
I was exactly where I was meant to be.