The night before dawn, the Spire stood silent—wounded, yes, but unbroken. The northern battlements still bore the scars of fire and magic, the stone cracked and blackened where the Fae had clashed in the sky, where Ravel had risen from the fissure only to be erased by the Storm itself. But the air had changed. The wards no longer hummed with tension, but with a new rhythm—one that matched the pulse of the bond beneath my skin. Gold and crimson and white spiraled beneath the surface, not as a warning, not as a curse, but as a crown.
I stood at the edge of the northern tower’s balcony, the wind tugging at my storm-gray hair, the cold biting through the thin fabric of my tunic. Below, the moors stretched out like a sea of shadows, the mist curling around the ancient stones of the Spire’s foundation. I could feel it—the pull. Not just from the Fae messenger’s summons, not just from the throne that waited in the mist-shrouded valleys of the south. But from something deeper. Older.
From *me.*
“You’re not sleeping,” Kael said from behind me, his voice low, rough with exhaustion and something else—something softer, something that still made my breath catch.
I didn’t turn. “Neither are you.”
He stepped forward, his boots silent against the stone, his presence a wall of heat and power at my back. I could feel his breath on my neck, the way his fangs retracted just a fraction, the way his claws sheathed and unsheathed like a man fighting to keep control. He didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stood there, close enough that I could feel the bond pulse between us—steady, insistent, *alive.*
“You don’t have to go,” he said, voice quiet. “Not if it’s a trap. Not if they try to take you from me.”
“They won’t.” I finally turned, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his gold-flecked ones. “Because I’m not just their heir. I’m *yours.* And you’re mine. And no throne, no court, no ancient law is going to change that.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just reached up, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, the mark beneath my collarbone flaring beneath his touch. “You say that like it’s a promise.”
“It is.” I stepped into him, my hands sliding up his chest, my body pressing to his. “You came here to destroy me,” I whispered, echoing his own words back to him. “But you’re not going to. Because you can’t. Not when every part of you *knows* the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“That you’re not just my bondmate.” I tilted my head, my breath catching as his fangs grazed my neck. “You’re my *king.* And I’m not letting go.”
He didn’t shove me.
Didn’t slap me.
Didn’t run.
Just closed his eyes.
And for the first time in thirty-four years—
He let himself believe it.
Then he kissed me.
Not soft. Not gentle. Not a question.
A *claim.*
His lips crashed into mine, hard and hungry, his fangs grazing my lower lip just enough to draw a bead of blood. My magic flared—crimson and white spiraling around us, binding us, *claiming* us. The bond *roared,* heat flooding my veins, light exploding behind my eyes. His hands slid down my back, pulling me against him, his body solid, real, *mine.* I could feel his heart—steady, strong, unbroken—and for the first time in ten years, I didn’t flinch at the closeness.
I leaned into it.
Into *him.*
And when he finally pulled back, his breath hot on my skin, his eyes blazing, I didn’t look away.
“You’re trembling,” he said, voice rough.
“So are you.”
“I thought I’d lost you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I almost did.” His arms tightened around me. “When your heart stopped. When the bond went silent. When you were gone—”
“I’m not gone.” I cupped his face, forcing him to look at me. “I’m *here.* And I’m not leaving. Not for the Council. Not for Ravel. Not for *anyone.*”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into a fierce embrace, his mouth on my neck, his fangs grazing my skin, not to claim, not to mark—but to *promise.*
And the bond—
It *pulsed.*
Not with warning.
With *power.*
We didn’t speak as we returned to the suite. The fire was still low in the hearth, the black silk sheets turned down, the book—ancient, leather-bound—still open on the table. I didn’t go to the bed. Didn’t undress. Just stood in the center of the room, my fingers brushing the journal tucked against my ribs. My mother’s final words. Her truth. Her legacy.
Kael didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Just moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a gown I’d never seen before.
It was black silk, threaded with gold, the same fabric as the queen’s gown from my vision. The bodice was tight, the sleeves long and flowing, the hem sweeping the floor. At the hip hung a dagger—mine, the one etched with the sigil of the Unseelie Storm Throne.
“You knew,” I said, voice quiet.
“I suspected.” He stepped toward me, the gown in his hands. “I had it made the night after the trial. After you healed me. After you said, *‘I’m yours.’*”
My breath caught.
He didn’t look away. Just held the gown out to me. “You’re not just a witch. Not just a warrior. Not just a queen.” His voice dropped, rough, possessive. “You’re Stormborn. And tonight—” He stepped closer, his hand lifting to the mark beneath my collarbone. “—you claim what’s always been yours.”
I didn’t argue.
Just let him undress me—slow, reverent, like each piece of clothing was a vow. The tunic. The trousers. The dagger at my belt. Each removed like a surrender, like a promise, like a truth I’d spent ten years denying.
And when I was bare, he didn’t stare.
Didn’t devour.
He just… *looked.*
His gold-flecked eyes traced every line, every scar, every curve, like he was memorizing me. And then—
—he dressed me.
Not with magic. Not with haste.
With *care.*
His fingers fastened the buttons at the back, his breath warm against my neck, his scent filling my lungs. When the gown was on, he stepped back, his eyes searching mine.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice raw.
“Liar.”
“No.” He stepped forward, his hand lifting to the sigil beneath my collarbone. It flared—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath the fabric. “You’re *queen.* And I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for him, my fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to come.”
“Yes, I do.” He didn’t hesitate. Just turned, pulling on a dark coat, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fangs retracted, claws sheathed. “You said I was your king. That means I rule. That means I choose. And I choose to stand beside you.”
And then—
—we left.
No fanfare. No guards. No procession.
Just us.
The corridors were quiet as we moved through the Spire, our boots echoing against the stone. The torches flickered, the wards hummed, the whispers had changed.
“She’s back.”
“They survived.”
“The bond held.”
I didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge them. Just kept walking, my hand brushing his with every step, the bond pulsing between us like a second heartbeat.
We didn’t take the main gate. Not the one that led to the battlements, not the one that opened to the moors. We went to the hidden passage—a narrow tunnel carved into the stone, lined with ancient sigils, sealed with blood and memory. Kael placed his palm against the ward, his blood mingling with mine, the door dissolving into mist.
And then—
—we stepped into the night.
The world outside was different. The air was thick with the scent of pine and frost, the sky a tapestry of stars, the moon a silver sliver above the mist-shrouded valleys. In the distance, the Unseelie Court rose from the shadows—tall spires of black stone, glowing with an eerie, silver light, the sigil of the Storm Throne carved into the highest peak.
“They’re waiting,” I said, voice low.
“Let them wait.” Kael stepped beside me, his hand lifting to the small of my back. “Let them see us together. Let them see what happens when you try to break what fate forged.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Just stepped forward, my storm-gray eyes blazing, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “I came to burn the Council to the ground. But I’m not going to. Not like this. Not alone. I’m going to burn *him.* And I’m going to do it with you.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into a fierce embrace, his mouth on my neck, his fangs grazing my skin, not to claim, not to mark—but to *promise.*
And the bond—
It *pulsed.*
Not with warning.
With *power.*
We didn’t walk to the Court.
We *arrived.*
The gates burst open before we reached them, the wards shattering like glass. The Fae stood in silence—Seelie and Unseelie alike, their silver eyes wide, their wings folded, their magic coiled like serpents. At the center of the courtyard stood a dais, carved from black stone, the sigil of the Storm Throne etched into its surface.
And on it—
Queen Nyx.
Tall, regal, her hair like stormclouds, her eyes like lightning. She wore a gown of black silk threaded with gold, and at her hip hung a dagger—the twin to mine.
My breath stopped.
She wasn’t my mother.
But she was *her.*
“You’re late,” she said, her voice like thunder.
“I’m not late,” I said, stepping forward, my hand lifting to the sigil beneath my collarbone. “I’m *here.*”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just stepped down from the dais, her silver eyes locking onto mine. “The Storm has spoken. The bond has answered. And now—” She raised her hand, and the sigil beneath my collarbone *flared*—white light bleeding through the fabric. “—you must claim what’s yours.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just stepped onto the dais, my boots echoing against the stone. The air hummed with power, the ground trembled, the sky split open—
—not with fire.
Not with blood.
With *light.*
A single beam of silver pierced the clouds, illuminating the courtyard, the dais, the figures of Kael and Queen Nyx. And in that light, I saw it—everything.
My mother, not burning—but *rising.* From the pyre, wreathed in stormfire, her arms outstretched, her voice thundering: “I pass the throne to you. Not in ceremony. Not in blood ritual. But in truth. In fire. In memory. You are Stormborn, Parker. And the bond—it is not a curse. It is a key. A weapon. A shield. Kael is not your enemy. He is your protector. Your equal. Your fated.”
And then—
—the light faded.
The courtyard was silent.
And Queen Nyx—
She knelt.
Not to me.
But to *us.*
“The Storm has chosen,” she said, her voice echoing. “The heir has returned. And the king stands beside her.”
And then—
—she raised her hand.
And the crown appeared.
Not gold. Not silver.
Stormfire.
It hovered above the dais, a wreath of lightning and shadow, crackling with power. And then—
—it descended.
Not onto my head.
But onto *his.*
Kael didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, his gold-flecked eyes blazing, his body tense, his fangs retracted, his claws sheathed.
And the crown—
It *settled.*
Not as a burden.
Not as a claim.
As a *truth.*
And then—
—Queen Nyx turned to me.
And the second crown appeared.
This one—
For me.
And as it settled onto my brow, the bond *ignited.*
Gold and crimson and white spiraled around us, binding us, *claiming* us. The sigils on our skin flared—twin marks, twin souls, twin power. The Storm answered. The Court bowed. The world *shifted.*
And then—
—I turned to Kael.
And I pulled him up.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
But *finally.*
“No,” I said, my voice low, dangerous. “We’re *ours.*”
And the bond—
It *pulsed.*
Not with warning.
With *future.*
The war wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t fighting it alone anymore.
And that was enough.