The first time I found a secret in the Hollow Maw, it nearly got me killed.
Not a hidden vault. Not a forgotten archive. Just a loose stone behind the eastern hearth, tucked beneath a sigil of binding that pulsed with old magic. I’d been searching for traces of my mother’s final days—anything the Oracle might have missed, any scrap of proof that could tip the balance in the Council chambers. My fingers brushed the edge of it, and the moment I pried it loose, the air changed.
The scent of blood flooded my nose—fresh, hot, *hers*. Lysara’s. And then—
The trap.
A blade shot from the wall, silver-tipped, aimed straight for my heart. I dodged—barely—and the stone slammed shut behind me, sealing the passage with a finality that still echoes in my bones.
I was lucky.
That was the old Council’s way—secrets protected by death.
Now, months after the fall, after the reforms, after the blood pacts and the fire and the truth, I stand in the same hall, sunlight spilling through the newly opened arches, the air clean and sharp with mountain wind. The sigil on the hearth is gone. The blade has been removed. The stone is back in place.
And I’m about to open it again.
Not because I have to.
Because I *need* to.
—
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Kaelen says, his voice low, close to my ear. He stands just behind me, one hand resting on my lower back, his heat seeping through the thin fabric of my tunic. His scent—pine, iron, smoke—wraps around me like a shield. “We can call Orin. Riven. Even Mara, if you want a human perspective.”
I don’t turn. Just press my palm to the stone, feeling the faint hum beneath my skin. The runes are dormant now, but they *remember*. They know me. Know *us*.
“This isn’t about strength,” I say. “It’s about memory. And some memories… they only speak to the ones who lost something.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hand tightens—just slightly—against my back. Not possessive. Not controlling.
Just *there*.
“Then I’ll be right behind you,” he says. “Not to lead. Not to protect. To *witness*.”
I nod.
And I push.
The stone slides back with a soft, grinding sound, revealing a narrow passage—dark, cool, the air thick with the scent of old earth and something else—ozone, like the moment before a storm breaks. My fire flares instinctively, spiraling from my palm, casting long shadows against the walls. The passage slopes downward, carved from raw stone, its edges smoothed by time and magic.
Kaelen follows, silent, his presence a steady weight at my back. I don’t need to see him to know he’s ready—fangs retracted, claws sheathed, but his magic humming just beneath the surface, a low, protective growl in the bond.
We walk for what feels like minutes, though the air grows colder, the silence heavier. Then—
A door.
Not stone. Not wood.
Obsidian. Black as a starless sky, its surface etched with a spiral of silver—*the Mark of the First Enforcers*, the ones who served the Council before the Marked Alphas existed. Before Kaelen.
Before *us*.
My breath catches.
Because I recognize it.
Not from history.
From my mother’s journal.
She wrote about it—*“The Chamber of Whispers. Where the Council buried its sins. Where the hybrids were taken before they vanished. Where the blood was drained and the magic stolen.”*
I didn’t believe her.
Not fully.
Now, standing before it, my fire casting flickering light across the silver spiral, I know—
She wasn’t lying.
She was *warning*.
—
“It’s warded,” Kaelen says, stepping forward, his hand hovering over the door. “Old magic. Blood-based. It’ll only open for someone with Council blood… or hybrid blood.”
“Or both,” I say.
He turns, looks at me—really looks—and I see it.
Not suspicion.
Understanding.
Because he knows what I am.
What I’ve always been.
“Then let me,” he says, lifting his wrist.
“No,” I say, stopping him. “This is *mine*.”
I bite into my palm—sharp, clean—and press my blood to the spiral.
The silver flares—gold, then red—before the door groans open, revealing a chamber no larger than a modest study, its walls lined with shelves of glass vials, each filled with a swirling, dark liquid—*blood*. Hybrid blood. Labeled with names. Dates. Species.
And in the center—
A table.
Not for records.
For *experiments*.
Straps. Needles. Scorch marks. A single, cracked mirror on the wall, its surface smeared with something dark and dried.
My stomach twists.
But I don’t look away.
“They were alive when they took it,” I say, my voice low, rough. “The blood. The magic. They didn’t just kill them. They *drained* them. Slowly. Painfully.”
Kaelen steps beside me, his jaw tight, his storm-gray eyes scanning the room. “This wasn’t just about control. It was about *power*. They were harvesting hybrid magic to fuel their rituals. To extend their lives. To strengthen their bloodlines.”
“And no one stopped them,” I say. “Not the Fae. Not the witches. Not even the werewolves.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just steps to the shelves, his fingers brushing a vial labeled *“Emberborn – Lysara – Final Extraction.”*
My breath hitches.
Because it’s *hers*.
My mother’s blood.
“They took everything,” I whisper. “Her magic. Her life. Her *voice*.”
“But not her fire,” Kaelen says, turning. “Not her daughter.”
I don’t answer.
Just walk to the table, my boots echoing against the stone. The mirror catches my reflection—storm-gray eyes, hair streaked with fire, fangs just past my lip. I look like her.
And I feel like her.
Not just her rage.
Her *purpose*.
“There’s more,” Kaelen says, crouching beside the table. He pulls open a hidden drawer—so small I’d missed it—and lifts out a stack of maps, yellowed with age, their edges brittle. “These aren’t just records. They’re *locations*.”
I take them, flipping through. Each map marks a site—deep in the Carpathians, beneath the Paris catacombs, hidden in the Scottish highlands—with a single symbol: *a silver cage*. And beneath each, a name.
*“Prison of the Caged Flame.”*
*“Vault of the Silent Howl.”*
*“Pit of the Stolen Breath.”*
“They’re still out there,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “The hybrids. The ones who vanished. The ones we thought were dead.”
Kaelen nods. “Not dead. *Hidden*. Kept alive for extraction. For breeding. For experiments.”
My fire roars to life—red-gold, *mine*—spinning from my palms, searing the air. “Then we find them. We free them. We burn every cage, every vault, every pit.”
“It won’t be easy,” he says. “These places are guarded. Warded. Some are in human cities. Some are in Fae territory. We’ll need allies. Strategy. Time.”
“We don’t have time,” I say, turning. “Every second they’re trapped, they’re suffering. Every breath they take is stolen. And I—” I press my hand to my chest, over my heart. “—I *feel* them. Like the bond. Like a whisper in the dark. They’re calling. And I *will not* ignore them.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just steps forward, one hand lifting, slow, deliberate, and brushing my cheek. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just… *there*.
“Then we do it together,” he says. “Not as rulers. Not as mates. As *hunters*.”
—
We return to the surface in silence.
Not empty. Not fragile.
Loaded.
The maps are tucked into my coat, my mother’s vial wrapped in cloth and pressed to my heart. Kaelen walks beside me, his hand on my lower back, his presence a steady hum in the bond. The city moves around us—hybrids laughing in the square, wolves patrolling the edges, Fae trading in the market—but I don’t see them.
Not yet.
First, I need to *remember*.
—
The Hollow Maw’s war room is quiet when we enter—no guards, no advisors, just the long obsidian table, its surface etched with the sigil of the New Council: a flame wrapped in a wolf’s paw. I lay the maps out, one by one, spreading them across the stone. Kaelen lights the braziers, the fire casting long shadows, the runes on the walls pulsing gold.
“Start here,” he says, pointing to the Carpathian site. “Closest. Most accessible. If they’re still alive, they’ll be weak. We go in fast. Quiet. Extract and retreat.”
“No,” I say. “We go in *loud*. We go in *burning*. They’ve lived in silence long enough. They deserve to know they’re not forgotten.”
He studies me—really studies me—for a long moment. Then a slow, fierce smile curls his lips.
“You’re not just freeing them,” he says. “You’re *claiming* them.”
“Yes,” I say. “They’re not prisoners. They’re *family*.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just reaches into his coat and pulls out a small, silver dagger—the one he used to sign the Blood Pact Renewal. He places it on the table, point down, like a vow.
“Then we do it your way,” he says. “But we do it *smart*. We gather intel. We call in favors. We bring Orin. Mara. Riven. Elira. We don’t walk into a trap.”
I nod.
Because he’s right.
And I’m not reckless.
Just *ready*.
—
That night, I stand on the edge of the Maw, where the wind bites through my tunic and the stars burn cold and bright. The maps are in my hands, the vial pressed to my heart, my fire humming beneath my skin—low, steady, *awake*.
Kaelen finds me there.
Not with words.
With touch.
One arm wraps around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
“You’re not alone,” he murmurs against my hair. “You never were.”
“I know,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest, over his heart. “But some fires… they only burn for the ones who were taken.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something *protective*. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to *hold on*.
He tastes like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
My hand slides under his shirt, fingers burning over his stomach, his ribs, his back—
And the world explodes.
Heat. Light. Fire.
His magic ignites—just for a second, a burst of black-silver flame that licks up his arms, searing the air between us.
I don’t flinch. Don’t pull back.
I just moan into his mouth, my body arching into his, my fingers clutching at his skin.
And then—
He breaks the kiss.
Steps back.
His breath comes in ragged gasps. His lips are swollen. His body aches. His core throbs with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
I stare at him, my eyes dark, my chest heaving. “You feel that?” I ask, voice rough. “That fire? That need? That’s not the heat. That’s us.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me.
And I know—
This isn’t just a moment.
It’s a promise.
Not of love.
Of war.
Of fire.
Of *us*.