The city held its breath at dawn.
Not with magic. Not with ritual. But with the quiet, coiled tension of a storm about to break. The veil above the Midnight Accord shimmered, its edges frayed with golden light—Summer’s touch, delicate and poisonous, like silk over a blade. The streets below were empty, the torches low, the wards humming with a frequency I hadn’t heard in centuries. Not fear. Not reverence.
Challenge.
The Prince of Summer was coming.
And he wasn’t coming to negotiate.
He was coming to claim.
I stood at the window, barefoot on the cold stone, my cloak gone, my tunic open at the throat. The mating mark on Indigo’s neck pulsed faintly beneath her collar, a second heartbeat, steady and deep. She was still asleep, tangled in the sheets, her hair fanned across the pillow, her breath slow and even. The Black Sigil beneath her ribs glowed with a quiet fire, feeding on the bond, on the truth, on the sheer rightness of her.
She didn’t know about the second letter.
Not yet.
And I wouldn’t wake her. Not for this. Not until I had to.
Because this wasn’t just about the Summer Court.
It was about her.
And I would not let them take her.
Not through lies.
Not through blood.
Not through marriage.
—
I dressed in silence.
No fanfare. No ceremony. Just boots soft on stone, a dagger at my belt—my mother’s, the silver hilt worn with age—and the weight of centuries pressing against my spine. The corridors were empty as I moved through the residence, the scent of old magic clinging to the air, the wards low but watchful. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.
Silas found me in the eastern wing.
He stood in the archway, arms crossed, half-fae eyes sharp with something I couldn’t name. Not relief. Not triumph. But watchfulness. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he knew this wasn’t over.
“You’re not going to let them take her,” he said, voice low.
“No,” I said. “I’m going to make sure they never ask again.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, testing—then nodded. “Then say it fast. Before the sun rises. Before the prince crosses the veil. Before she wakes up and comes looking for you.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped past him, my boots clicking once, twice, three times on the stone.
Because he was right.
And I was already out of time.
—
The Council Hall was empty when I arrived.
No torches. No banners. No velvet drapes. Just the stone, the sigils, the silence. The twelve thrones stood in a perfect circle, no one elevated, no one hidden. At the center, the Eclipse throne waited, its indigo veins glowing faintly, the sigil at its heart a quiet hum in the air. The Accord of Three Moons had been reinstated. The balance had been restored.
And now—
Now I had to prove it wasn’t fragile.
I stepped into the center of the dais, bare feet pressing against the cold stone. The scent of old magic, of iron and storm, curled around me. The ley lines beneath the city pulsed, feeding the wards, feeding the bond, feeding the truth.
And then—
I called them.
Not with sound.
Not with light.
But with blood.
The High Sovereign’s blood. The D’Vire line. The voice that had ruled the Dominion for centuries.
And they came.
One by one, the Council representatives filed in—vampires in velvet, werewolves in furs, fae in illusion-woven silk, witches in ink-stained linen. They didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Just took their seats, their eyes on me, their expressions unreadable.
And then—
Silas appeared in the shadows, arms crossed, half-fae eyes sharp with urgency.
“You’re really doing this,” he said, voice low.
“I have to,” I said.
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, testing—then nodded. “Then say it fast. Before she wakes up and comes looking for you.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my boots striking the stone once, twice, three times.
“Representatives,” I began, voice cold, final. “The Prince of Summer has demanded Indigo’s hand in marriage. A union of blood and magic. A bond to unite our courts. A pledge of loyalty.” I paused. “And I say this—she is not for sale. She is not a prize. She is not a pawn. She is mine.”
The chamber erupted.
Voices. Shouts. Demands for caution.
“You cannot speak for her,” the witch representative said, standing. “She is Eclipse. She is their queen. Her choice must be her own.”
“And it is,” I said. “She has chosen me. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because I am true.” I turned, my gaze sweeping across them. “But the Summer Court does not respect truth. They respect power. They respect blood. They respect oaths.”
“And what oath will you swear?” asked the werewolf Alpha, his voice deep, rough.
I didn’t hesitate.
Just reached for the silver dagger at my belt.
Not to threaten.
Not to fight.
But to give.
The blade was cold against my palm, the edge sharp, the hilt worn with age. I pressed it across my palm—once, clean, deep—and let the blood drip into the silver bowl at the center of the dais.
Dark. Rich. Ancient.
And then—
I spoke.
Not to the Council.
Not to the world.
But to her.
“I, Kaelen D’Vire, swear a Blood Oath,” I said, voice low, rough. “Not as High Sovereign. Not as ruler. But as a man who has found his truth. I swear to protect Indigo of the Eclipse Coven. To stand beside her. To fight for her. To die for her. And if I break this oath—” I pressed my bleeding palm to the sigil on the floor, “—let my blood turn to ash. Let my fangs rot. Let my name be erased from the bloodline.”
The air stilled.
Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not a heartbeat.
And then—
The bowl erupted.
Not with fire. Not with blood.
But with light.
A column of crimson surged upward, forming a spiral that reached the enchanted ceiling, the full moon above pulsing in time with the bond. The sigils on the floor flared—black stone turning indigo, blood-red runes rewriting themselves into the Eclipse script. 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.
The wound—still open, still bleeding—wasn’t healing.
Because the magic wouldn’t let it.
Not until the oath was sealed.
Not until the world knew.
And then—
The door burst open.
Boots on stone. Fast. Silent. hers.
Indigo.
Barefoot on the marble, her tunic loose, her hair tangled, her eyes dark with sleep and something deeper. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just walked—slow, steady, hers—into the chamber, her boots clicking once, twice, three times on the stone.
And then—
She saw me.
The blood. The bowl. The oath.
Her breath caught.
And then—
She moved.
Not fast. Not desperate.
But with purpose.
She stepped into the circle, bare feet pressing against the sigils, the mating mark glowing like a brand. Her fingers brushed mine, cold and sharp, and then—
She took the dagger.
Not from my belt.
From my hand.
And before I could stop her—
She sliced her palm.
Once. Clean. Deep.
Her blood—dark, rich, laced with Eclipse magic—dripped into the bowl, sizzling as it met the surface. The light flared brighter, the spiral twisting tighter, the moon above pulsing faster.
And then—
She spoke.
Not to the Council.
Not to the world.
But to me.
“I, Indigo of the Eclipse Coven, swear a Blood Oath,” she said, voice steady, fierce. “Not as queen. Not as heir. But as a woman who has found her truth. I swear to protect Kaelen D’Vire. To stand beside him. To fight for him. To die for him. And if I break this oath—” She pressed her bleeding palm to the sigil beside mine, “—let my magic turn to dust. Let my sigil fade. Let my name be erased from the bloodline.”
The chamber erupted.
Not with fire. Not with blood.
But with truth.
The bowl exploded—indigo and crimson light surging upward, forming a column that reached the enchanted ceiling, the full moon above pulsing in time with the bond. The sigils on the floor flared—black stone turning indigo, blood-red runes rewriting themselves into the Eclipse script. The air thickened. The scent of old magic, of iron and storm, curled around me. And then—
They kissed.
Not soft. Not gentle.
But hard—their mouths crashing together, fangs grazing, blood mingling, the bond erupting in a wave of fire and light. The mating mark on Indigo’s neck flared—bright, undeniable, real—and the Council gasped as one.
Even the fae ambassador stepped back.
Because she knew.
It wasn’t manipulation.
It wasn’t control.
It was fate.
And it was unbreakable.
—
When they broke apart, the chamber was silent.
Not stunned. Not shocked.
But changed.
The bond hummed between them, not with need, not with desire.
With promise.
And I—
I didn’t speak.
Just pressed a hand to my chest, where the new sigil pulsed, warm and alive.
Because I knew.
It wasn’t just Indigo who had awakened.
It wasn’t just the Eclipse.
It was me.
And I would not be silenced.
Not again.
Not ever.
—
The door burst open again.
Not with force.
Not with noise.
But with silence.
A single drop of golden blood, suspended in the air above the threshold. It hung there, trembling, the scent of jasmine and poison curling around it. And then—
It fell.
Not on stone.
Not on blood.
But on the Eclipse throne.
It struck the indigo stone with a soft hiss, and the sigil at its center flared—bright, undeniable, real. The air thickened. The torchlight flickered. And then—
A voice.
Not loud. Not commanding.
But everywhere.
“You refuse our offer,” it said, smooth, silky, dripping with false sorrow. “You choose war over unity. You choose destruction over peace. And so the Summer Court will answer in kind.”
Indigo didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, her boots clicking once on the stone. “Then answer,” she said. “We’re listening.”
“The Prince of Summer demands your hand in marriage,” the voice said. “A union of blood and magic. A bond to unite our courts. A pledge of loyalty.”
Kaelen moved.
Not fast. Not desperate.
But with purpose.
He stepped in front of her, his body a wall between her and the voice, his fangs bared, his molten gold eyes blazing. “She is not for sale,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “She is not a prize. She is not a pawn. She is mine.”
“And if she chooses otherwise?” the voice asked, sweet as poison.
“Then I’ll burn your court to ash,” Kaelen said, stepping forward, his boots striking the stone once, twice, three times. “I’ll tear your illusions apart. I’ll drown your prince in his own blood. And I’ll make sure the world knows—no one takes what is mine.”
The drop of blood trembled.
And then—
It vanished.
The voice was gone.
But the threat remained.
—
We returned to our chambers in silence.
No torches. No servants. No sound. Just the low hum of the wards and the distant echo of the city beyond the veil. I didn’t go to the desk. Didn’t summon Mira. Didn’t call for wine or council or war.
I went to the window.
Kaelen followed, his presence a storm no one could ignore. He didn’t speak. Just stepped behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. The mating mark on my neck pulsed, warm and alive, feeding on his presence, on the bond, on the sheer need that had been building since the moment our hands touched.
“They’ll come for you,” he said, voice rough.
“Let them,” I said.
He turned me in his arms, his hands framing my face, his molten gold eyes locking onto mine. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to face them. I can—”
“No,” I said, pressing a finger to his lips. “This isn’t just about us. It’s about the balance. About the truth. About every half-blood, every hybrid, every one of us who’s been told they don’t belong.” I stepped closer, my body pressing into his, my hands fisting in his tunic. “And I won’t let them take it from us. Not again.”
He didn’t flinch. Just pulled me into a kiss—hard, hungry, endless—his mouth crashing into mine, his fangs grazing my bottom lip, just enough to draw a bead of blood. I growled, rolling him beneath me, my body pressing into his, my legs tightening around his waist, seeking friction, seeking more.
And then—
He pulled back.
Breathless. Swollen-lipped. Blood on his mouth.
“I love you,” he said, voice rough.
And I—
I didn’t hesitate.
Just kissed him again.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
And when I pulled back, my voice was steady. “And I love you. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because you’re true.”
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I found the second letter.
Not on the desk. Not in the drawer.
But tucked beneath the pillow, the paper thin, the ink smudged. No name. No seal. Just a single line:
The Prince of Summer will arrive at dawn.
I didn’t speak. Just handed it to Kaelen.
He read it once. Then again. Then set it down on the nightstand.
“Then let him come,” he said, pulling me into his arms. “We’ve faced worse.”
And as I fell asleep in his embrace, the mating mark glowing like a brand, the Black Sigil pulsing beneath my ribs, I knew—
This wasn’t the end.
It was just the beginning.
And I would not be silenced.
Not again.
Not ever.