The emergency session had been called, but not for another two hours. That gave me time—time to move, to think, to breathe. But not to run. Not anymore.
I didn’t go back to my room. I couldn’t. Not with Kael’s words still echoing in my skull, not with the image of Lira sprawled across his bed burned into my mind, not with the silver locket—*my mother’s locket*—clutched in his hand like some sacred relic. I needed space. I needed proof. I needed to remind myself why I was here.
The Council Archives.
That’s where the truth lived. Not in whispered confessions or soul-deep bonds or vampire nobles wearing stolen shirts. In paper. In ink. In the cold, unfeeling records of what had been done.
I moved through the Spire like a shadow, my boots silent on the stone, my cloak pulled tight around me. The corridors twisted and turned, descending deeper beneath the fortress, where the air grew thick with the scent of old parchment, iron wards, and something darker—magic that had been sealed away, buried under layers of bureaucracy and lies.
The archivist wasn’t at his post. Good. The fewer witnesses, the better.
I slipped inside, the iron gate closing behind me with a soft click. The chamber was dim, lit only by flickering sconces and the faint pulse of the warding runes along the walls. Rows of towering shelves stretched into the darkness, crammed with scrolls, grimoires, and sealed dossiers. Some were bound in leather, others in bone, a few in what looked like flayed skin. I didn’t flinch. I’d seen worse in the human world—black-market spell shops where witches sold their own blood for power.
I went straight to the restricted section—the one behind the false panel. The one with my mother’s execution order. The one Dain had warned me about.
The folder was still there. I pulled it out, my fingers trembling as I opened it. The pages were brittle, the ink faded in places, but the words were clear. Too clear.
“Evidence to be destroyed post-execution. Daughter to be located and neutralized. No survivors.”
I closed my eyes. For a moment, I wasn’t Parker Voss, avenger, infiltrator, bondmate to the High Arbiter.
I was a nine-year-old girl, hiding in the woods, her mother’s blood on her hands, her name already marked for death.
And someone—Maeve—had saved me.
I flipped through the rest of the file. More notes. More diagrams. A partial list of coven members, most of them dead now. And then—
—a transcript.
Not the official one. Not the sanitized version that claimed my mother had conspired with the Fae.
This was the real trial. The one that had been altered. The one that had been *buried.*
I scanned the lines, my breath coming faster with each word.
Lord Ravel: “Elara Voss has been intercepted in possession of Fae correspondence, detailing plans to overthrow the Council.”
Elara Voss: “The correspondence is a forgery. I was delivering it to the Council as evidence of a setup.”
Ravel: “You expect us to believe that?”
Elara: “I expect you to *read* it. The ink is fresh. The seal is broken. It was never sent. And the handwriting—look at the flourish on the ‘E.’ It’s not mine. It’s *yours.*”
My heart stopped.
She’d known. She’d *known* it was a trap. And she’d tried to expose it.
But no one had listened.
Ravel: “You are a witch of the Shadow and Storm bloodline. Your magic is volatile. Your loyalty, suspect. You have no proof.”
Elara: “I have the truth.”
Ravel: “The truth is what the Council decides it is.”
And then—
—the vote.
Twelve names. Twelve signatures.
And one absence.
Kael’s father, the previous High Arbiter, had been there. So had the werewolf Alphas, the vampire elders, the Fae envoy.
But Kael—
—Kael hadn’t been present.
He’d been seventeen. A child. Powerless.
And he hadn’t voted to kill her.
He hadn’t even been there.
I exhaled, my chest tight. The file trembled in my hands. This wasn’t just proof that my mother was innocent.
It was proof that Kael hadn’t betrayed her.
He’d been a boy. A boy who’d watched it happen. A boy who’d been too young, too weak, to stop it.
And now—
Now he was the one who’d given me this file. Who’d told me the truth. Who’d said, *“She knew you’d come back.”*
I shoved the thought away. I couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t afford the flicker of doubt, the whisper of sympathy. I was here for justice. Not for forgiveness. Not for… whatever this was between us.
I needed more. I needed something I could use in the emergency session. Something that would force the Council to see the truth. Something that would make them *burn.*
I dug deeper, pulling down scrolls, flipping through ledgers, searching for anything—any discrepancy, any hidden note, any sealed testimony that might expose Ravel’s lies.
And then—
—I found it.
Not in the restricted section.
Not in the hidden panel.
But in the open records. A routine maintenance log from the night of my mother’s execution.
“Warding system compromised at 02:17. Emergency override initiated by Lord Ravel. System restored at 02:43. No further incidents reported.”
My breath caught.
The wards. The ones that kept intruders out. The ones that monitored magic use. The ones that recorded every spell cast within the Spire.
They’d been *disabled.*
For twenty-six minutes.
And Ravel had been the one to do it.
Why?
Unless—
Unless he’d needed to hide something. Something that would’ve been caught by the wards. Something like… a forged document. A planted piece of evidence. A spell to alter the trial transcript.
My magic flared, hot and sudden, surging through my veins like wildfire. This was it. This was the smoking gun. Not just proof of the frame-up. Proof of *tampering.* Of sabotage. Of a conspiracy that went all the way to the top.
I grabbed the log, shoving it into my coat with the rest of the file. My hands were steady now. My pulse, calm. The mission was clear again. The enemy was named. The truth was in my hands.
And I was going to make them pay.
But as I turned to leave—
—the door opened.
I spun, sigil-stone already in hand, ready to fight—
But it was only *him.*
Kael stood in the archway, backlit by the dim corridor light. Tall. Impossibly still. His coat was gone, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his jaw set in that cold, unreadable line. His eyes—gold-flecked, wolf-bright—locked onto mine.
And then they dropped to the file in my hands.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, voice low.
“I have clearance,” I said, lifting my chin.
“Not for that.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “That log is sealed under Order 12. Access is punishable by death.”
“Then I guess I’m already dead,” I said, my voice steady. “Just like I was supposed to be ten years ago.”
He didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “You found it.”
“The truth?” I said. “Yes. Your father didn’t vote to kill her. You weren’t even there. But Ravel—he disabled the wards. He altered the trial. He *framed* her.”
Kael didn’t deny it. Didn’t argue. Just nodded, once. “I know.”
“Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you expose him?”
“Because I needed proof,” he said. “And because if I’d moved too soon, he would’ve killed you.”
“He *tried* to kill me.”
“And failed,” Kael said, stepping even closer. “Because someone protected you. Someone who’s still here. Who’s still watching.”
My breath caught. “Maeve.”
He nodded. “She’s more than your mentor, Parker. She’s a Council Scribe. She’s been feeding me information for years. Waiting for you to return.”
“And you—” I stared at him. “You’ve been working with her?”
“I’ve been working to dismantle Ravel’s power,” he said. “To stabilize the Council. To *survive.* And now—” He reached out, not touching me, but his fingers hovering near the file in my hands. “Now you’re here. And you’ve found the proof.”
“And you’re going to let me use it?”
“I’m going to *help* you use it,” he said. “In the emergency session. I’ll call Ravel to account. I’ll present the evidence. And when he tries to lie—”
“I’ll burn him,” I finished.
He almost smiled. “Yes. You will.”
But then his expression darkened. “But you need to be careful. Ravel has allies. He’ll try to discredit you. To turn the Council against you. And if he thinks the bond is making you weak—”
“I’m not weak,” I snapped.
“No.” His voice dropped, rough. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. But the bond—”
“Is not a weakness.”
“It is to them.” He stepped closer, until his breath brushed my skin. “They’ll say it’s clouding your judgment. That you’re compromised. That you’re no longer fit to serve.”
“Let them say it.”
“And if they try to sever it?”
I stilled. The thought sent a spike of ice through my veins. Sever the bond. Cut the tether. Kill me.
“They can’t,” I said, voice low. “Not without killing us both.”
“They don’t know that,” Kael said. “And Ravel will use it. He’ll claim the bond is a threat to the Council. That it gives me too much power. That *you* are a weapon aimed at the heart of the Spire.”
“Then let him try,” I said, lifting the file. “Because I have the truth. And the truth is a weapon too.”
He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time since I’d walked into the Chamber of Veins. Not with possession. Not with control.
With something else.
Respect.
“You’re not just my bondmate,” he said, voice rough. “You’re my equal.”
My breath caught.
“And I’m not going to let them take you from me,” he said. “Not Ravel. Not the Council. Not even *you.*”
“You don’t own me,” I whispered.
“No.” He stepped closer, his hand lifting, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. “But I *want* you. All of you. Your fire. Your fury. Your truth.”
My pulse jumped.
“You came here to destroy me,” he said, his 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?”
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “That you’re not just my queen.”
His breath was hot on my neck.
“You’re my *salvation.*”
I shoved him—hard—using every ounce of strength I had. He didn’t fight it. Let me push him back, let me create space, let me gasp for air.
“Don’t,” I hissed. “Don’t you *dare* use those words.”
“Why not?” He straightened, his expression unreadable. “They’re true.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your magic.” He stepped forward again. “I know the way it answers to mine. The way your body arches into my touch. The way your breath catches when I’m near.”
“That’s the bond.”
“No.” His hand lifted, his fingers brushing the mark beneath my collarbone. “That’s *you.*”
I didn’t answer.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than fire, more than lies, more than the memory of my mother’s scream.
He reached out, slow, deliberate, and took the file from my hands. Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
“I’ll keep this safe,” he said. “Until the session.”
I wanted to argue. To snatch it back. To tell him I didn’t need his protection, his help, his *truths.*
But I didn’t.
Because for the first time in ten years—
I wasn’t alone.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
He turned to leave, the file tucked beneath his arm. But at the door, he paused.
“Parker.”
I didn’t look at him.
“You’re not hunting ghosts,” he said. “You’re reclaiming your legacy.”
And then he was gone.
I stood there, in the silence, the scent of him still in the air—smoke, frost, storm. My mark pulsed, warm and alive. My magic hummed, restless, eager.
The emergency session was coming.
The truth would be exposed.
And I would finally face the man who had destroyed my family.
But as I walked out of the Archives, one thought echoed in my mind—
He touched me. And I didn’t want him to stop.