The first time I ever used my fire to heal instead of burn, I was ten years old and already learning how to lie.
Not about my magic. Not about my blood.
About my mother.
She’d been whipped that morning—lashes carved into her back by the Council enforcers for “spreading dissent,” for speaking out against the Purity Edict. I found her in the cellar, curled on the stone floor, her breath shallow, her skin slick with sweat and blood. I didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just knelt beside her, pressed my small hands to the wounds, and pushed.
My magic flared—red-gold, wild, untrained—and for a moment, I thought I’d kill her. Thought I’d burn her alive. But then—
It worked.
The wounds closed. The bleeding stopped. The scars faded to silver threads beneath her skin. She opened her eyes—storm-gray, fierce, free—and smiled.
“You’re not just fire, Zara,” she whispered. “You’re healing. Remember that. When they try to make you a weapon, remember you were born to mend.”
I didn’t believe her then.
Not really.
But now—
Standing in the newly opened infirmary beneath the Hollow Maw, my hands hovering over a young hybrid’s scarred back, I do.
The air is thick with the scent of herbs and old magic, the low hum of healing sigils etched into the stone walls pulsing with soft gold light. Rows of cots line the chamber, each occupied by a hybrid—some with fresh wounds, some with old ones, some with magic that’s been suppressed for so long it’s turned inward, eating at their bones. Witches move between them, murmuring incantations, pressing glowing hands to flesh, guiding the flow of energy. Lira stands at the far end, her voice steady as she teaches a group of young healers how to channel fire without burning.
And I—
I am not a ruler here.
Not a warrior.
Not even a mate.
Just a woman with fire in her hands and a promise in her heart.
The hybrid beneath me—her name is Mira, no more than sixteen, her body marked by silver burns from a Blood Pit raid—is trembling. Not from pain. Not from fear.
From hope.
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice low, steady. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t answer. Just nods, her fingers clutching the edge of the cot, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
I press my palms to her back—over the worst of the burns, where the silver ate through muscle and nerve—and let the fire come.
Not wild. Not reckless.
Controlled.It flows from my core, down my arms, into my hands—a slow, steady pulse of red-gold flame that doesn’t burn, doesn’t scorch, but mends. The sigils on the walls flare in response, their light syncing with the rhythm of my magic, guiding it, shaping it. I feel the damage—deep, festering, poisoned by vampire venom—and I pull it out, strand by strand, weaving new tissue in its place, sealing the wounds with threads of fire and breath.
And then—
She sobs.
Not from pain.
From relief.
“It’s gone,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “The pain… it’s gone.”
I don’t smile.
Just press my forehead to her shoulder, my breath warm against her skin. “You’re safe now,” I say. “And you’re not alone.”
She turns—slowly, carefully—and looks at me. Her eyes are gold-ringed, storm-gray, alive. “You saved me,” she says.
“No,” I say, lifting my hands, my palms slick with sweat and magic. “I just reminded you that you were never broken.”
—
Later, I find Kaelen in the eastern chambers, standing at the window, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the city below. The sun is high, golden light spilling over the mountain peaks, illuminating the spires of Veridian. The air hums differently—cleaner, lighter, free. No more whispers in the dark. No more blood in the alleys. No more lies.
And he’s watching it all like he still can’t believe it’s real.
“You’re brooding,” I say, stepping beside him. “It doesn’t suit you.”
He doesn’t turn. Just lifts a hand—calloused, scarred, real—and brushes his thumb over the mark on his shoulder, the one I left when I claimed him in front of the world.
“I was thinking about the infirmary,” he says, his voice low. “About what you did today.”
“I healed a girl,” I say. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” He finally turns, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “You gave her back her life. You gave them back their lives. And you didn’t even flinch.”
“I flinched,” I say. “Inside. But they didn’t need my fear. They needed my fire.”
He studies me—really studies me—for the first time since the battle. Not with the Alpha’s cold calculation. Not with the enforcer’s detached control. With him. The man who bled for me. Who fought for me. Who let me mark him in front of the world and didn’t flinch.
“You’re not just a weapon,” he says, his voice rough. “You never were.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
And I’m not hiding anymore.
“I know,” I say. “I finally do.”
He steps closer—close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, close enough that his scent floods me—pine, iron, smoke, him. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and brushes my cheek. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just… there.
And it undoes me.
“You could’ve ruled with fire,” he says. “You could’ve burned them all. But you chose to heal instead.”
“I didn’t choose,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest, over his heart. “It chose me. Just like you did.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just pulls me into him, one arm wrapping around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
—
The next morning, I return to the infirmary.
Not alone.
Kaelen walks beside me, his long coat open, his fangs just past his lip, his claws retracted but ready. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just keeps pace, his presence a wall at my side, a silent promise that I am not alone.
The chamber is busier today—more cots, more healers, more hybrids. Some sit up, their wounds bandaged, their magic flickering. Others lie still, their bodies weak, their eyes closed. And in the center—
A child.
No more than eight. Half-wolf, half-witch, her eyes gold, her hair streaked with fire. She’s curled on a cot, her small body trembling, her breath shallow. A deep silver wound runs from her shoulder to her ribs—the mark of a Blood Pit enforcer’s blade.
“She was found in the tunnels,” Lira says, stepping beside me. “One of the old escape routes. She’d been hiding for days. Starving. Bleeding.”
I don’t hesitate.
Just kneel beside the cot, my hands hovering over the wound. It’s bad—deep, poisoned, close to the heart. But not beyond saving.
“Hold her,” I say.
Lira nods, gently pressing her hands to the girl’s shoulders, keeping her still.
I press my palms to the wound.
And let the fire come.
It flows—slow, steady, controlled—down my arms, into my hands, into her body. I feel the damage—silver eating at her flesh, venom poisoning her blood—and I pull it out, strand by strand, weaving new tissue in its place, sealing the wound with threads of fire and breath. The sigils on the walls flare, their light syncing with my magic, guiding it, shaping it.
And then—
She gasps.
Her eyes fly open—gold, fierce, alive—and she looks at me.
“You’re warm,” she whispers.
I smile—just slightly. “That’s because you’re safe now.”
She reaches up—slow, trembling—and touches my face. Just a whisper of contact. But it’s enough. Heat explodes beneath my skin, racing down my neck, pooling between my thighs. My fangs lengthen. My claws erupt. My body tenses, ready to take, to claim, to mark.
But I don’t.
Because she’s not asking for that.
She’s asking for this.
For me to stay.
For me to hold on.
For me to be here.
So I do.
I lower my head, my lips brushing her temple, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. Not a kiss. Not a claim. Just… contact. Connection. A promise.
And then—
My hand lifts.
Slow. Deliberate.
Fingers brushing her cheek. Just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. Her breath hitches. Her body betrays her, arching into me, seeking more.
“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.
Her eyes close.
Because she’s spent her short life believing she was.
That the fangs and claws, the fire in her blood, the magic in her veins—made her something to be feared. Controlled. Destroyed.
And now, I’m saying it.
Not with logic. Not with reason.
With my hand on her face. With my breath on her skin. With the way my body fits against hers like it was made for her.
“You’re not,” I say again, my thumb tracing her lower lip. “You’re mine. And I’m not afraid of you.”
Her heart stutters.
Because she is.
She’s terrified.
I can feel it in the way her pulse jumps, in the way her magic flares, in the way her body trembles when I touch her.
But she’s not running.
She’s not fighting.
She’s staying.
And that—that is the most dangerous thing of all.
—
Later, we walk through the city.
Not with guards. Not with ceremony.
Just us.
The streets are alive—torchlight flickers in the alleys, hybrids stand tall in the open, wolves walk beside witches, humans trade with fae. No more hiding. No more fear.
And then—
A child.
Not more than six. Half-wolf, half-witch, her eyes gold, her hair streaked with fire. She stops in front of us, her small hand clutching a carved wooden wolf.
“Are you really the Alpha?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Yes,” Kaelen says.
“And you?” she asks, turning to me.
“I’m Zara,” I say, kneeling. “And I’m here to make sure no one takes your wolf away.”
The girl smiles.
And hands me the toy.
I take it—slowly, carefully—and press it to my heart.
“Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “I’ll keep it safe.”
And as we walk away, I feel it—
Not just the bond.
Not just the fire.
Home.
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.