The first thing I noticed when I woke was the silence—not the heavy, suffocating quiet of absence, but the deep, resonant stillness of something healed. The city outside the veil hummed with life, but our chambers were wrapped in a hush so complete it felt sacred. No torches burned. No wind stirred the curtains. Just the slow, even rhythm of Kaelen’s breath against my neck, his arm a solid weight across my waist, his body warm against my back.
And the mark.
It pulsed beneath my collar, not with the fierce, demanding heat of possession, but with a quiet, steady thrum—like a second heartbeat, synchronized with his. The mating mark had flared through battle, burned with fury, screamed with defiance. Now, for the first time, it sang. Soft. Sure. Ours.
I didn’t move. Just lay there, eyes closed, breathing him in—old magic, storm, blood, and something deeper, something I couldn’t name. Not just his scent. Not just his presence. But the truth of him. The man who had torn down his throne. Who had bared his throat to the Council. Who had stood between me and a blade without hesitation.
The man who had nearly died for me.
My fingers brushed the bandage at his side—thin, enchanted linen wrapped tight around the wound the Prince’s dagger had left. It wasn’t deep. Not fatal. But it had bled freely, black and thick, the kind of blood that only spilled when a vampire pushed past his limits. He’d taken the blow meant for me—twisted mid-strike to shield me, his body absorbing the venom-laced steel before I could even blink.
And he hadn’t made a sound.
Not then. Not when I pressed my palm to the wound, channeling the Black Sigil to slow the poison. Not when I dragged him through the streets, his weight heavy against my shoulder, his breath shallow. Not even when the Lunar Pact’s healers cut away his tunic, cleaned the wound with moon-blessed water, and stitched it closed with silver thread.
He’d just looked at me—molten gold eyes dimmed with pain—and whispered, “You’re still here.”
And I’d said, “Always.”
—
He stirred now, his arm tightening around me, his breath warm against my skin. I turned in his embrace, careful not to jostle the wound, and pressed my forehead to his. His eyes opened slowly, still heavy with sleep, but sharp with awareness. Even weakened, he was never truly vulnerable. Not to the world.
But to me?
He was.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough. “And you’re still here.”
“I told you I would be,” I said, tracing the scar above his heart—the one from a battle centuries ago, the one that ached when I was near.
He caught my wrist, his fingers cool, his grip firm. “You don’t have to stay. Not like this. Not while I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak,” I said, pressing closer. “You’re healing. And I’m not here because I have to be. I’m here because I want to.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—those molten gold eyes searching, testing—then exhaled, long and slow, like he was letting go of something he’d been holding for too long.
“I couldn’t lose you,” he said, voice low. “Not after everything. Not after Cassian. Not after the lies. Not after—”
“You didn’t lose me,” I said, pressing a finger to his lips. “You found me. And I found you. And we’re not letting go.”
He didn’t answer. Just pulled me into a kiss—slow, deep, ours—his fangs grazing my bottom lip, just enough to draw a bead of blood. The bond flared, warm and alive, a pulse of heat that made me gasp. My hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer, my body pressing into his. He growled, rolling me beneath him, his weight careful, his body hard despite the wound.
And then—
He pulled back.
Breathless. Swollen-lipped. Blood on his mouth.
“I love you,” he said, voice rough. “Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because you’re true.”
And I—
I didn’t hesitate.
Just kissed him again.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
—
The healers came at midday.
Not the Lunar Pact’s. Not the witches’. But a trio of silent figures in gray robes, their faces hidden, their hands gloved in silver thread. They moved like shadows, their boots soft on the stone, their presence barely stirring the air. One carried a basin of moon-blessed water. Another, a vial of black venom—extracted from the Prince’s blade. The third, a silver needle etched with Eclipse runes.
They didn’t speak. Just bowed once, then set to work.
I watched as they unwound the bandage, revealing the wound—a jagged line across his ribs, the skin around it still bruised, the stitches tight. The lead healer pressed a gloved hand to the wound, and Kaelen’s breath hitched. Not in pain. Not in fear. But in something deeper.
Recognition.
“The venom is clearing,” the healer said, voice muffled by the hood. “But it left a trace. A shadow in the blood. It must be drawn out.”
“How?” I asked.
“With the needle,” they said. “And with truth.”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward. “Then let me do it.”
The healers stilled. Even Kaelen looked at me—those molten gold eyes sharp with something I couldn’t name.
“It will hurt,” the healer warned.
“So will lying,” I said. “And I’m done with that.”
They didn’t argue. Just handed me the needle.
It was cold in my hand, the silver etched with ancient runes—the same ones that had sealed the Accord of Three Moons. I pressed it to the wound, just above the stitches, and whispered the incantation Mira had taught me—words in a language older than the coven, older than the Dominion.
“Veritas sanguis. Veritas vinculum. Veritas cor.”
Truth in blood. Truth in bond. Truth in heart.
The needle glowed—soft at first, then brighter, a pulse of indigo light spreading from the wound, up his ribs, across his chest. Kaelen gasped, his back arching, his fingers fisting in the sheets. The bond flared—not with fire, not with need, but with recognition.
And then—
The venom came.
Not as liquid. Not as poison.
But as memory.
Not mine.
But his.
I saw it—flashes, fragments, too fast to catch. A woman with silver hair, her gown the color of dawn. A child, wrapped in shadow and silence. A man with storm-cloud eyes, standing beside her, his voice low. *“They’ll come for her. They’ll kill her. You have to hide her.”*
And then—
A name.
Aelara.
My breath caught.
And then—
The vision snapped.
Kaelen was gasping, his skin pale, his fangs bared. The needle fell from my hand, clattering to the stone. The healers were gone—vanished like mist, their work done.
“What did you see?” he asked, voice rough.
“Your memory,” I said. “Aelara. The Summer Queen. She’s Mira’s mother.”
He didn’t flinch. Just pressed a hand to his chest, where the wound still pulsed. “I didn’t know. Not then. But I knew she was hiding something. Something precious.”
“And you protected her,” I said.
He looked at me—those molten gold eyes sharp with something deeper. “I protect what’s mine.”
And I—
I didn’t pull away.
Just pressed my forehead to his and whispered, “Then protect me.”
—
He slept after that.
Not the restless, guarded rest of a vampire, but the deep, even breaths of someone who had finally let go. I stayed beside him, my hand on his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart, the quiet hum of the bond. The mating mark glowed faintly, warm against my skin. The Black Sigil pulsed beneath my ribs, feeding on the truth, on the healing, on the sheer rightness of us.
Mira came at dusk.
She didn’t knock. Just stepped inside, her hand glowing faintly with the crescent moon sigil, her eyes bright with something I couldn’t name. She didn’t say anything. Just handed me a vial—small, silver, sealed with black wax.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Moon-blessed venom,” she said. “From the healer’s vial. It’s weak now. Purified. But it’s still theirs.”
I took it, the metal cool against my skin. The venom inside was dark, thick, laced with ancient magic. Not poison. Not illusion. But memory.
“You’re ready,” I said, looking at her.
She nodded. “I’m not just your handmaiden anymore.”
“No,” I agreed. “You’re my sister. My equal. My truth.”
She didn’t pull away. Just pressed a hand to my shoulder, her fingers warm, her touch lingering. And I—
I didn’t flinch.
Just let her go.
Because I knew.
She wasn’t just Mira.
She was awake.
—
The city was quiet when I stepped onto the balcony.
No torches. No servants. No sound. Just the low hum of the wards and the distant echo of the city beyond the veil. The veil above the Midnight Accord shimmered, its edges frayed with golden light—Summer’s touch, delicate and poisonous, like silk over a blade. But it was weaker now. Flickering. Fading.
They had lost.
Not just the battle.
But the war.
And they knew it.
I pressed a hand to the mating mark, feeling its steady pulse. The Black Sigil hummed beneath my ribs. And inside—
Kaelen stirred.
Not awake. Not yet.
But dreaming.
I could feel it—the bond singing, low and insistent, feeding on his rest, on his healing, on the truth we had finally spoken. He wasn’t just my mate. Not just my king. Not just my lover.
He was my equal.
And I was his.
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I found the 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 Winter Court is moving.
I didn’t speak. Just handed it to Kaelen.
He read it once. Then again. Then set it down on the nightstand.
“Then let them move,” 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.