The silence after Kael left was worse than the screaming.
Not the quiet of peace. Not the hush of understanding. But the thick, suffocating silence of something shattered—something cracked open and left to bleed. He’d stayed with me on the cold stone of the lower archives, his hand tangled in mine, his breath steady against my neck, until the bond settled into a low, constant hum. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t said the word I both dreaded and craved.
Love.
And I hadn’t either.
Because how could I? How could I say it after everything—after the lies, the betrayal, the years of hate? How could I say it when my body still burned from his touch, when my core still clenched with the memory of his cock inside me, when my heart still ached with the unbearable truth that I’d spent five years hunting the wrong man?
And yet—
I had said it. Not with words. But with my body. With my tears. With the way I’d clung to him, sobbing, even as he claimed me. Even as he marked me. Even as he broke me.
And when he’d finally rolled off me, when he’d pressed a single kiss to my temple and whispered, “Rest,” I hadn’t stopped him from leaving.
I’d just lain there, naked, exposed, trembling, until the cold seeped into my bones and the scent of sex and blood faded into the dust.
Then I’d dressed. Quietly. Mechanically. My tunic ripped, my boots scuffed, my skin still humming with the aftermath of the bond. I’d gathered the scrolls I’d been searching for—charred fragments of ancient texts, etched in blood, whispering of rituals and curses—and carried them back to my chamber like a ghost.
Now, I sat on the edge of the bed, the firelight flickering across the gilded walls, casting long, shifting shadows. The room was too opulent. Too quiet. Too much like a gilded cage. Velvet drapes. Canopy bed. A view of the jagged spires piercing the bruised sky. I didn’t belong here. Not as a consort. Not as a mate. Not as a queen.
I belonged in the shadows.
In the fight.
In the truth.
I unrolled the scrolls on the floor, spreading them like a map of war. The ink was faint, the parchment brittle, but the words were clear enough—references to the Bloodline curse, to the ritual of unbinding, to the sacrifice required to break it. My sister’s handwriting, jagged and urgent, was scrawled in the margins: “He must be freed. The throne must fall. The blood must be cleansed.”
And then—
A knock.
Not loud. Not urgent.
But familiar.
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Just waited, my hand drifting to the knife at my hip, my wolf pacing beneath my skin.
The door opened anyway.
Riven stepped inside, his dark eyes scanning the room, the scrolls, my face. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just closed the door behind him and walked forward, his boots silent on the stone.
“You look like hell,” he said, crouching beside me.
I didn’t smile. “Feel like it too.”
He studied me—really studied me. The shadows under my eyes. The faint bruise on my neck where Kael’s fangs had marked me. The way my fingers trembled as I touched the parchment.
“You slept with him,” he said, voice quiet.
Not a question. A statement.
“I didn’t sleep,” I said. “I… fell apart.”
He didn’t react. Just nodded, like he’d expected it. “And now?”
“Now I don’t know what I am,” I whispered. “Not a hunter. Not a daughter. Not a sister. Just… his.”
“You’re not his,” Riven said, reaching into his coat. “You’re yours.”
He pulled out a small, leather-bound book—worn, cracked, its edges singed. The cover bore a sigil I knew too well: the spiral of the Exiled Coven. Nyx’s sigil.
My breath stopped.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, voice breaking.
“It was delivered,” he said, handing it to me. “Anonymously. Left in the training yard. No note. No message. Just this.”
I took it, my fingers trembling as I traced the sigil. Nyx. My mentor. My mother in all but blood. The woman who’d taught me to carve sigils into my ribs, to summon fire with a breath, to kill with a whisper. The woman who’d sent me to Midnight Court with a warning I hadn’t understood.
And now she was dead.
Or so I’d been told.
I opened the journal.
The pages were filled with her handwriting—sharp, urgent, jagged. Spells. Curses. Rituals. And then—
A message.
Not in ink.
In blood.
Scrawled across the final page, as if she’d written it with her dying breath:
“Blair—
The sister’s death was not a betrayal.
It was a ritual.
Not his fangs.
Not his blood.
But a sacrifice.
Vexis used her to open the Vault.
But she knew.
She chose it.
Because she loved him.
And she knew—
You would come.
You would save him.
You would burn the liars.
Do not trust the court.
Do not trust the blood.
Trust only the bond.
It is true.
It is yours.
And Blair—
I am not dead.
I am hidden.
Find me.
Before they do.
—Nyx”
The journal slipped from my fingers.
My breath came too fast. Too shallow. My chest tightened, as if the truth had wrapped around my ribs and was squeezing the air from my lungs. The bond—oh, Gods, the bond—wasn’t just pulsing.
It was screaming.
Not in warning. Not in hunger.
In recognition.
My sister hadn’t died by Kael’s fangs.
She’d died by ritual.
Willingly.
For him.
And Nyx—
Nyx wasn’t dead.
She was alive.
And she’d known. All along. She’d known the truth. She’d known about the bond. She’d known I was meant to come here. To save Kael. To burn the liars.
And she’d sent me anyway.
“Blair?” Riven asked, gripping my shoulders. “Look at me. What is it?”
I couldn’t speak.
Just shook my head, my hands trembling, my vision blurring with tears.
“It’s her,” I whispered. “Nyx. She’s not dead. She’s hiding. She says the sister’s death was a ritual. That she chose it. That she loved Kael. That she knew I’d come.”
Riven’s eyes widened. “You believe her?”
“I have to,” I said, my voice breaking. “She’s never lied to me. Not once. And the bond—” I pressed my palm to the sigil on my neck. “—it’s not just magic. It’s truth. It’s hers.”
He didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Then find her.”
“How?” I asked, standing. “She didn’t say where. Didn’t leave a clue.”
“Then look,” he said. “Search the city. The slums. The old tunnels. The Veil markets. If she’s alive, she’ll be where the hybrids hide. Where the outcasts gather. Where the court can’t reach.”
My heart pounded. My wolf growled. My body hummed with the bond, with the need, with the fire.
“I can’t go alone,” I said. “Kael will stop me. The wards—”
“Then don’t go alone,” Riven said. “Take me.”
I looked at him—really looked at him. His dark eyes, steady. His jaw, set. The way his hand still rested on my shoulder, warm, grounding.
“You’d do that?” I asked. “Help me? After everything?”
“I’ve loved you since we were pups,” he said, voice quiet. “And I’ll die for you if I have to. But he’d die for you too. So if this is what you need—” He stepped back. “—then I’ll help you. Not for him. For you.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just turned and walked to the door. “Meet me at the eastern gate in an hour. Wear something dark. And Blair?”
I looked at him.
“Don’t tell him,” he said. “Not yet. Let him think you’re resting. Let him think you’re broken.”
“And when I’m not?”
He smiled—faint, knowing. “Then you’ll be dangerous.”
He left.
I stood there, the journal in my hands, the firelight flickering across the walls. The bond pulsed—low, constant—but I let it fuel my focus instead of my fear. Let it make me sharper. Faster. Deadlier.
I changed into black clothes—close-fitting, made for stealth. Tied my hair back. Slipped the journal into the lining of my coat. Took my knife. My dagger. The key.
And then—
I pressed the key to the mark on my neck.
The sigil flared—silver, hot, alive. The bond surged, a deep, insistent throb that made my breath catch, my core clench, my knees weaken. And for one shattering second, I felt it—
Not just the magic.
Not just the bond.
But her.
Nyx.
Her voice. Her scent. Her love.
“Find me,” she whispered. “Before they do.”
And then—
It was gone.
I dropped the key, my hand trembling.
Was it real?
Or just the bond, twisting my grief into something I wanted to hear?
I didn’t know.
But I knew one thing—
I wasn’t here to burn Kael.
I was here to burn the liars.
And if Nyx was alive—
Then I’d burn anyone who stood in my way.
The eastern gate was guarded by two silent vampires, their crimson armor gleaming under the violet torchlight. They didn’t speak as I approached. Didn’t question. Just stepped aside, their eyes lowering, their bodies tense.
Riven waited beyond the threshold, dressed in black, his knife at his hip, his dark eyes scanning the shadows. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just nodded and turned, leading me into the undercity.
The slums of Midnight Court.
Where the hybrids lived. Where the outcasts gathered. Where the court’s laws didn’t reach.
The air was thick with the scent of decay and old magic, the stench of blood and sweat and something darker—fear. The streets were narrow, winding, lit by flickering gas lamps that cast long, shifting shadows. Figures moved in the dark—were-shifters with hollow eyes, witches with sigils carved into their skin, fae with broken wings. They didn’t speak. Didn’t look at us. Just watched, silent, wary.
“Where do we start?” I asked, my voice low.
“The Veil markets,” Riven said. “If Nyx’s alive, she’ll be where the information trades. Where the secrets are sold.”
We moved fast, silent, our boots echoing on the cracked stone. The bond pulsed—low, constant—but I let it guide me, like a second heartbeat. Let it make me sharper. Faster. Deadlier.
The Veil markets were hidden beneath a collapsed cathedral, its bones jutting from the earth like broken teeth. The entrance was guarded by a hunched figure—a hybrid with one eye, one fang, and a voice like gravel.
“No weapons,” he croaked.
I didn’t argue. Just handed over my knife.
Riven did the same.
“No names,” the guard said. “No lies. No blood. Break the rules, and you don’t leave.”
“Understood,” I said.
We stepped inside.
The market was a maze of stalls—crates of cursed bones, jars of preserved eyes, scrolls sealed in wax, vials of liquid silver. Figures moved in the shadows, whispering, bartering, watching. The air was thick with the scent of magic, of death, of something rotten.
“Ask about Nyx,” I said. “Quietly. Don’t draw attention.”
Riven nodded.
We split up.
I moved through the stalls, my eyes scanning, my senses sharp. A witch with milky eyes sold dreams in glass bottles. A were with three arms carved sigils into stone. A fae with moth wings offered memories for a kiss.
And then—
I saw it.
On a rusted iron table—
A dagger.
Black hilt. Silver blade. Etched with runes that pulsed faintly.
Nyx’s dagger.
My breath stopped.
“You know it?” a voice rasped.
An old woman sat behind the table, her skin like cracked leather, her eyes clouded with cataracts. She didn’t look at me. Just reached for the dagger, her fingers trembling.
“It belonged to someone,” I said, voice steady.
“It belonged to a ghost,” she said. “A witch. Exiled. Hunted. She traded it for a vial of silence.”
My heart pounded. “Where is she?”
“Silence has a price,” the woman said, smiling. “And you don’t have it.”
“I have blood,” I said, slashing my palm open with my dagger. “And I have truth.”
She looked at me—really looked at me. Then at the sigil on my neck. Then at the key in my hand.
And she smiled.
“You’re her,” she whispered. “The one she sent for.”
My breath caught.
“Where is she?” I asked, voice breaking.
The old woman reached into her coat and pulled out a scrap of parchment—burned at the edges, stained with blood.
“The catacombs beneath the northern chapel,” she said. “Where the dead are forgotten. Where the light doesn’t reach.”
“And the vial of silence?” I asked. “What was it for?”
“To hide her voice,” the woman said. “So they couldn’t track her. So they couldn’t hear her.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She didn’t answer.
Just handed me the parchment and turned away.
I found Riven at the entrance.
“I know where she is,” I said, showing him the scrap.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t question.
Just nodded.
And we ran.
Through the slums. Through the shadows. Toward the northern chapel, where the dead were forgotten, where the light didn’t reach.
And where Nyx—
My mentor.
My mother.
My truth—
Was waiting.