The dawn comes like a blade.
Not soft. Not gentle. A slash of gold across the mountain peaks, cutting through the mist, igniting the stone spires of Veridian Spire like torches. The air is cold—bitter, sharp with the scent of snow and iron—and the wind howls through the passes, carrying the distant echo of war.
And beneath it—
Power.
Not magic. Not blood. Unity.
I stand at the edge of the Hollow Maw, my boots planted on cracked stone, my storm-gray eyes fixed on the city below. The fortress of the Council rises from the heart of the mountain, its obsidian walls veiled in shadow, its gates sealed with ancient runes. But I don’t see a stronghold.
I see a tomb.
One that’s about to be opened.
Riven steps beside me, his Beta mark glowing faintly on his shoulder, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. Behind him, the Northern Packs gather—wolves in human form, their fangs bared, their claws retracted, their loyalty not to the Council, but to me. Not because I command it.
Because I’ve earned it.
“They’ve doubled the guards,” he says, voice low. “Vampires on the east wall. Fae glamours on the south. The Oracle’s sigils are active—binding, not just warding.”
I nod.
Not surprised.
Vexis knows we’re coming. The Oracle knows the truth is free. And the Vampire Elder? He knows his reign is ending.
Good.
Let them fear.
Let them tremble.
Because today, we don’t ask for justice.
We take it.
“Orin’s in position,” Riven continues. “The hybrids are ready. The humans have cut the blood lines—no more thralls. No more supply.”
“And Zara?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just nods toward the eastern arch.
And there she is.
Not in silk. Not in shadows.
In armor.
Black leather laced with silver thread, fitted to her curves, her moonsteel dagger at her hip, her mother’s silver one tucked into her boot. Her storm-gray eyes are sharp, unyielding, her fangs just past her lip, her claws retracted but ready. She moves like fire—quiet, deadly, unstoppable—and the bond flares beneath my skin, not with heat, not with need, but with recognition.
She’s not my mate.
Not just my ally.
She’s the storm.
And I am the lightning.
She stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, close enough that her scent floods me—pine, iron, smoke, her. She doesn’t speak.
Just lifts her hand.
Palm open.
Waiting.
And I take it.
Our fingers lock. The bond screams—a pulse of fire, a wave of energy that ripples through the cavern, silencing every voice, stilling every breath. Wolves growl. Witches raise their hands. Humans draw their blades.
And I feel it—
The shift.
The moment we stop being rebels.
And start being a force.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, voice low, meant only for her. “You’ve already won. The Purity Edict is dead. The truth is free. You could walk away. Live. Be safe.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Just leans in, her lips brushing my ear. “And go where? Do what? Pretend none of this happened? Pretend I’m not the daughter of Lysara? That I didn’t watch my mother die for loving a man they called a monster?”
My jaw tightens.
“I’m not asking you to run,” she says, stepping back, her storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “I’m asking you to see me. To see us. This isn’t just revenge. It’s not just fire. It’s justice. And I won’t stop until every hybrid walks free. Until every lie is burned. Until the Council answers for what they’ve done.”
I don’t argue.
Just pull her into me, one arm wrapping around her back, the other cradling her head, shielding her as the world dissolves into fire and need. She doesn’t resist. Just leans into me, her body warm, solid, alive.
And for the first time, I let myself need it.
“You could die today,” I whisper against her skin.
“So could you,” she says, pressing her palm to my chest, over my heart. “You could lose control. You could shift too deep and never come back. You could be torn apart by your own kind. But you’re still here.”
She’s right.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
—
We move at dawn.
Not with stealth. Not with silence.
With thunder.
The Northern Packs charge first—wolves shifting mid-stride, fangs bared, claws ripping through the snow. They hit the east wall like a wave, tearing through the vampire guards, their howls echoing through the mountain passes. Blood sprays. Throats are torn. The scent of iron fills the air.
And then—
The hybrids.
Orin leads them—Lira and Rook at his side, their magic flaring, their eyes alive with fire. They strike the south wall, where the Fae glamours twist the air, distorting vision, sowing confusion. But the hybrids don’t fall. They burn through it—red-gold flame licking up the stone, searing the illusions, exposing the truth beneath.
And then—
Me.
And Zara.
We hit the main gate together.
Not side by side.
As one.
The bond flares—hot, violent, alive—and we move as a single force, a collision of fire and fury. I shift—partially, fangs bared, claws erupting—and slam into the gate, my shoulder cracking the obsidian. Zara doesn’t slow. Just presses her palm to the stone, her magic igniting—red-gold flame that sears through the runes, that melts the metal, that shatters the seal.
The gate explodes.
Stone rains down. Dust fills the air. And we step through—side by side, hand in hand, fire in our veins.
And the Council Hall is ours.
—
The inner courtyard is chaos.
Vampire thralls pour from the arches, fangs bared, eyes black. Fae warriors glide through the air, their glamours twisting, their blades sharp with poison. Werewolf enforcers—those still loyal to the old ways—snarl, shifting mid-charge, claws raking the stone.
And in the center—
Vexis.
He stands on the balcony above, his crimson eyes glowing, his hands raised in a ritual formation. Blood drips from his palms, pooling in a sigil carved into the stone—a sigil I recognize.
The Marked Alpha ritual.
And at its center—
Orin.
Chained to a stone altar, his silver hair falling over his face, his storm-gray eyes wide with pain. His wrists are raw from silver cuffs. His chest heaves with each breath. And around him—
Twelve vampire thralls.
Standing in a circle, their hands raised, their blood feeding the sigil, their voices chanting in a language older than the Council.
“You’re too late,” Vexis says, stepping forward, his voice echoing through the courtyard. “The ritual has begun. The blood is flowing. And when the final drop falls—” He smiles. “—he’ll die. And his power will be mine.”
Zara doesn’t hesitate.
Just moves.
Fast.
One hand grabs my wrist, the other igniting with red-gold flame. “We do it together,” she says, voice low, fierce.
And I know—
This isn’t just a battle.
It’s a promise.
—
We charge.
Not with rage.
Not with fury.
With precision.
I take the thralls—shifting fully, wolf and vampire and something darker, my claws ripping through their throats, my fangs tearing out their hearts. Blood sprays. Bodies fall. But I don’t stop. Don’t slow. Just keep moving—toward the balcony, toward Vexis, toward her.
Zara takes the Fae.
She doesn’t fight with blades.
With fire.
Her magic erupts—red-gold flame that sears through their glamours, that burns their wings, that sends them screaming from the sky. One lands in front of her, blade raised, eyes blazing with fury.
She doesn’t flinch.
Just presses her palm to his chest.
And burns.
His scream is cut short as his body turns to ash, scattering in the wind.
And then—
We’re at the altar.
Vexis turns, his crimson eyes locking onto us. “You think you’ve won?” he sneers. “You think love saves you? You think truth wins? You’re still a weapon. And she’s still the key. And when the ritual begins—”
“There will be no ritual,” Zara says, stepping forward, the silver dagger in her hand. “Because I’m not your sacrifice. I’m not your weapon. I’m not your slave.”
She presses the blade to his throat.
“And if you ever come near him again,” she says, voice low, dangerous, “I’ll burn you to ash.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just smiles.
“You think you’re protecting him?” he whispers. “You think you’re saving him? You’re just making it easier. Because now—” His eyes flick to me. “—he’ll have to choose. Duty. Or you.”
I don’t hesitate.
I press my fangs to his neck.
Not to kill.
Not to drain.
To claim.
A shallow bite. A mark. A warning.
“He doesn’t choose,” Zara says, stepping back, the dagger still in her hand. “He’s already chosen. And you’ve lost.”
—
And then—
The sigil flares.
Not with power.
With corruption.
The blood ignites—black flame that crawls up Orin’s arms, that sears his skin, that makes him scream. His magic flares—storm-gray fire that fights the black, that resists, that breaks—but the chains hold. The silver burns. And the ritual—
It’s still active.
“The sigil,” Zara says, turning to me. “We have to break it.”
I nod.
But before we can move—
Footsteps.
Fast.
Heavy.
Riven.
He bursts into the courtyard, his Beta mark glowing, his dark eyes wide with urgency. “The Fae are regrouping,” he says, voice rough. “The Summer Queen is sending reinforcements. The Winter King is moving his army. They’ll be here in minutes.”
My breath hitches.
“Then we make it count,” Zara says, stepping forward, the silver dagger in her hand. “Because this ends now.”
She turns to me.
Her storm-gray eyes lock onto mine.
Not with fear.
Not with doubt.
With trust.
“We do it together,” she says.
And I know—
This isn’t just a battle.
It’s a beginning.
—
I step forward.
Not as the Alpha.
Not as the enforcer.
As the man.
My hand finds hers.
The bond screams—a pulse of fire, a wave of heat, a roar of power that shakes the runes on the ceiling, that silences every voice, that makes even Vexis stagger back.
And then—
We move.
Together.
Her magic flares—red-gold flame that sears through the sigil, that melts the stone, that shatters the ritual.
And mine—
Black-silver flame that erupts from my palms, that burns through the thralls, that cleanses the corruption.
The courtyard explodes.
Stone cracks. Torches snuff out. The ceiling groans, ready to fall.
But I don’t move.
Just stand there, hand in hand with her, fire in our veins, the bond humming between us like a live wire.
And for the first time—
I believe it.
This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.
Of the truth.
Of the fire.
Of us.
Marked Alpha: Zara’s Fire
The first time Zara touches Kaelen Dain, her skin burns.
It’s not magic. It’s worse—recognition.
In the dim glow of the Council Hall’s obsidian doors, their fingers brush as he reaches for the same treaty scroll. A spark. A jolt. Then—a shared vision: her mother screaming in chains, her own throat slit by a silver dagger engraved with the Council’s sigil. And him—standing beside the executioner, face unreadable.
She yanks her hand back. He doesn’t. His gaze pins her like a blade to the wall. “You feel it,” he murmurs, voice like smoke over ice. “Don’t you?”
She lies. “I feel nothing.”
But she’s lying to herself.
Zara isn’t just here to infiltrate. She’s here to destroy. Her mother was a witch of the Bloodline of Ember, executed for “corrupting the pure blood” by mating with a rogue werewolf—Zara’s father. Now, Zara, their half-breed daughter, has returned under a false name to expose the lies, dismantle the Council, and reclaim her birthright.
But Kaelen Dain—Alpha of the Northern Packs, vampire-blooded enforcer of the Dark Council, and last of the Marked Alphas—stands in her way. He smells her lies. He feels the bond. And he wants to own her.
Their first forced public appearance ends with her dress torn, his mark burning on her collarbone, and rumors spreading that they spent the night locked in his chambers. The truth? They nearly tore each other apart—with teeth and hands and a kiss that tasted like war.
But someone else knows her secret. A rival with Kaelen’s scent on her skin. A Council member with her mother’s execution order in his vault. And a bond that, if broken, could start a species war.
They were never meant to survive each other. But they were always meant to burn together.