The fire I’d set in the Bloodline Council Chamber burned for hours.
Not just the flames—those were extinguished within minutes by the palace wards, doused in torrents of enchanted water that hissed like dying serpents. No, it was the *other* fire—the one beneath my skin, the one that flared every time I thought of Kael’s hand on my neck, his voice in my ear, his silver eyes holding mine like a trap—that refused to die.
I stayed in the shadows that night. Didn’t return to my chamber. Didn’t sleep. Just moved through the lower corridors, silent, sharp, letting the bond’s hum sharpen my senses instead of dulling them. I listened. Watched. Waited.
And I thought.
Too much.
Kael’s words echoed in my skull: *“I didn’t kill her.”* Followed by the damning counter: *“He was framed. Just like you.”* It was too neat. Too convenient. A story spun to make me doubt, to make me hesitate, to make me *feel*. And feeling was weakness. Feeling was death.
But what if it was true?
No. I wouldn’t go down that path. Not again. Not after Nyx had warned me—*“The greatest lies are the ones that sound like truth.”* I’d seen the ritual. I’d watched through the scrying mirror as his fangs sank into my sister’s throat, as the Blood Vault opened behind them, as he stepped over her body and claimed the throne. I’d *seen* it. I hadn’t imagined it.
Had I?
I pressed my palm to the sigil on my neck. It pulsed faintly, warm against my skin. A mark of the Blood Pact. A brand of our forced bond. And yet… it didn’t feel like a curse. Not entirely. It felt like a key. Like a thread pulling me toward something I couldn’t name.
I shoved the thought away.
Dawn came like a blade through smoke—thin, violet light slicing through the high windows of the palace, casting long, skeletal shadows across the stone. The air smelled of ash and damp stone, of blood and old magic. The palace was quieter than usual—guards on high alert, whispers of sabotage spreading like plague. Good. Let them scramble. Let them fear.
I slipped back into my chamber just before sunrise, my boots silent on the carpet. The room was untouched—no signs of intrusion, no new wards. Kael hadn’t come for me. Not yet. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he knew I was already unraveling.
I stripped off my clothes, the fabric stiff with dried blood and soot. I didn’t bother with the bath—no time, no trust. Just a damp cloth, a quick wipe, a fresh set of black garments, tight and unobtrusive. My weapons were still where I’d left them: the knife in my sleeve, the sigil dagger at my hip, the vial of liquid silver tucked into my boot. All intact. All ready.
And the key—still humming in the lining of my coat.
Three nights until the blood moon. Three nights until the Vault would open.
Time was running out.
I needed proof. Not just of Kael’s innocence—or guilt—but of who had really killed my sister. Vexis? Mirela? Someone else? The Bloodline records were ash, but there had to be another source. Another ledger. Another voice.
And then I remembered Riven’s words from the council chamber: *“I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that before. Not even his own mother.”*
He’d seen the bond. Felt it. And he hadn’t feared it. He’d *acknowledged* it.
Riven was Kael’s second. His shadow. His blade. But he wasn’t blind. And he hadn’t always been loyal to the Bloodmarked Prince. He’d been exiled with him. Fought beside him. Survived the war.
Maybe he knew the truth.
Or maybe he was just another pawn.
Either way, I needed to talk to him.
But not yet. Not when the bond still burned between Kael and me, not when my body still remembered the way his thumb had traced my mark, not when my mind still whispered *what if* in the dark.
I needed to clear my head. To steady my pulse. To remind myself who I was.
I went to the training yard.
Hidden beneath the eastern spire, the yard was a vast, open courtyard of black stone, ringed with torches that burned violet flame. It was rarely used—vampires didn’t train like warriors. They schemed. They fed. They ruled. But the Moonbound Weres? We fought. We bled. We survived.
I stepped inside, the cool morning air sharp in my lungs. The yard was empty—no guards, no nobles, no spies. Just the silence and the echo of my boots on stone.
I drew my blade.
Not the sigil dagger. Not the knife. A real weapon—a were-forged longsword, stolen from a vampire armory weeks ago. Heavy. Balanced. Lethal.
I started slow. Footwork. Stances. Blocks. Then faster. Spins. Cuts. Thrusts. I moved like a storm, like a predator, like the girl who’d hunted in the dark and lived. I let the rhythm take me. Let the sweat pour. Let the burn in my muscles drown out the hum in my blood.
And then—
I heard it.
A soft, mocking laugh.
I froze, blade raised, breath steady.
At the edge of the yard, leaning against a pillar, was a woman.
Tall. Slender. Dressed in silk so pale it looked like moonlight. Her hair was long, dark, cascading over one shoulder. Her lips were painted blood-red. And she was wearing *his* shirt.
Not just any shirt.
Kael’s shirt.
Black silk. Silver buttons. The same one I’d seen in the scrying mirror the night my sister died.
My breath caught.
“Oh,” she purred, stepping forward, her bare feet silent on the stone. “You must be the new distraction.”
Mirela.
Unseelie consort. Former lover. The woman who’d claimed she’d tasted his blood.
And now she was here. In his shirt. Smiling like she owned the world.
Jealousy hit me like a punch to the gut—hot, sharp, wrong. I didn’t care who he slept with. Didn’t care who he fed from. He was a monster. A murderer. A liar.
But my body didn’t listen.
The bond pulsed, a deep, insistent throb between my thighs. My skin burned. My breath came faster. My core clenched, wet and aching, as if my body had already decided, already submitted.
No.
I wouldn’t let it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, voice flat, cold.
She tilted her head, studying me. “He hasn’t looked at anyone like that in decades. Not since the war. Not since me.”
“You’re mistaken,” I said, lowering my blade. “He looks at me like I’m a threat. Which I am.”
She laughed—soft, mocking. “Oh, you are. But not the way you think.” She stepped closer, her scent wrapping around me—honey and decay, pleasure and poison. “He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth breaking.”
My hands clenched.
“And then,” she whispered, leaning in, “he’ll leave you broken. Just like the last one.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
But inside, something cracked.
Not just jealousy. Not just rage.
Fear.
Because what if she was right? What if I wasn’t here to destroy him? What if I was here to become another dead mate? Another sacrifice on the altar of his power?
The bond flared—hot, electric, unbearable. My hand rose, fingers brushing the base of my throat—imagining his fangs there, his lips, his claim.
No.
I wouldn’t be another victim.
I wouldn’t be another ghost.
“Sleep well, little wolf,” she murmured, stepping back. “I hear he loves it when they scream.”
Then she was gone.
I stood there, frozen, my breath coming too fast, my body trembling. The sword felt heavy in my hand. The yard too quiet. The air too thick.
And then—
I moved.
Not toward the door. Not toward my chamber. But to the center of the yard.
I raised the sword.
And I screamed.
Not a cry. Not a sob. A roar. A howl. A challenge to the sky, to the bond, to the man who’d marked me, to the woman who’d mocked me, to the ghost of my sister who’d died believing in love.
I swung.
Blade met stone with a screech, sparks flying. Again. And again. And again. I didn’t stop. Didn’t rest. I carved into the black stone like it was flesh, like it was bone, like it was him. I slashed until my arms burned, until my breath came in ragged gasps, until the sigils on my ribs flared white-hot beneath my skin.
And when I finally stopped, the ground was scarred with deep, jagged lines—like claw marks. Like a beast had torn through.
Like me.
I dropped the sword.
My chest heaved. Sweat dripped from my brow. My wolf growled beneath my skin, pacing, restless, hungry.
But I was calm.
Clear.
Centered.
The bond still pulsed. The mark still burned. The memory of Mirela’s words still cut deep.
But I wasn’t afraid.
I was angry.
And anger I could use.
I left the yard, my boots echoing on the stone. I didn’t go to my chamber. Didn’t seek out Riven. Didn’t try to find answers.
I went to the heart of the palace.
The Blood Vault.
Not to open it. Not yet. But to feel it. To stand before the door, to press my palm to the ancient stone, to let the key in my coat hum against my ribs.
The Vault was hidden behind a false wall in the royal wing, guarded by wards that pulsed with dormant power. The door was black iron, etched with runes that shifted when you looked at them—like they were alive. I’d studied them for weeks. Knew their patterns. Their weaknesses.
But I didn’t try to break in.
Not today.
Instead, I stood there, silent, still, letting the magic seep into my skin. Letting the bond hum in response. Letting the key vibrate with anticipation.
Three nights.
Three nights until the blood moon.
Three nights until I would burn it all down.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Familiar.
I didn’t turn.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Kael said, his voice low, intimate, like a secret meant for no one else.
“Neither should you,” I said, still not looking at him.
He stepped beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the scent of him—dark amber, cold stone, something wild and untamed beneath it all.
“The Vault is sealed,” he said. “Even for me.”
“Then why are you here?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the door, his silver eyes reflecting the shifting runes.
“You think I killed her,” he said quietly. “But you don’t know what really happened that night.”
“I saw it,” I said. “Through the mirror.”
“And mirrors can lie,” he said. “Just like memories. Just like hearts.”
I finally turned to him. “You expect me to believe you? After everything? After Mirela walks these halls in your shirt, whispering lies about how you love to hear women scream?”
His jaw tightened. “Mirela is a pawn. Vexis’s puppet. She’s been feeding him information for months.”
“And you let her?”
“I let her think she’s winning,” he said, voice low. “Because when the time comes, she’ll lead me straight to him.”
I studied him—really studied him. The set of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for me but wouldn’t.
Was he lying?
Or was he, for once, telling the truth?
Before I could decide, he turned and walked away.
Just like that.
Leaving me alone with the Vault. With the key. With the bond that still burned between us.
I pressed my palm to the door one last time.
And then I whispered the truth I hadn’t let myself say:
“I don’t know who to trust.”
But I would find out.
Even if it destroyed me.