The morning after the storm, the Spire breathed differently.
Not with tension. Not with the low hum of wards bracing for war. But with something softer. Something quieter. Like the world had exhaled after holding its breath for a decade. Sunlight—real, golden, unfiltered by magic or storm—poured through the high arched windows of our chambers, painting stripes across the obsidian floor. The air smelled of pine, of clean stone, of something I hadn’t noticed in years.
Peace.
I lay on my side, propped up on one elbow, watching Kael sleep.
It still felt like a betrayal of memory to see him like this—face relaxed, fangs retracted, the ever-present tension in his shoulders finally eased. For years, I’d imagined him as a monster: cold, calculating, the man who had presided over my mother’s execution. But now, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers curled slightly around the edge of the blanket like he was holding onto something precious, I couldn’t reconcile the image.
This was the man who had fought at my side through fire and shadow.
This was the man who had whispered *queen* like a vow.
This was the man I had chosen.
The sigil beneath my collarbone pulsed—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath my skin, not with urgency, not with warning, but with quiet satisfaction. The bond was no longer a chain. It was a rhythm. A heartbeat. A home.
Kael stirred.
His gold-flecked eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light. For a moment, he looked disoriented—like he didn’t remember where he was, or who he was with. Then his gaze found mine, and something shifted. A softening. A recognition. A warmth that made my breath catch.
“You’re watching me,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“You’re easy to watch,” I said, my fingers brushing the edge of the blanket, tracing the line of his bare arm. “For a monster.”
He didn’t flinch. Just reached for me, his hand sliding up my arm, his thumb brushing the mark beneath my collarbone. It flared—gold light bleeding through the fabric—then dimmed, like a pulse settling. “You used to want to kill me.”
“I still might,” I said, but there was no heat in it. “If you snore.”
He smirked, then pulled me down beside him, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot on my neck. “You didn’t used to let me touch you.”
“You didn’t used to deserve it.”
“And now?”
I turned my head, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his. “Now I know the difference between a monster and a man.” I reached up, my fingers brushing the scar across his jaw—the one from the fight with Ravel. “You’re both.”
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me.
Not hard. Not hungry. Not a claim.
Soft.
Slow.
Like he had all the time in the world.
His lips moved against mine, gentle, deliberate, his hand cradling the back of my neck like I was something fragile. I didn’t pull away. Didn’t fight it. Just leaned into it—into him—letting the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the quiet hum of the bond sink into my bones.
And for the first time in ten years—
I let myself rest.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was warm on my skin, his eyes blazing with something I hadn’t seen before.
Not desire.
Not possession.
Love.
“The boy is awake,” he said, voice low. “Dain sent a message. He’s asking for us.”
I didn’t move. Just stayed where I was, my head on his chest, my hand splayed over his heart. “Let him wait.”
“He’s not the only one who needs us,” Kael said, his fingers threading through my hair.
“We all will,” I said, sitting up. “Ravel’s gone, but the war isn’t over. The Fae are divided. The Council is fractured. And the balance—” I turned to him, my hand lifting to the sigil beneath my collarbone. “—is still fragile.”
He didn’t argue. Just sat up beside me, his body pressing into mine, his fangs bared, his claws extended. “Then let the trial begin,” he said, voice deadly calm. “And let the bond be the judge.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for my tunic, pulling it over my head, the fabric catching on the sigil as it flared once more. Kael watched me, his eyes dark, his breath steady. Then he stood, pulling on his coat, rolling the sleeves to the elbows, the scars across his forearms catching the light.
We didn’t speak as we left the chambers. The corridors were quiet, the torches low, the whispers had changed.
“She’s back.”
“They survived.”
“The bond held.”
I didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge them. Just kept walking, my head high, my storm-gray eyes blazing. I wasn’t just Parker Voss.
I wasn’t just a witch.
I wasn’t just a warrior.
I was Stormborn.
And the Storm didn’t ask permission.
It claimed.
We found the boy in the healing chambers—sitting up in bed, his silver-white hair catching the morning light, his twin-moon eyes wide and unblinking. Lira stood beside him, her red eyes reflecting the torchlight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. 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.
“He’s been quiet,” she said, stepping aside as we entered. “But he’s not afraid.”
“He’s seen worse,” I said, stepping forward, my fingers brushing the edge of the cot. “Haven’t you?”
The boy didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Small hand. Pale fingers. Veins pulsing with that faint, golden light.
I took it.
And the bond flared.
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 wards hummed. The Spire groaned. And then—
—he smiled.
Not with fear.
Not with anger.
With recognition.
“You don’t have to speak,” I said, kneeling beside him. “But if you want to, we’ll listen.”
He didn’t move.
Just looked at Kael.
And then—
—Kael did something I didn’t expect.
He knelt.
Not as a king. Not as an arbiter.
As a father.
His hand lifted, slow, careful, and brushed the boy’s silver-white hair. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said, voice low, rough with emotion. “You’re not alone anymore.”
The boy didn’t flinch.
Just reached for him.
And Kael pulled him into a fierce embrace, his mouth on the boy’s temple, his fangs grazing his 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 War Chamber that day. Didn’t summon the Council. Didn’t prepare for battle. Instead, we took the boy to the gardens—the hidden ones, carved into the northern wall, where the moonpetals bloomed in silver and white, their petals glowing faintly in the daylight.
He didn’t speak. Just walked beside us, his small hand in mine, his silver-white hair catching the sun. The air was thick with the scent of earth and magic, the kind that clung to roots and whispered in forgotten tongues. The sigil beneath my collarbone pulsed—gold and crimson and white spiraling beneath the fabric, not with urgency, not with fear, but with quiet, unshakable certainty.
“He’s not just a child,” I said, voice low, as we reached the edge of the garden. “He’s a legacy. A future. A promise.”
“And he’s ours,” Kael said, stepping beside me, his hand lifting to the small of my back. “Not because the bond demands it. Not because the magic forces it. But because we want to.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for a moonpetal, plucking it from the stem. It glowed in my palm, its silver edges catching the light, its inner light pulsing like a heartbeat. I didn’t crush it. Didn’t throw it. Just held it—like a vow, like a truth, like a beginning.
“This isn’t just about vengeance,” I said, turning to him. “It’s about legacy. About who we are. About who we become.”
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.
That night, we didn’t return to our chambers. We stayed in the garden, wrapped in each other, the boy asleep between us, his small hand clutching mine. The stars shifted above us. The moon dipped below the horizon. And when dawn came, we didn’t speak.
We didn’t need to.
We just stood, hand in hand, and walked back through the Spire, our scents mingling, our magic harmonizing, our hearts beating as one.
Dain was waiting.
He stood at the threshold, his wolf-gold eyes sharp, his posture tense. Lira was beside him, her red eyes reflecting the torchlight, her wrists no longer bound. She didn’t speak. Just watched me, studied me, like she was trying to understand how I’d walked into a death trap for a man I’d once sworn to destroy.
Maybe she never would.
Maybe I wouldn’t either.
“The Council is calling for you,” Dain said, stepping forward. “They want answers. They want oaths. They want—”
“They can wait,” I said, stepping past him, my storm-gray eyes blazing. “We’ve bled for them. We’ve fought for them. We’ve died for them. And if they want more—” I turned, my hand lifting to the sigil beneath my collarbone. “—then they’ll get it in fire.”
He didn’t argue. Just nodded, then stepped aside.
Lira lingered. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she said, voice quiet.
“I’m not,” I said, stepping forward, my hand lifting to the boy’s shoulder. “I haven’t been for a long time.”
She didn’t answer.
Just bowed her head, then vanished into the shadows.
And then—
—Kael caged me beside him, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot on my neck. “You came here to destroy me,” he murmured, 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 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 led.
The war wasn’t over.
But I wasn’t fighting it alone anymore.
And now, neither was he.
And that was enough.