The first time I felt it, I thought I was dreaming.
It was late—past midnight, the kind of hour when even the shadows in the D’Vire residence seemed to hold their breath. I was in Indigo’s chamber, folding the last of her ceremonial robes, the fabric still warm from where she’d worn it during the Blood Moon test. The mating mark had glowed faintly beneath her collar all evening, pulsing like a second heartbeat, and I could still feel the echo of it in my own chest, a low hum beneath my ribs, as if the bond had left a ripple in the air.
And then—
I touched the embroidery on the sleeve.
Just a brush of my fingers, nothing more. But the moment my skin met thread, the room shifted.
Not physically. Not with light or sound. But deeper—like the world had exhaled, like the veil between magic and mortal had thinned, and for one breathless second, I wasn’t just Mira, handmaiden, human.
I was aware.
The embroidery—silver thread woven into a crescent moon—flared, not with fire, but with power. A pulse of indigo light rippled outward, silent, unseen by anyone but me. The air thickened. The scent of old magic, of iron and storm, curled around me. And then—
It was gone.
I stumbled back, hand flying to my mouth, heart pounding like a war drum. I looked around—no one had seen. No guards, no Silas, not even Indigo, who was still in the bathing chamber, the water running behind the closed door.
But I had.
I had felt it.
And it wasn’t the first time.
It had been happening for weeks—small things. A candle flaring when I was angry. A ward humming when I passed too close. Once, I’d woken in the middle of the night to find my sheets covered in frost, though the fire had been roaring. I’d told myself it was stress. Exhaustion. The weight of living in a world of monsters and magic.
But this—
This was different.
This was real.
—
I didn’t tell Indigo.
Not that night. Not the next. Not even when, three days later, I brushed against the wards on her chamber door and felt them respond—like they recognized me. Like they were waiting.
Because I knew what would happen if I did.
She’d look at me with those dark, knowing eyes and say, “You’re not just a handmaiden, Mira. You’re something more.” And then she’d start asking questions. Digging. Testing.
And I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be something more.
I’d come to the Midnight Accord as a servant. A human. A nobody. I’d survived by being invisible, by staying in the shadows, by never drawing attention. I wasn’t a warrior. I wasn’t a witch. I wasn’t bound by fate or bloodline or ancient magic.
I was safe.
And now—
Now, something inside me was awake.
—
The summons came at dusk.
A formal decree, delivered by a Dominion guard in black and silver, the scroll sealed with wax the color of dried blood. The Council was convening for an emergency session—again—and Indigo was required to attend. So was I. As her handmaiden. As her shadow. As the woman who knew when to speak and when to stay silent.
I helped her dress in silence—black velvet, high collar, the kind of fabric that hid more than it revealed. The mating mark still glowed faintly beneath the fabric, a constant, pulsing reminder of the night in the vault—the kiss, the bite, the way Kaelen had pinned her to the wall, his body hard against hers, his voice rough with something like reverence—“You’re already marked.”
She didn’t speak. Just stood there, still as stone, her reflection pale in the polished obsidian mirror. Her eyes were distant, searching, like she was seeing something beyond the room, beyond the residence, beyond the city.
“You’re thinking,” I said, lacing the corset tight.
“I’m always thinking,” she replied, voice low. “It’s what keeps me alive.”
I didn’t answer. Just smoothed the fabric, my fingers brushing the embroidery—a crescent moon, just like the one on the robe. And then—
It happened again.
Not a flare. Not a pulse.
But a pull.
Like the magic recognized me. Like it was calling.
I froze.
Indigo turned, those dark eyes locking onto mine. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said, too quickly. “Just… a draft.”
She studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, testing—then nodded. “Then let’s go.”
—
The Council Hall was already half-full when we arrived.
Chandeliers of frozen moonlight hung above, casting long shadows across the black marble. The twelve thrones loomed in a semicircle, each marked with the sigil of its species. Vampires in velvet and silver. Werewolves in furs and bone. Fae in illusion-woven silk. Witches in ink-stained linen.
And at the center—Cassian.
He sat in his throne, back straight, hands resting on the armrests, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—those ancient, dead eyes—flicked to Indigo the moment she entered. To the collar of her blouse. To the faint, indigo glow beneath the fabric.
He knew.
And he was smiling.
Indigo didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just kept walking, her boots clicking once, twice, three times on the stone. Kaelen was already there, standing at the edge of the dais, his silhouette sharp against the flickering torchlight. His gaze locked onto hers the moment she stepped forward, and the bond—their bond—pulsed, low and insistent, feeding on the tension, on the hatred, on the sheer need that had been building since the moment their hands touched.
They took their seats—side by side, per Council decree. I stayed behind, as I always did, near the back, in the shadows, where I belonged.
And then—
It happened.
Not with words. Not with magic.
But with sound.
A low hum, almost beneath hearing, rising from the floor, from the walls, from the very air. The wards. The ancient sigils etched into the stone. They were alive. And they were reacting.
I pressed a hand to my chest, where the hum had settled, deep and resonant. It wasn’t fear. Not pain. But recognition. Like something inside me was answering.
And then—
I saw him.
Silas.
He stood at the edge of the chamber, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But his eyes—those sharp, half-fae eyes—were locked onto me. Not Indigo. Not Kaelen. Me.
And he knew.
Not everything. Not yet. But enough.
Enough to make my breath catch.
Enough to make me look away.
—
The session began like all the others—Cassian’s oily voice cutting through the silence, his words laced with poison. He spoke of balance. Of purity. Of the danger posed by a half-blood witch who had bound the High Sovereign to her will through forbidden magic.
Indigo didn’t flinch. Just sat there, back straight, eyes sharp, the mating mark glowing faintly beneath her collar.
And then—
Lira stepped forward.
She glided into the chamber like smoke, wearing a gown the color of spilled blood, her hair loose, her eyes sharp with amusement. She didn’t go to her seat. Didn’t bow. Didn’t acknowledge the Council.
She walked straight to the center of the chamber.
And then—
She turned.
And smiled.
“Representatives,” she began, voice like velvet and poison, “I come before you not as a rival. Not as a schemer. But as a witness.”
The chamber stilled.
“I come to speak of truth. Of loyalty. Of a bond that was broken not by magic—but by betrayal.”
Kaelen’s fangs bared.
Indigo tensed beside him, her hand curling into a fist.
“Two centuries ago,” Lira continued, “I stood at the side of the High Sovereign. I fought beside him. I bled for him. And in the darkest night of his grief, when the woman he loved was taken from him—” She paused, her gaze flicking to Kaelen, then to Indigo. “—I was the one who held him. The one who whispered his name in the dark. The one who let him feed from me, not in passion—but in pain.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
“And he marked me,” she said, turning her head, offering the Council a better view of the bite on her throat. “Not as a lover. Not as a conquest. But as a promise. A vow that he would never be alone again.”
“Liar,” Indigo hissed.
“Am I?” Lira smiled. “Then why hasn’t he marked you? Why hasn’t he claimed you? Why hasn’t he—”
“Because I choose her,” Kaelen said, standing, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
The chamber fell silent.
Every eye turned to him.
Even Cassian’s breath hitched.
“You,” Kaelen continued, stepping forward, “were nothing to me. A moment of weakness. A distraction. A lie you’ve worn like a crown for two centuries.” He turned to the Council. “She was never marked. The bite was self-defense. The ring was forged. And the so-called vow—” His voice dropped, rough, dangerous—“was a lie. And I will not let her stand here and defile the truth.”
Lira didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “Then prove it.”
“I don’t have to,” Kaelen said. “Because the bond is real. The mark is real. And she—” He turned, his gaze locking onto Indigo, “—is mine.”
The chamber erupted.
Voices. Shouts. Demands for proof.
And then—
Cassian stood.
“There is a way,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “A test. A public test. The High Sovereign must prove his loyalty. Not to the Council. Not to the Dominion. But to the woman he claims as his bondmate.”
My pulse spiked.
“What kind of test?” Kaelen asked, voice cold.
“A simple one,” Cassian said, smiling. “A blood oath. Public. In front of us all. And when the ritual is complete—” He paused. “—we will see if the bond holds. If it is truly fated. Or if it is merely… convenience.”
I stared at him.
It wasn’t just a test.
It was a trap.
A public spectacle. A humiliation. A chance to expose Kaelen, to discredit him, to make him fail in front of the entire Council.
And if he refused—
He was weak. A fraud. A coward.
But if he succeeded—
He was a threat. A target. A man who had to be destroyed.
Indigo didn’t speak. Just held his gaze, those dark eyes searching, testing.
And then—
She nodded.
Once.
A silent promise. A silent strength.
Kaelen turned back to Cassian.
“Very well,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “I accept.”
—
The ritual chamber was prepared in minutes.
A vast, circular space beneath the Council Hall, the ceiling enchanted to mimic the night sky. The full moon hung low, its light silver and cold, casting long shadows across the marble floor. A silver bowl sat in the center, filled with dark liquid—blood, old and potent, drawn from the High Sovereign’s veins.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the dais, stripped to the waist, his chest bare, his fangs just visible when he turned his head. Indigo stood across from him, her back straight, her hands at her sides. The mating mark still glowed faintly beneath her collar, a pulse of indigo light that matched the rhythm of her breath.
The Council watched in silence.
And I—
I stood in the shadows, heart pounding, hands clenched at my sides.
Because I could feel it.
The magic.
It wasn’t just in them.
It was in me.
And it was awake.
—
“Begin,” Cassian said.
Kaelen didn’t hesitate. He raised his hand, a silver dagger appearing in his grip. With a single, clean motion, he sliced across his palm. Blood—dark, rich, ancient—dripped into the bowl, sizzling as it met the surface.
Then he offered his hand to Indigo.
She didn’t flinch. Just took it, her fingers lacing with his, the bond singing between them, a second heartbeat, theirs.
And then—
It happened.
Not with sound. Not with light.
But with pressure.
The wards—etched into the stone, woven into the air—surged. A pulse of indigo light rippled outward, silent, unseen by anyone but me. The air thickened. The scent of old magic, of iron and storm, curled around me. And then—
I felt it.
Not just in my chest.
In my hands.
I looked down.
And saw it.
A faint, glowing sigil—crescent moon, just like the one on the robe—etched into my skin, pulsing with power.
And I—
I wasn’t afraid.
I wasn’t confused.
I was awake.
And I knew—
This wasn’t over.
It had only just begun.