The dreams started the night she appeared.
Not visions. Not warnings. Not the fevered hallucinations of bond denial or curse-induced agony. These were memories—twisted, warped, stitched together with the scent of dried roses and blood. I’d wake gasping, my skin slick with sweat, my fangs aching, the echo of my grandmother’s voice humming in my bones like a cursed lullaby.
“You will die at thirty, like your mother.”
“Love is weakness.”
“You are mine.”
By the third night, I stopped sleeping.
Instead, I sat by the window in my chamber, wrapped in a thin robe, my dagger across my lap, watching the moon climb over the mountain peaks. The fortress was silent, the torches flickering low, the air thick with the scent of frost and something darker—fear. Not mine. Not Kaelen’s. But hers. Lingering. Watching. Waiting.
He didn’t press me. Didn’t demand answers. Just held me when I trembled, kissed me when I flinched at shadows, traced the sigil on my wrist like it was a map back to me. But I could feel it—the distance growing. Not between us. But inside me. Like a crack in the foundation, spreading, threatening to bring everything down.
Because the truth was simple.
I was afraid.
Not of the curse.
Not of Beltane.
Not even of dying.
I was afraid of becoming her.
Of letting the bond complete not because I chose it, but because I was forced. Of letting Kaelen mark me not in love, but in desperation. Of fulfilling her design—her curse—and proving her right.
That I was just another Hollow witch, destined to burn.
And so, I made a decision.
Not to run from the curse.
Not to run from Kaelen.
But to run from her.
Because if there was a way to break the curse without completing the bond—if there was a chance to save myself, my bloodline, my future—then I had to take it.
And I knew where to find it.
Dr. Elias Vale.
He’d treated hybrids for decades. Knew the Hollow Bloodline better than anyone. And if anyone could find a loophole, a counter-spell, a way to sever the curse without surrendering to it—he could.
I just had to reach him.
The clinic was deep in the Carpathians, hidden beneath an abandoned monastery, accessible only by foot or through a series of underground tunnels. A day’s journey. Dangerous. But doable—if I moved fast, stayed hidden, didn’t let anyone see me leave.
Especially Kaelen.
I waited until he was in the war room, reviewing border patrols with Riven. I waited until the moon dipped behind the clouds. I waited until the sentries changed shift.
And then I moved.
No armor. No cloak. Just leather pants, a dark tunic, my boots laced tight, my dagger at my thigh. I slipped through the servant’s corridor, my steps silent, my magic suppressed, my scent masked with a tincture Vale had given me months ago—iron, ash, and bitterroot. The halls were quiet, the torches flickering, the air thick with the scent of stone and sleep.
I didn’t look back.
Didn’t hesitate.
Just walked.
One foot. Then the other. My heart pounding, my breath shallow, my body humming with the weight of what I was doing. Betraying him. Leaving him. Breaking the bond, even for a moment. But I told myself it wasn’t betrayal.
It was survival.
And if I died trying—
At least I’d die as me.
The outer gate was guarded by two sentries—new recruits, young, eager. I didn’t fight. Didn’t reveal myself. Just waited in the shadows until they turned, then slipped past, moving fast, silent, through the trees. The forest swallowed me whole, the branches clawing at my skin, the wind howling through the pines, the ground slick with frost. I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just ran—through the ravine, over the ridge, down the northern slope, following the old smuggler’s path Vale had once sketched for me.
Hours passed.
My legs burned. My lungs ached. My wound throbbed like a second heartbeat. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Because every second I delayed was another second she had to find me, to stop me, to drag me back into her design.
And then—
I saw it.
The monastery.
Half-collapsed, its stone walls blackened by fire, its roof caved in, its windows shattered. But beneath it—the hidden entrance. A rusted iron hatch, half-buried in ivy, marked with a sigil only Vale and I knew. I dropped to my knees, my fingers scraping at the vines, my breath ragged. The sigil glowed faintly as I pressed my palm to it—warm, alive, recognizing my blood.
The hatch creaked open.
And I dropped into darkness.
The clinic was just as I remembered—cold, sterile, lit by flickering gas lamps, its walls lined with shelves of vials, jars, and ancient tomes. The air smelled of antiseptic, blood, and something deeper—magic, old and tired. Vale was at his desk, bent over a ledger, his silver cane leaning against the chair, his gray hair illuminated by the lamplight.
He didn’t look up.
“I wondered when you’d come,” he said, voice quiet.
My breath hitched. “You knew I’d try to break the curse.”
“I know what she did,” he said, finally turning. His sharp eyes locked onto mine. “I know what she’s made you believe. That the bond is your death. That love is your weakness. That you must choose between survival and surrender.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my boots echoing on the stone. “There has to be another way. A spell. A ritual. Something to sever the curse without completing the bond.”
He didn’t move. Just studied me—really studied me—like he could see every lie I’d ever told, every scar I’d ever hidden. “And if there isn’t?”
“Then I’ll die trying,” I said. “But I won’t let her win. I won’t become what she wants me to be.”
He exhaled, slow and deep. Then stood, grabbing his cane, and limped to a shelf. He pulled down a leather-bound tome, its cover cracked, its pages yellowed with age. “This is the Hollow Grimoire. The original. Not a copy. Not a fragment. The one your grandmother thought she destroyed.”
My breath caught.
“You have it?”
“I’ve had it for thirty years,” he said, setting it on the table. “Since your mother brought it to me the night she died. She knew the curse was coming. Knew her time was short. And she begged me to keep it safe. To find a way to break it. To save you.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“And you never told me?”
“Because she made me swear not to,” he said. “She said you had to find your own path. That if I gave you the answers, you’d never be free. That you’d always be running—from her, from the curse, from yourself.”
I didn’t speak.
Just stared at the grimoire, my hands trembling. It was real. The truth. The way out.
And yet—
Something felt wrong.
“Open it,” Vale said.
I did.
The pages crackled as I turned them, the ink faded, the script jagged. Spells for bloodbinding. Rituals for resurrection. Curses older than the Thorne line. And then—
I found it.
The Severing.
A ritual to break the bond. To sever the curse. To free the Hollow witch from the Thorne Alpha’s claim. But the cost—
“The heart must be unbound. The blood must be spilled. The soul must choose death over love.”
My breath stopped.
“It’s a suicide spell,” I whispered.
“It is,” Vale said. “And it won’t work. Not on you. Not with the bond as strong as it is. Not with the curse already rewriting your blood. Even if you completed the ritual, even if you spilled your heart’s blood—you’d die. And the curse would remain. Because it’s not just in the magic. It’s in the choice.”
“Then what do I do?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Let her win? Let Kaelen mark me? Let the bond complete so I can live another ten years, only to die when the next curse rises?”
He didn’t answer.
Just placed a hand on my shoulder. “You already know the answer. You’ve known it since the moment you stepped into the Moonfire Hall. Since the moment you saved him. Since the moment you chose him over vengeance.”
“I don’t want to be forced,” I said. “I don’t want to complete the bond because I’m afraid of dying. I want to do it because I love him.”
“And you do,” he said. “But love isn’t always free of fear. It isn’t always clean. Sometimes, it’s messy. Sometimes, it’s born in fire. And sometimes—”
He paused.
And then—
The lamps flickered.
The air stilled.
And the scent hit me—dried roses and blood.
My breath caught.
“Too late,” Vale whispered.
The door burst open.
Not with force.
With presence.
She stepped inside, cloaked in black, her violet eyes gleaming, her silver hair cascading like a river of moonlight. Behind her—four figures, masked, cloaked, their hands glowing with binding sigils.
“Hello, daughter,” she said, her voice a whisper, yet it filled the room. “Did you really think you could run from me?”
I didn’t move. Just stood there, my hand on the grimoire, my dagger at my thigh. “I wasn’t running from you. I was running toward the truth.”
She smiled—thin, cold. “And did you find it? Did you learn how to break the curse? Or did you only learn how to die for nothing?”
“Let her go,” Vale said, stepping in front of me. “This isn’t your fight.”
“It was my fight the moment she was born,” she said. “And now, it ends.”
She raised her hand.
The masked figures moved.
I lunged—but too late. One of them slammed a sigil into my chest, and fire erupted—not from me, but into me. My magic flared, then died. My legs gave out. I hit the stone, gasping, my vision whiting out.
“No!” Vale shouted.
I heard the crack of bone. A cry. Then silence.
And then—
Her hands on my face.
“You could have been so much more,” she whispered. “But you chose weakness. You chose love. And now, you’ll learn what it truly means to be a Hollow witch.”
I tried to fight. Tried to speak. But the sigil burned, sealing my magic, my voice, my will.
And then—
She injected me.
A needle to the neck. Cold. Sharp. The serum—thick, black, pulsing with magic—flooded my veins.
My body arched.
My vision exploded.
And then—
Darkness.
But not silence.
Her voice, humming in my blood.
“Let’s awaken what you truly are.”
I woke in a cell.
Not stone. Not iron.
Glass.
Transparent walls, glowing with containment runes, the floor slick with frost, the air thick with the scent of ozone and something darker—my own fear. I was on a slab, strapped down, my arms and legs bound with silver chains, my magic still sealed, my body weak. The serum burned in my veins, not with pain, but with pressure—like something was rising, fighting to break free.
And then I saw them.
On the other side of the glass—observers. Cloaked. Silent. Watching.
And in the center—her.
My grandmother.
She stood with Selene, their heads close, their voices low. I couldn’t hear the words. But I didn’t need to.
I knew.
This wasn’t just about the curse.
This was about control.
They wanted me broken. Remade. A weapon. A queen—but on their terms.
And the serum?
It wasn’t just to suppress me.
It was to awaken me.
Not as an Alpha.
But as a slave.
I closed my eyes.
And then—
I dreamed.
Kaelen.
His hands on my skin. His mouth on my neck. His voice, rough, whispering, *“I love you.”*
The bond flared—faint, distant, but there.
And in that moment, I knew—
I wasn’t fighting for survival.
I was fighting for love.
And if I had to die to keep it—
Then I would.
But not like this.
Not as her puppet.
And not without a fight.
I opened my eyes.
And smiled.
Because even if they had taken my magic, my freedom, my voice—
They hadn’t taken my will.
And that?
That was enough.
Outside the glass, my grandmother turned, her violet eyes locking onto mine.
And for the first time—
I saw fear.
Not of me.
But for me.
Because she knew—
Some fires couldn’t be controlled.
And mine?
Mine was just beginning.