The first time I saw the ring, it wasn’t on a velvet cushion or presented with ceremony.
It was in Kaelen’s hand—his long, scarred fingers curled loosely around a small black box, the kind that looked like it had been carried for centuries. He was standing at the edge of the balcony, barefoot on the cold stone, the dawn light catching the silver hilt of his dagger at his belt, the mating mark on my neck pulsing faintly beneath my collar. The city below was quiet, the veil shimmering with the last remnants of Summer’s poisoned gold, but it was weaker now. Flickering. Fading.
They had lost.
Not just the battle.
Not just the war.
But the illusion.
And we had won.
Not with blood.
Not with fire.
But with truth.
And now—
Now he stood there, silent, still, the box in his hand like a secret he couldn’t keep anymore.
I didn’t speak. Just stepped beside him, my shoulder brushing his, the bond singing between us, low and insistent. The Black Sigil beneath my ribs hummed in response, feeding on the quiet, on the stillness, on the sheer rightness of us.
“You’re awake,” I said, voice soft.
He didn’t look at me. Just stared out over the city, his molten gold eyes reflecting the pale light. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Because of the wound?”
“No.” He turned then, slowly, those sharp, observant eyes locking onto mine. “Because of this.”
And he opened the box.
Inside—
The ring.
Not gold. Not silver. Not encrusted with gems or sigils or ancient magic. It was simple—a band of black stone, veined with streaks of indigo, the same color as the Eclipse throne, the same hue as the bond that pulsed beneath my skin. At its center, a single shard of obsidian, smooth and sharp, catching the light like a star caught in shadow.
It wasn’t beautiful.
It was true.
“It belonged to my mother,” he said, voice rough. “She wore it the night she died. The night she told me power wasn’t in blood. Not in fear. Not in silence. But in choice.” He lifted his gaze, those molten gold eyes burning into mine. “And I’ve spent centuries pretending I didn’t know what that meant.”
I didn’t move. Just let the truth settle, heavy and real, in my chest. “And now?”
“Now I do.” He stepped closer, his hand closing around the box, then opening again, offering it to me. “I’m not asking you to be my queen. Not because the Council demands it. Not because the bond requires it. Not because the world expects it.” He took a breath, slow, deep, like he was stepping off a cliff. “I’m asking you to be my wife. Not for politics. Not for power. Not for survival.”
He dropped to one knee.
Not in ceremony.
Not in show.
But in truth.
And he looked up at me—really looked at me—and said—
“I’m asking you to be my wife because I love you. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because you’re true. And I want to spend the rest of my eternity building something real with you.”
The air stilled.
Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not a heartbeat.
And then—
The bond erupted.
Not with fire. Not with need.
But with recognition.
The mating mark flared—bright, undeniable, real—and the Black Sigil beneath my ribs pulsed in time, a second heartbeat, steady and deep. The city below was silent. The veil above shimmered. And I—
I didn’t speak.
Just reached for him.
Not to pull him up.
Not to take the ring.
But to press my forehead to his, my fingers brushing the scar above his heart, the one from a battle centuries ago, the one that still ached when I was near.
“You don’t have to kneel,” I said, voice low. “Not to me. Not to anyone.”
“I’m not kneeling to you,” he said, voice rough. “I’m kneeling to the truth. To the choice. To the woman who walked into my life and tore it apart—and then rebuilt it better than it ever was.”
I didn’t flinch. Just let the words settle, heavy and real, in my chest. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll stand,” he said. “And I’ll wait. And I’ll love you anyway.”
I stilled.
And then—
I smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Mine.
Because that was the truth of him. Not the cold sovereign. Not the ruthless king. But the man who had given up his throne, who had bared his throat to the Council, who had nearly died for me—and who was now on one knee, offering me not power, not legacy, not duty.
But love.
And I—
I was his.
But not because I had to be.
Because I wanted to.
“Then stand,” I said, stepping back. “And say it again.”
He didn’t hesitate. Just rose, his body a storm no one could ignore, his molten gold eyes locking onto mine. “Marry me, Indigo of the Eclipse Coven. Not for politics. Not for power. Not for the bond. Marry me because you want to. Because you choose to. Because you’re true.”
The air thickened. The scent of old magic curled around us. And then—
I reached for the ring.
Not fast. Not desperate.
But with purpose.
I took it from the box, the stone cool against my fingertips, the indigo veins glowing faintly, like it had always known this moment would come. And then—
I slid it onto my finger.
It fit perfectly.
Like it had been waiting for me.
Like it had been made for me.
And then—
I stepped forward, pressed my palm to his chest, just above his heart, and said—
“I want you. Not because I must. Not because the bond demands it. Not because the world expects it.” I looked up, those dark eyes locking onto his. “I want you because you’re true. And I choose you. Now. Always. Eternally.”
He didn’t speak.
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.
“You’re not mine,” he murmured, voice rough.
And I—
I smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Mine. “You’re already marked.”
—
We didn’t go to the Council Hall.
Not to announce. Not to declare. Not to celebrate.
We went to the archives.
The forgotten wing. The oldest section. Where the dust hung thick and golden in the slanted light from the high windows. The scent of old paper, of ink and magic, clung to the walls. Scrolls sealed in silver. Grimoires bound in bone. Maps etched on skin. And in the center—
The Accord of Three Moons.
It sat on the table where we’d left it, the parchment brittle, the ink faded, but the magic still alive. The blood oaths pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat beneath my fingers. I pressed my palm to it, and the Black Sigil beneath my ribs flared in response. The mating mark glowed, warm and insistent.
“This is where it began,” I said, voice low. “Not with a throne. Not with a crown. But with a choice.”
Kaelen didn’t answer. Just reached for my hand, his fingers lacing with mine. His skin was cool, but his magic was hot, feeding the bond, feeding the fire between us. He didn’t speak. Just stood beside me, his presence a wall no one could break.
And then—
Mira appeared in the doorway.
She didn’t knock. Didn’t announce herself. 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.
—
We spent the rest of the day 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. We didn’t speak of the ring. Didn’t plan the wedding. Didn’t list the guests. We just… were.
Kaelen lit a single candle in the chamber, its flame flickering low, casting long shadows across the stone. I sat on the edge of the bed, my boots kicked off, my tunic loose, my hair fanned across my shoulders. He stood by the window, his cloak gone, his tunic open at the throat, his fangs just visible when he turned his head. 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.
And then—
He turned.
Stepped toward me.
Not fast. Not desperate.
But with purpose.
He knelt in front of me, his hands framing my face, his molten gold eyes locking onto mine. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones, slow, deliberate, ours. I didn’t flinch. Just let him touch me—explore, claim, take.
“If I die,” I said, voice low, “know I chose you. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because you’re true.”
He stilled.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not hard. Not angry.
But soft—a press of lips, a whisper of want, a promise. My hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer, my body pressing into his. He didn’t fight. Just let me take him, claim him, consume him. His hands slid down, over my hips, to the curve of my ass, pulling me harder against him. I gasped, arching into the friction, my magic surging.
“Say it again,” he murmured, voice rough.
“I chose you,” I whispered.
He growled—low, deep, Mine—and then—
He unbuttoned my tunic.
Slow. Deliberate. Ours.
I reached for his, but he batted my hand away. “No,” he said. “Let me.”
And then—
He did.
One button at a time. His fingers brushing my chest, cold and hard, scarred from centuries of war. My breath hitched. My fangs bared. But I didn’t stop him. Just let him touch me—explore, claim, take.
“You don’t get to decide what I do,” I said, voice low.
“No,” he agreed. “But the bond does.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not hard. Not angry.
But soft—a press of lips, a whisper of want, a promise. My hands fisted in the sheets. My breath came fast. And then—
He rolled me beneath him.
Not with force. Not with magic.
But with need.
For truth.
For justice.
For me.
His body pressed into mine, hard and hot despite the cold, his fangs grazing my throat, just a whisper of pressure, a promise of what was to come. My legs parted, inviting, begging. His hand slid down, over my hip, to the curve of my ass, pulling me harder against him. I arched into the friction, gasping, my magic surging.
“Say it again,” he murmured, voice rough.
“I chose you,” I whispered.
He growled—low, deep, Mine—and then—
He entered me.
Not fast. Not rough.
But slow—one inch at a time, filling me, claiming me, making me hers. I gasped, my back arching, my hands fisting in his hair. The bond flared, warm and alive, a pulse of heat that made me cry out.
And then—
He moved.
Slow. Deep. Ours.
Every thrust was a promise. Every breath a vow. The mating mark glowed beneath my collar, not with possession, not with claim.
Love.
And when I came—shattering, screaming, hers—the bond didn’t flare.
It sang.
And as he followed, his fangs sinking into my neck—not to feed, not to claim, but to bind—I didn’t fight.
Didn’t pull away.
Just let him take me, mark me, keep me.
And when we finally lay tangled, breathless, blood on our mouths, skin on skin, he pressed his forehead to mine and whispered—
“You’re not mine.”
I stilled.
Then—
I smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Mine. “You’re already marked.”
—
We didn’t sleep.
Just lay there, breathless, tangled, the bond singing between us, low and insistent. The mating mark glowed like a brand. The Black Sigil pulsed beneath my ribs. And outside—
The city waited.
But we were no longer afraid.
Because this wasn’t just about vengeance.
Or politics.
Or the bond.
This was about us.
And for the first time—
I didn’t want to destroy them.
I wanted to build with him.
And I would.
No matter the cost.
—
At dawn, we rose.
No words. No ceremony. Just boots on stone, the scent of old magic clinging to the air, the sigils on the floor pulsing faintly with the ley lines beneath the city. I wore a tunic of midnight blue, my hair loose, my feet bare. Kaelen wore black, no cloak, no crown. Just a dagger at his belt—his mother’s, the silver hilt worn with age.
And on my finger—
The ring.
We walked to the eastern gate together, side by side, hands laced, the bond singing between us, low and insistent. The Lunar Pact was already there—werewolves in furs, their eyes sharp, their claws bared. The witch representative stood with them, her cracked obsidian eyes locked onto the veil. The fae ambassador was absent. The Summer Court envoy was gone.
And then—
The veil rippled.
Not with wind. Not with magic.
But with presence.
A figure stepped through—tall, elegant, draped in silk the color of dawn. Golden hair. Eyes like mirrors. A smile sharp as a blade.
The Prince of Summer.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at us—really looked at us—and for the first time, I saw it.
Fear.
And then—
He smiled.
“You refuse our offer,” he said, voice smooth, silky. “You choose war over unity. You choose destruction over peace. And so the Summer Court will answer in kind.”
Kaelen stepped forward, his body a wall between me 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 Prince asked, sweet as poison.
Kaelen didn’t hesitate.
Just raised his hand.
And showed him the ring.
The Prince’s smile faltered.
Because he knew.
It wasn’t just a threat.
It was a promise.
And we were ready.
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I found the final 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.