The air in the Spire had changed.
Not just in scent—though the smoke from the northern battlements had finally cleared, the charred stone replaced with fresh wards etched in silver and blood—but in weight. The silence wasn’t still. It was coiled. Like a serpent beneath the floor, waiting. The torches burned lower now, their silver-white flames flickering with unease, casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the obsidian walls. The bond beneath my collarbone pulsed—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath the fabric of my tunic, not with urgency, not with warning, but with something deeper. Anticipation.
I stood at the threshold of the Chamber of Echoes, my boots silent against the black stone, my hand resting on the hilt of my dagger. The boy—Kael’s son, our son now—was safe in the healing chambers, guarded by Dain and watched over by Lira. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his twin-moon eyes followed us, studied us, like he already knew the weight of what we carried. The bond flared whenever he looked at me—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath my skin, not with fear, not with magic, but with recognition.
“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’re thinking,” he said, voice quiet.
“I’m remembering.” I finally turned, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his gold-flecked ones. “My mother’s journal. The way she wrote about the old prophecies. About the one who would rise when the bloodlines blurred. The one who would walk in sunlight and shadow. The Daywalker.”
He didn’t flinch. Just reached up, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, the mark beneath my collarbone flaring beneath his touch. “You think it’s real?”
“I think everything is real now.” I pressed my fingers to the sigil, feeling the truth in it. The weight. The legacy. “We’ve already broken the rules. The bond. The throne. The pact. Why not the prophecy?”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot on my neck. “Then let it come. Let them all come. I’ve spent my life being afraid of what I am. Of what I’ll become. But not anymore.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear. “Because I’m not alone.”
And then—
—the door creaked open.
Dain stood in the archway, his wolf-gold eyes wide, his posture tense. Behind him, Lira—her red eyes reflecting the torchlight, her hands trembling. She wasn’t bound anymore. No silver cord. No chains. But she still moved like a prisoner—hesitant, watchful, like she expected a blade at any moment. Behind her, the boy—pale, small, his silver-white hair catching the torchlight, his veins pulsing with that faint, golden light.
“He woke,” Dain said, voice low. “And he’s asking for you.”
My breath caught.
Kael didn’t move. Just held me tighter, his fangs elongating, his claws instinctively sheathing and re-sheathing. “What did he say?”
“Nothing.” Lira stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “But he drew this.” She held out a scrap of parchment—charred at the edges, the ink smudged, but unmistakable.
I took it.
And my blood turned to ice.
The drawing was crude, childlike—but the image was clear. A woman. Tall. Slender. Silver eyes. A crown of thorns. Her hand outstretched, not in greeting, but in command. And beneath her, a name, written in jagged, trembling script.
Lady Seraphine.
“He says she’s coming,” Dain said, voice tight. “And she’s not alone.”
Dead silence.
The torches flickered. The wards hummed. The bond pulsed between us, warm, insistent, alive.
And then—
—Kael turned to me, his arm still around my waist. “You think Ravel’s with her?”
“I think he’s leading her,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “He’s not just a vampire. He’s a predator. And predators don’t die. They adapt.” I looked down at the boy, his twin-moon eyes wide, unblinking. “And he’s using her to get to him.”
“Why?” Kael asked, crouching beside the boy, his hand lifting to the locket around his neck. “What does he want?”
“Power,” I said, stepping forward, my fingers brushing the journal still tucked against my ribs. My mother’s final words. Her truth. “He wants the Storm Throne. He wants the Unseelie Court. He wants to break the bond.” I turned to Kael, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his. “And he’ll use the boy to do it.”
“Then we protect him,” Kael said, standing, his gold-flecked eyes blazing. “We train him. We raise him.”
“As ours,” I said, stepping forward, my hand lifting to the sigil beneath my collarbone. It flared—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath the fabric. “Not as a secret. Not as a weapon. But as a son.”
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 future.
We didn’t go to the healing chambers. Not yet. Instead, we went to the War Chamber—a hidden room deep within the Spire, its walls lined with maps, sigils, and ancient tomes. The great obsidian table stood in the center, etched with the continent’s borders, the territories of the packs, the Houses, the Fae courts. Blood-red markers dotted the southern border—where the Unseelie Fae courts lay hidden in the mist-shrouded valleys.
The boy sat at the edge of the table, his small hands gripping the edge, his silver-white hair falling over his eyes. He didn’t speak. Just watched us, studied us, like he already knew the weight of what we carried.
“You think he understands?” I asked, stepping forward, my fingers brushing the hilt of my dagger.
“I think he knows,” Kael said, crouching beside him. “He’s not just a child. He’s a Daywalker. And Daywalkers don’t just see. They remember.”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, my storm-gray eyes locking onto the boy’s. “Then tell us,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “What do you see?”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for the map.
His small finger traced a path—north, through the mist-shrouded valleys, past the ruins of the old Fae temples, into the heart of the Unseelie Storm Court. And then—
—he stopped.
At a single point, deep in the forest, where the trees grew black and twisted, where the ground was scorched, where the air itself seemed to rot.
And then—
—he drew.
Not with ink. Not with blood.
With fire.
A small flame flickered to life on the map, burning through the parchment, curling around the point like a serpent. The sigil beneath my collarbone ignited—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath my skin, not with magic, not with fire, but with truth.
“That’s where she is,” I said, voice hollow. “That’s where they’re gathering.”
“And Ravel?” Kael asked, his voice tight.
“He’s not with them,” I said, stepping forward, my fingers brushing the journal. “He’s ahead. He’s coming for the Spire. For the boy. For us.”
“Then we don’t wait,” Kael said, standing, his fangs elongating, his claws tearing free of their sheaths. “We move. We strike. We end him.”
“And the boy?” Dain asked, stepping forward, his wolf-gold eyes sharp.
“He stays here,” I said, turning to him. “With Lira. With the healers. With the strongest wards we can summon.”
“And if they breach the Spire?” Lira asked, her voice trembling.
“Then you die with us,” I said, stepping to the door. “But I’d rather burn the world than let Ravel win.”
We didn’t speak as we left the War Chamber, as we moved through the Spire like shadows. The corridors were chaos—vampire sentries rushing to the battlements, werewolf Betas shifting mid-stride, Fae illusions flickering in the torchlight. The air was thick with the scent of blood, smoke, and magic.
And then—
—we reached the outer wall.
The northern battlements were already aflame—literally. Great pillars of crimson fire erupted from the ground, tearing through the stone, sending rogues and guards alike screaming into the void. In the sky, winged Fae—Unseelie nobles with obsidian feathers and eyes like molten gold—swooped and dived, their magic crackling in the air.
But they weren’t attacking the Spire.
They were attacking each other.
“It’s a civil war,” I said, my breath catching. “The Seelie and Unseelie are turning on each other. Ravel’s not just using them. He’s dividing them.”
“And while they tear each other apart,” Kael said, his voice low, “he slips in. He takes the Spire. He takes you.”
“Then we don’t let him.” I stepped to the edge of the battlement, my blades raised, my magic flaring. “We hold the line. We protect the heart. And we end him.”
Kael turned to me, his gold-flecked eyes blazing. “You came here to destroy me,” he said, voice a velvet threat. “But you’re not going to. Because you can’t. Not when every part of you knows the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” I whispered, though I already knew.
“That you’re not just my bondmate.” His lips brushed the shell of my ear. “You’re my queen. And I’m not letting you go.”
I didn’t shove him.
Didn’t slap him.
Didn’t run.
Just closed my eyes.
And for the first time in ten years—
I let myself believe it.
Then I opened them.
And I fought.
The battle raged for hours—fire and fury, blood and magic, the sky split open with oaths and lies. I fought like a woman possessed, like vengeance incarnate, like a queen reclaiming her throne. Kael was at my side—fanged, clawed, relentless—his body pressing into mine, his breath hot on my neck, his fangs grazing my skin not to claim, not to mark—but to protect.
And when the last Fae warrior fell, when the fire died, when the sky sealed itself like a wound closing—
—we stood together.
Bloodied. Breathing hard. Unbroken.
And the bond—
It pulsed.
Not with warning.
With power.
The war wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t fighting it alone anymore.
And now, neither was he.
And that was enough.