The first time I return to the coven ruins, it’s not by choice.
It’s a mission. A directive from the Council. A “diplomatic recovery,” they call it—retrieving the stolen Soul-Key, an artifact capable of resurrecting the dead, said to have been taken by rogue Fae loyal to Queen Isolde. But I know the truth. This isn’t diplomacy. It’s a test. A trap. A way to force me back into the ashes of everything I lost.
And they want me to go with *him*.
Kaelen stands beside me on the obsidian platform at the edge of Veridion, where the floating city meets the mist-wrapped mountains. The air is thin, sharp with pine and frost. Below, the human world glimmers—Zurich’s skyline a constellation of false stars. Above, the moon hangs low, swollen and silver, pressing down on the land like a lid. His presence is a wall of heat at my side, his coat flaring in the wind, his crown absent, his scar visible beneath the collar. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. But I feel him—the bond humming between us, steady, insistent, like a second pulse.
Since the kiss in the Council Chamber, things have shifted. Not softened. Not surrendered. But *changed*. The lie about Lysara is dead. The mark on my neck has faded, but the memory of his teeth there lingers like a brand. And the way he looked at me when he said, *She is mine*—not as a king, but as a man—still burns behind my eyes.
But this?
This is different.
This is where I became a ghost.
The transport arrives—a sleek, black skimmer, shaped like a wolf’s fang, its engine a low growl beneath the wind. Dain steps out first, his scarred face grim, his eyes flicking between us. He nods to Kaelen, then to me.
“The path is clear,” he says. “But the wards are unstable. Fae magic lingers. And the ground… it remembers.”
I don’t answer. I just step onto the skimmer, my boots silent on the metal. I take the back seat, away from them. Kaelen follows, sitting beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. I don’t pull away. The bond flares—just a spark, a whisper of heat—but I ignore it.
The skimmer lifts, silent now, gliding over the edge of the city and into the mist. Below, the forest thins, the trees stunted, their bark blackened, their leaves ash-gray. The coven’s land. Once a sanctuary of silver oaks and moonlit pools, now a wasteland of scorched earth and shattered stone.
I press my palm to the window, my breath fogging the glass. My mother’s final spell—the curse-fire—left more than scars. It left a wound in the land. A wound in *me*.
“You don’t have to do this,” Kaelen says, voice low, for me alone.
I turn my head. “Yes, I do.”
“This isn’t just about the Soul-Key,” he says. “You know that.”
“And you don’t get to tell me what it’s about.” My voice is sharp, but my hands tremble. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them die. You didn’t *feel* it.”
He doesn’t flinch. “No. But I’ve seen the aftermath. I’ve walked through the ashes. I’ve read the reports. I know what was lost.”
“Do you?” I snap. “Or do you just know what you *allowed*?”
He goes still. The bond *burns*—a spike of pain, not from my lie, but from his. Guilt. Regret. The weight of a decision he can’t undo.
“I didn’t order it,” he says, voice rough. “But I didn’t stop it. And I’ll carry that. Every day.”
I want to hate him for that. Want to claw at his throat, to make him *feel* the fire that took my family. But the bond won’t let me. It forces honesty. Forces *connection*. And right now, it’s screaming that he’s telling the truth.
So I turn back to the window. Say nothing.
The skimmer descends, landing on a cracked stone path that once led to the coven’s gate. The ruins rise ahead—twisted spires of blackened wood, collapsed arches, the remnants of the sacred circle where we cast our spells. The air smells of old smoke and decay. And something else—magic. Fae glamour, thick and cloying, like rotting flowers.
We step out. Dain takes point, his hand on his blade. Kaelen stays close to me, his presence a shield. I don’t need it. I’ve survived worse than ghosts.
But I don’t push him away.
We move through the ruins, boots crunching on glass and bone. The silence is absolute—no birds, no wind, no life. Just the echo of footsteps and the low hum of the bond. I feel it in my chest, a tightness, a pressure, like the land itself is holding its breath.
Then—
A flicker.
Not sound. Not sight. *Memory.*
I stop. My breath catches.
“What is it?” Kaelen asks.
I don’t answer. I just step forward, drawn by something I can’t name. My feet move on their own, carrying me through the wreckage, past the remains of the hearth, the shattered altar, the scorched tapestry of the Three Mothers.
And then—
I see it.
The memory-crystal.
It’s half-buried in the ash, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. A relic of the old magic—capable of storing the final moments of a spell, a life, a death. I’ve heard of them, but never seen one. Never thought I’d find one here.
My hands tremble as I kneel, brushing away the ash. The crystal is cold, smooth, etched with runes that match my mother’s hand. I know it’s hers. I can *feel* her in it—her magic, her voice, her fear.
“Don’t touch it,” Dain warns. “It could be trapped.”
“It’s not,” I say, voice hollow. “It’s *hers*.”
Kaelen crouches beside me. “Nebula—”
“I have to know,” I whisper. “I have to see.”
He hesitates. Then nods. “Then I’ll be with you.”
I press my palm to the crystal.
The world *shatters*.
Light. Not fire. Not curse-fire. *Truth.*
I’m standing in the circle again. The silver oaks sway in the wind. The moon is high. My mother stands at the center, her hands raised, her voice chanting in the old tongue. Around her—my sisters, my aunts, the crone. All alive. All whole.
Then—shadows. Fae soldiers in silver armor, their blades dipped in moon-venom. They breach the circle. My mother raises her hands—golden light erupts. A scream that isn’t sound, but magic tearing through the air.
And then—
Kaelen.
He’s there. Standing at the edge of the forest, just beyond the wards. Watching. His face is hard, his jaw clenched, his hands at his sides. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t *act*.
“Why?” I hear my mother’s voice, not in my ears, but in my blood. “You swore to protect us. You swore to uphold the Accord.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches as the Fae soldiers advance. As the curse-fire erupts. As the flames consume them.
And then—
He turns.
Walks away.
The vision ends.
I gasp, yanking my hand back, collapsing onto the ash. My chest heaves. My vision blurs. The bond *screams*—a wave of pain, of grief, of betrayal so sharp it steals my breath.
“Nebula!” Kaelen’s voice. His hands on my arms, pulling me up. “Look at me.”
I do.
And I *hate* him.
Not because he lied. Not because he betrayed me.
Because he’s *telling the truth*.
“You *watched*,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You stood there and *watched* them die.”
He doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’d intervened, it would’ve been war. The Fae would’ve declared open rebellion. The vampires would’ve taken the north. The Undercroft would’ve flooded with blood. Millions would’ve died.”
“And what about *us*?” I scream, shoving him back. “What about the women who raised me? The ones who taught me to weave wind into thread? The ones who *died* because you chose *peace*?”
“I didn’t choose peace,” he says, voice raw. “I chose survival. For everyone. Even you.”
“Don’t,” I hiss. “Don’t pretend you did this for *me*.”
“I did,” he says. “Because if I’d fought, I would’ve died. And then who would’ve stopped the war that came after? Who would’ve held the Council together? Who would’ve been there when you crawled out of the mirror realm, broken and alone?”
I freeze.
He knows.
He *knows*.
“I’ve watched you for years,” he says. “From the shadows. From the edges. I knew you were alive. I knew you were hunting. And I let you come to me. Because I knew you’d find the truth. And I knew you’d hate me for it.”
“And do you?” I whisper. “Do you hate yourself?”
His jaw clenches. His eyes—gold, feral—don’t waver. “Every damn day.”
The bond flares—not with heat, not with desire, but with *recognition*. As if it’s been waiting for this moment. As if it *knew*.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I *slap* him.
Hard. Across the face. My palm stings. His head snaps to the side. A red mark blooms on his cheek.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling.
And then—
He grabs my wrists.
Not to hurt me. Not to punish me.
To *hold* me.
“Say it,” he growls, pulling me close. “Call me monster. Coward. Traitor. But don’t pretend you don’t *feel* this.”
I do.
I feel it in my bones. In my blood. In the way my magic flares, wild and bright, crackling up my arms. In the way my body arches into his, even as I hate him. In the way the bond *screams* between us, not in pain, but in *need*.
And I can’t fight it.
So I *kiss* him.
Not soft. Not slow.
*Furious.*
My lips crash into his, teeth and tongue and fire. He groans, his grip tightening, his other hand tangling in my hair, pulling me deeper. The bond *explodes*—a surge of heat, of magic, of *merging*—our powers fusing, our breaths tangling, our bodies remembering what our minds have denied.
He spins me, presses me back against the remains of the altar—cold stone, sharp edges, the scent of ash and storm. His body is a furnace, his hands everywhere—cupping my jaw, sliding down my spine, gripping my hips. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him *closer*.
And then—
His hand slips beneath my tunic.
Warm. Rough. *Claiming.*
The world narrows to his touch, to the heat between us, to the way the bond *screams* in triumph.
And I don’t care.
I don’t care about the past. About the lies. About the fire that took my family.
All I care about is *this*.
Is *him*.
Is the way he makes me feel—alive, seen, *wanted*.
And then—
A door bursts open.
Not literal.
Metaphorical.
The bond—our magic—*merges*. Not just heat. Not just desire.
*Power.*
And in that moment, I know—
“You’re not the monster,” I breathe, pulling back just enough to speak, my lips still brushing his. “You’re worse.”
His eyes search mine. “What?”
“You’re not a monster,” I say, my voice raw. “You’re a *coward*.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it.
Just holds me tighter.
And the bond—
It doesn’t scream.
It *sings*.
Later, we stand at the edge of the ruins, the memory-crystal sealed in a lead-lined case, the Soul-Key still missing. Dain waits by the skimmer, his face unreadable.
Kaelen turns to me. “You still want to destroy me?”
I look at him—really look. At the scar on his throat. At the guilt in his eyes. At the way his hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, the bond humming between us.
“Yes,” I say.
He nods. “Good.”
“But not yet,” I add.
He smiles. Just a flicker. But it’s real.
“Then stay,” he says. “Fight *with* me. Not against me.”
I don’t answer.
But I don’t let go of his hand.
And when we board the skimmer, I sit beside him.
Not away.
Close.
Because for the first time since the fire—
I don’t feel alone.
And that terrifies me more than any truth.