The first time the chain touched me, it didn’t burn.
It remembered.
I hadn’t gone looking for it. Not in the vaults beneath the Dominion. Not in the frozen tombs of the Winter Court. Not even in the cursed ruins where the old gods slept. I was in the ritual chamber—kneeling on cold stone, my palm pressed to the sigil etched into the floor, the Black Sigil beneath my ribs pulsing with slow, steady fire. I’d come to strengthen the wards. To reinforce the bond. To prepare.
But the chamber had other plans.
One moment, the air was still—thick with the scent of old magic, of iron and storm. The next, the sigils flared—not with indigo light, not with silver, but with frost. A pulse of cold so sharp it stole my breath. The torches guttered. The ley lines beneath the city stilled. And then—
From the shadows, it came.
A chain.
Not iron. Not silver. Not even magic as I knew it. But something older. Something darker. Something that hissed as it slithered across the stone, links clinking like frozen bones. Each link was carved with Eclipse runes—twisted, inverted, wrong—and at its center, a single shard of black ice, smooth and sharp, catching the light like a star caught in shadow.
And then—
It wrapped around my wrist.
Not tight. Not painful.
But knowing.
And the moment it touched me—
The world burned.
Not with fire. Not with pain.
But with memory.
Not mine.
But hers.
A woman—pale as moonlight, her hair like spun silver, her eyes two frozen lakes—standing on a frozen throne, her fingers brushing a sigil carved into black ice. A man—tall, dark, with eyes like storm clouds—kneeling before her, his voice low. *“You cannot chain the Eclipse. You cannot bind what is free.”*
And then—
She raised her hand.
And the world froze.
The vision snapped.
I gasped, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest, the Black Sigil pulsing like a second heartbeat. The chain uncoiled, slithering back into the shadows, leaving no trace but the cold on my skin and the echo of her voice in my bones.
“You are not ready.”
And I—
I wasn’t just Indigo.
I was hers.
And she was mine.
—
I didn’t tell Kaelen.
Not yet.
He was still healing—the wound at his side closed but not forgotten, the venom’s shadow lingering in his blood. He had stood between me and the Prince’s blade. Again. Without hesitation. Without sound. Just a flicker of pain in his molten gold eyes before he’d pulled me closer, his fangs grazing my throat, just a whisper of pressure, a promise.
And I’d said, “Always.”
But now—
Now something else was coming.
Something colder.
Something older.
And I couldn’t let him face it weakened.
So I kept it to myself.
Just me.
And the magic.
—
The chain returned that night.
Not in the ritual chamber. Not in the archives. But in my dreams.
I was standing in a frozen hall—walls of black ice, sigils carved deep into the stone, breath curling in front of me like smoke. The air was thick with silence, with the weight of centuries. And then—
She appeared.
Lyra.
The Winter Queen.
Not a vision. Not a memory.
But real.
She stood before me, pale as moonlight, her hair like spun silver, her eyes two frozen lakes. She didn’t speak. Just raised her hand—and the chain slithered from the shadows, coiling around my wrist, cold and sharp, laced with something older than winter.
And then—
She smiled.
Not kind. Not cruel.
But knowing.
“You wear his mark,” she said, voice smooth, icy, dripping with false sorrow. “You call yourself Eclipse. You claim the throne. But you are not hers.”
I didn’t flinch. Just pressed a hand to the mating mark, feeling its pulse, its truth, its hers. “I am,” I said. “And I will not be unmade.”
She tilted her head, those frozen eyes searching, testing. “You think love makes you strong? That a bond forged in blood and fire can withstand the long night?” She stepped closer, the chain tightening, the cold seeping into my veins. “I have broken gods. I have silenced stars. I have chained what could not be bound.”
“Then try me,” I said, voice steady. “Break me. Silence me. Chain me. But know this—I will not kneel.”
She didn’t speak.
Just raised her hand.
And the world froze.
Not with ice.
Not with frost.
But with silence.
The dream snapped.
I woke gasping, my hand flying to my wrist—no mark, no chain, but the cold remained. Deep. Rooted. Real.
And I—
I wasn’t just dreaming.
I was hers.
And she was mine.
—
I didn’t go to the seers.
Not again.
They had already warned me. Already told me what was coming. And I couldn’t keep asking for answers I wasn’t ready to hear.
So I went to the archives.
Not to search. Not to hide.
But to fight.
I pulled down every grimoire bound in bone, unrolled every scroll sealed in silver, pried open every case of black iron. The scent of old paper, of ink and magic, clung to my skin. My fingers trembled as I turned pages, my breath shallow, my heart pounding. I wasn’t looking for a spell. Not for a weapon. Not for a way to break the chain.
I was looking for her.
And then—
I found it.
Not in a book. Not in a scroll.
But in a mirror.
It stood in the corner of the chamber—tall, framed in black stone, its surface cracked, its reflection distorted. I hadn’t noticed it before. But now—
Now it called to me.
I stepped closer, my boots soft on the stone, my breath shallow. The mirror didn’t show me. Not my face. Not my body. But a woman—pale as moonlight, her hair like spun silver, her eyes two frozen lakes. She stood in a frozen hall, her fingers brushing a sigil carved into black ice. And then—
She looked up.
Not at me.
But through me.
And she said—
“You are not ready.”
I didn’t flinch. Just pressed my palm to the glass.
And the world burned.
Not with fire. Not with pain.
But with memory.
Not mine.
But hers.
A woman—Lyra—standing on a frozen throne, her fingers brushing a sigil carved into black ice. A man—tall, dark, with eyes like storm clouds—kneeling before her, his voice low. *“You cannot chain the Eclipse. You cannot bind what is free.”*
And then—
She raised her hand.
And the world froze.
The vision snapped.
I collapsed to my knees, gasping, my hand pressed to my chest, the Black Sigil pulsing like a second heartbeat. The mirror cracked further, a web of frost spreading across its surface. And then—
It shattered.
Not with sound. Not with force.
But with silence.
And I—
I wasn’t just Indigo.
I was hers.
And she was mine.
—
I didn’t go to Kaelen.
Not yet.
But I didn’t have to.
He came to me.
Standing in the corridor outside the archives, his tunic open at the throat, his fangs just visible when he turned his head. His molten gold eyes locked onto mine, not with suspicion, not with anger, but with something deeper.
Recognition.
“You’ve seen her,” he said, voice low.
I didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Lyra. The Winter Queen. She’s coming.”
He didn’t question. Just studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, *testing*—then reached for my hand. Not to take it. But to press his palm to mine, his fingers brushing the mating mark.
“She was a monster,” he said. “Not a queen. Not a ruler. But a woman who tried to chain what could not be bound. She tried to break the Eclipse. She tried to silence the truth.” He looked up, those golden eyes locking onto mine. “And now she’s back.”
“And if she breaks the bond?” I asked.
“Then we fight,” he said. “Not just for the throne. Not just for the balance. But for us.”
My breath caught.
And then—
He stepped closer.
Pressed his forehead to mine.
And whispered—
“You’re not alone.”
—
The next day, I went to the ritual chamber.
Not to hide. Not to flee.
But to challenge.
I laid my palm on the stone, the Black Sigil flaring beneath my ribs, 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 sigils flared—indigo and silver, pulsing faster, brighter. The air thickened. The scent of old magic, of iron and storm, curled around me. And then—
A whisper.
Not loud. Not commanding.
But everywhere.
“You dare?” it said, smooth, icy, dripping with false sorrow. “You dare awaken what was sealed? You dare defy the long night?”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, my boots clicking once on the stone. “The truth isn’t yours to silence,” I said. “It’s mine to awaken.”
The whisper grew louder. The sigils trembled. And then—
A shape.
Not solid. Not real.
But there.
Lyra.
She stood before me, pale as moonlight, her hair like spun silver, her eyes two frozen lakes—her face half-hidden in shadow, her fingers brushing a sigil carved into black ice. She looked at me, really looked at me, and for one breathless second, I saw it.
Recognition.
“You are not ready,” she said, voice cold, sharp, hers.
“Then make me ready,” I said, stepping forward. “Or break me. But know this—I will not kneel.”
She didn’t speak. Just raised her hand.
And the chamber froze.
Not with ice.
Not with frost.
But with silence.
The sigils dimmed. The torchlight flickered. The ley lines beneath the city stilled.
And then—
She vanished.
Not in smoke. Not in fire.
But in snow.
A single flake drifted down, landing on my wrist—cold, sharp, laced with something older than winter.
And then—
The chamber thawed.
The sigils flared. The torchlight burned. The ley lines pulsed.
And the bond—
It was still there.
Warm. Alive. Mine.
—
I didn’t go to Kaelen.
Not yet.
But I didn’t have to.
He found me.
Standing in the corridor outside the ritual chamber, my breath shallow, my eyes wide, my hand pressed to the mating mark. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, his boots soft on the stone, his cloak bending light around him. His molten gold eyes locked onto mine, not with suspicion, not with anger, but with something deeper.
Recognition.
“You’ve seen her,” he said, voice low.
I didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Lyra. The Winter Queen. She’s coming.”
He didn’t question. Just studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, *testing*—then reached for my hand. Not to take it. But to press his palm to mine, his fingers brushing the mating mark.
“Then we prepare,” he said. “Not just for war. But for truth.”
My breath caught.
And then—
He stepped closer.
Pressed his forehead to mine.
And whispered—
“You’re not alone.”
—
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 over.
It had only just begun.
And I would not be silenced.
Not again.
Not ever.
—
The chain came one final time.
Not in the chamber. Not in the dream.
But in the mirror.
I was alone—standing in the ruins of the old ritual hall, the sigils cracked, the air thick with silence. The mirror stood before me, its surface whole again, its reflection clear.
And in it—
Not Lyra.
But me.
My face. My body. My eyes.
But not mine.
And then—
The chain slithered from the glass, coiling around my wrist, cold and sharp, laced with something older than winter.
And the voice—
Not hers.
Not mine.
But ours.
“You are ready.”
And I—
I didn’t pull away.
Just pressed my palm to the glass.
And the world burned.