The first time I saw her, she was six years old and bleeding from a gash on her forehead, her violet eyes wide with fury as she spat curses at the werewolf who’d knocked her down. I was ten, hidden in the shadows of the Veil Spring, watching through the steam as she clawed her way back to her feet, fire flickering at her fingertips like a warning. She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just glared at the boy—older, bigger, smirking—and said, “You’ll regret that.”
He didn’t. Not then.
But he would.
That was the day I knew she was my sister.
Not by blood—though we shared that too—but by fire. By defiance. By the unshakable belief that no one, not even fate, could tell us who we were supposed to be.
And now, as I stood in the heart of the Fae High Court, the air thick with the scent of honeysuckle and lies, I was about to risk everything to save her.
Not because she asked me to.
Not because I owed her.
But because she was the only one who’d ever looked at me and seen *me*—not the Fae consort, not the political pawn, not the half-blood bastard daughter of a Seelie queen and a human witch. Just Lyra. Just *sister*.
And if I had to sell my soul to the Fae to save her, then so be it.
The Court stretched before me—a cathedral of silver trees, their bark shimmering with ancient runes, their leaves glowing like captured moonlight. The ground was smooth obsidian, reflecting the sky above, where twin moons hung low and heavy, casting long, shifting shadows. Fae moved in silent procession, their forms shifting between beauty and horror, their voices a whisper on the wind, their eyes sharp with judgment. They could smell fear. Taste lies. And I was drowning in both.
But I didn’t flinch.
Not when the guards stepped forward, their silver blades gleaming. Not when the High Magistrate raised a hand, her voice like glass. Not when the air thickened with the weight of oaths yet to be spoken.
“Lyra of the Veil,” she said, “you stand before the Fae High Court to request access to the Vault of Forgotten Oaths. You understand the cost?”
I did.
Everyone did.
The Fae didn’t give. They *exchanged*. And every favor came with a debt—one that could bind you for centuries, strip you of your name, your magic, your *self*.
But this wasn’t about me.
It was about Garnet.
“I understand,” I said, my voice steady. “I offer one century of service in exchange for access to the vault. I will serve as a diplomat, a spy, a weapon—whatever you require. For one hundred years, I am yours.”
The Court stirred.
Not in shock. Not in outrage.
In *hunger*.
They smelled the desperation in my voice. The love. The weakness. And they loved it.
“And what is so precious,” the Magistrate asked, stepping forward, her form shifting—first a child, then a crone, then a woman of impossible beauty—“that you would trade a century of your life?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“The original blood pact scroll between the Hollow and Thorne bloodlines,” I said. “It’s hidden in your vault. And if I don’t retrieve it, my sister will die.”
“Your *sister*,” she echoed, her lips curling. “The hybrid witch. The cursed one. The one who defied the Hollow Witch. The one who completed the bond.”
“Yes,” I said. “She’s not just my sister. She’s the only one who ever saw me. Who ever *knew* me. And I won’t let her die because of a lie written in blood.”
The Magistrate smiled—thin, cold. “And if we say no?”
“Then I walk away,” I said. “And you lose a century of service from a Fae with one foot in the human world, one in the supernatural, and a mind sharp enough to navigate both. But more than that—you lose the chance to watch me break.”
She tilted her head. “You think we want to see you break?”
“I *know* you do,” I said. “You thrive on suffering. On sacrifice. On the slow unraveling of strong women. And I’m offering you a front-row seat. A century of watching me serve, obey, suffer—while knowing I did it for love. So yes. Say no. Deny me. But know this—I’ll make sure the story spreads. That every Fae, every vampire, every werewolf knows the High Court refused a sister’s plea to save her blood. And they’ll remember. And they’ll *fear* you.”
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Real.
And then—
She laughed.
Low. Cruel. Triumphant.
“You’re clever,” she said. “Almost Fae enough to survive this. But you’re not one of us. You’re half. Tainted. And that makes you dangerous.”
“Or valuable,” I said. “I’m not pure. But I’m loyal. I’m ruthless. And I’m *yours*—for a century. Isn’t that worth a single scroll?”
She studied me—really studied me—like she could see every lie I’d ever told, every scar I’d ever hidden. And then—
She nodded.
“The debt is accepted,” she said. “One century of service. You will report to the Court every new moon. You will carry out any task assigned. You will not speak of this oath. And if you break it—”
“—my soul is forfeit,” I finished. “I know.”
“Then swear it,” she said, holding out a dagger forged from black ice, its blade humming with ancient magic.
I didn’t flinch.
Just took it.
The blade bit into my palm, not with pain, but with *recognition*. My blood welled—violet and silver, the mark of my mixed blood—and dripped onto the obsidian floor, where it sizzled, forming a sigil of binding.
“I, Lyra of the Veil,” I said, my voice steady, “do swear one century of service to the Fae High Court in exchange for access to the Vault of Forgotten Oaths. I will serve without question. I will obey without hesitation. And I will not speak of this debt to any living soul. So I swear, by blood and bone, by moon and thorn, by the fire that burns in my sister’s heart.”
The sigil flared—silver, hot, blinding.
And then—
It was done.
The debt was sealed.
And I was no longer free.
“Follow,” the Magistrate said, turning.
I did.
We moved through the Court, past the silver trees, past the whispering Fae, past the statues of those who’d broken their oaths—frozen in stone, their faces twisted in eternal torment. The air grew colder. The light dimmer. And then—
We reached the vault.
Not a door. Not a gate.
A *mouth*.
Carved into the base of the tallest silver tree, its lips formed of twisted roots, its teeth of blackened bone. It breathed—slow, deep, like a living thing. And when it saw me—
It *smiled*.
“Speak the name,” the Magistrate said.
I did.
“Garnet Hollow.”
The mouth opened.
Not with sound. Not with force.
With *hunger*.
I stepped inside.
The vault was not stone. Not ice. Not metal.
It was *memory*.
Walls of shifting light, pulsing with forgotten oaths, broken promises, sealed truths. Scrolls floated in the air, bound in chains of thorn and shadow, their ink still wet, their words still screaming. The air was thick with the scent of old magic, of regret, of *loss*. And in the center—
The scroll.
Not large. Not ornate. Just a length of yellowed parchment, bound with a ribbon of dried roses and blood. But I could feel it—the weight of it, the *power* of it. The original blood pact. The one that had cursed Garnet’s bloodline. The one that had bound her to Kaelen. The one that had started all of this.
I reached for it.
And then—
The floor shifted.
Not stone. Not ice.
*Flesh*.
I stumbled, my boots sinking into something warm, pulsing. The walls *breathed*. The scrolls *screamed*. And the scroll—
It *moved*.
Not floating. Not drifting.
*Crawling*.
Like a living thing.
“It knows you,” a voice whispered—mine, but not mine. “It knows what you’ve done. What you’ve sworn. What you’ve *lost*.”
I didn’t answer.
Just lunged.
My fingers closed around the parchment—cold, brittle, *alive*. The moment I touched it, fire erupted in my veins, not from the curse, but from the *truth*—centuries of lies, of manipulation, of blood spilled in the name of power. I saw it—my mother, begging the Fae to protect her daughter. Garnet’s mother, dying in Vale’s clinic, whispering, *“Never let him mark you.”* The Hollow Witch, forging the curse in shadow, her violet eyes gleaming with madness. And Kaelen’s father—the real monster—slaughtering innocents to maintain control.
And then—
I saw *me*.
Swearing the oath. Selling my soul. Walking into this vault, knowing I’d never be free again.
But I didn’t let go.
Just pulled the scroll free—and ran.
The vault *screamed*.
The walls *bled*.
The floor *chased* me.
But I didn’t stop.
Not until I burst from the mouth, the scroll clutched to my chest, my breath ragged, my blood still dripping from my palm.
The Magistrate waited.
And smiled.
“You have it,” she said. “Now go. Serve. Suffer. And remember—every breath you take for the next hundred years is mine.”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned—and walked.
Not because I was unafraid.
But because I was *free*.
Not of the debt.
But of the lie.
Because I had the scroll.
And Garnet would live.
The journey back to the Northern Fortress was a blur.
I moved fast, through the Carpathians, over the ridges, down the northern slope, following the old smuggler’s path. The scroll was hidden in my coat, its weight heavier than stone. My palm still bled, the wound refusing to close—Fae magic didn’t heal easily. And my mind—
It wouldn’t stop.
Images. Voices. *Truths*.
But I didn’t slow. Didn’t rest. Just ran—one foot. Then the other. My heart pounding, my breath shallow, my body humming with the weight of what I’d done.
Betrayed her.
Chosen love.
And if I died trying—
At least I’d die as me.
The fortress loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened by fire, its towers piercing the sky. The sentries saw me coming. Raised their weapons. But when they recognized me—
They stepped aside.
I didn’t stop.
Just ran through the courtyard, past the war room, down the hall—until I reached their chamber.
And burst in.
Garnet was there—on the bed, her head in Kaelen’s lap, his fingers tracing the sigil on her wrist. She looked up, her violet eyes sharp, her body tense. And when she saw me—
She *knew*.
“You got it,” she said, standing.
I didn’t answer.
Just pulled the scroll from my coat and held it out.
Her hands trembled as she took it.
“Lyra,” she said, her voice breaking. “What did it cost?”
I didn’t lie.
“A century,” I said. “Of service. To the Fae High Court.”
Her breath caught.
“No,” she said. “No, you can’t—”
“I did,” I said. “And I’d do it again. Because you’re my sister. And I won’t let you die.”
She didn’t speak.
Just stepped forward—and pulled me into her arms.
I didn’t cry.
Just held on.
Because for the first time in my life—I wasn’t alone.
Kaelen stepped forward, his gold eyes burning. “We’ll find a way to break the debt,” he said. “We’ll fight the Court. We’ll—”
“No,” I said, pulling back. “You won’t. This is my oath. My choice. And I won’t let you risk everything for me. Not when Garnet’s still running out of time.”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded.
And then—
Garnet unrolled the scroll.
The ink was faded, the script jagged, but the words—
They burned.
“By blood and bone, by fire and thorn, the Hollow and Thorne bloodlines shall be bound until one dies. The curse shall not be broken by death, nor by magic, nor by will. It shall only end when Garnet chooses love over vengeance.”
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Real.
And then—
Garnet laughed.
Low. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“That’s it?” she said. “After everything—after the serum, the claiming, the frame job, the Tribunal—it all comes down to *this*? I have to *choose*? I have to *love* him?”
“You already have,” I said.
She looked at Kaelen.
Really looked at him.
And for the first time, I saw it—
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Fire.
“I do,” she whispered. “I love him. Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. But because he saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid.
As me.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.”
Later, as we stood on the balcony of their chamber, the moon high above, the fortress quiet below, Kaelen pulled her into his arms.
“They’ll come for us,” he said.
“Let them,” she said. “We’ve already won.”
“How?”
“Because we chose each other,” she said. “Not because of magic. Not because of blood. But because we love each other. And that’s something they can’t control. Can’t curse. Can’t break.”
He didn’t answer.
Just leaned in—and kissed her.
Slow. Deep. A vow sealed in breath and heat.
The bond flared, not with need, but with something deeper.
Peace.
Finally.
And for the first time since I’d become who I was meant to be, I let myself believe it.
That I wasn’t just surviving.
I was alive.
And I would fight—
For her.
For us.
For every breath, every touch, every claim.
Because the curse wasn’t just in her blood.
It was in her heart.
And the only way to break it was to stop running.
To stop fighting.
To stop pretending she didn’t want him.
Because she did.
Not just to survive.
Not just to break the curse.
But because he saw her. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn. Not as a cursed hybrid.
As me.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.