The first time I vowed to burn the Council, I was twelve years old and standing over my mother’s pyre.
Not a funeral. Not a burial. A *cleansing*. They called it that—like her magic was filth, like her love for my father was a disease that needed to be scrubbed from the world. I watched as the silver flames consumed her body, as the runes carved into the stone absorbed her essence, as the Council enforcers turned and walked away like they’d done nothing more than sweep dust from the floor.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I just raised my hand—and lit a single flame over my palm.
Not to mourn.
To remember.
And to warn.
Now, months after the fire I promised has come and gone—after the Council fell, after the chains broke, after the truth was carved into the stone of the Hollow Maw—I stand in the war room, the maps of the hidden prisons spread across the obsidian table, my mother’s blood vial pressed to my chest like a second heartbeat.
And I make a new vow.
Not to burn.
To free.
—
Kaelen doesn’t speak when I lift my head. Doesn’t move when I step back from the table, my boots echoing against the stone. He just watches—storm-gray eyes sharp, fangs just past his lip, claws retracted but ready. Not as a threat. Not as a challenge.
As a *witness*.
“You’re already planning it,” he says, voice low, rough. “A rescue. Not a raid. A liberation.”
“Yes,” I say. “They’ve been taken. Hidden. Forgotten. But not dead. And I won’t let them stay buried.”
He walks to the table, his hand brushing the map of the Carpathians—the site closest to us, marked with a silver cage and the name *“Prison of the Caged Flame.”* His thumb presses over the symbol, like he’s testing its weight.
“This isn’t like the Blood Pit,” he says. “That was a slaughterhouse. This… this is a fortress. Warded. Guarded. If they’ve kept hybrids alive this long, they’ve done it for a reason. They’re not just prisoners. They’re *resources*.”
“Then we break the system,” I say. “We burn the wards. We slaughter the guards. We tear the walls down with fire and fang.”
“And if there are traps?” he asks. “If they’ve rigged the place to collapse? If the hybrids are too weak to move? You don’t just need strength, Zara. You need *strategy*.”
I don’t argue.
Because he’s right.
And I’m not the same woman who stormed the Hollow Maw with nothing but fury and flame.
“Then help me,” I say. “Not as the Alpha. Not as my mate. As the hunter who’s tracked every rogue, every rebel, every hidden den in the last two centuries. You know how they think. You know how they hide. You know how they *break*.”
He turns.
Looks at me—really looks.
And I see it.
Not pride.
Respect.
“You’re not asking for permission,” he says. “You’re asking for a partner.”
“Yes,” I say. “And I’m not letting you say no.”
A slow, fierce smile curls his lips.
Not gentle.
Not soft.
Wild.
“Then we do it right,” he says. “We gather intel. We call in favors. We don’t walk in blind. And we don’t leave a single hybrid behind.”
—
By dawn, the war room is alive.
Orin leans on his cane at the head of the table, his ancient eyes scanning the maps, his fingers tracing the sigils etched into the edges—ward-breakers, blood-locks, binding runes. Mara sits beside him, her sharp gaze moving between the documents, her hands steady as she takes notes, her voice clear as she questions every assumption. Riven stands at the edge, arms crossed, his Beta’s instincts already calculating entry points, escape routes, weak spots. And Elira—small, human, unafraid—sits beside him, her recording crystal in hand, her notebook open, her voice low as she asks the questions no one else dares to: *“How do we know they’re still alive? How do we know they’ll want to be saved?”*
Kaelen stands at the center, his long coat open, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. I stand beside him, my fire humming beneath my skin, my storm-gray eyes locked on the map.
“The Carpathian site is our first target,” he says. “Closest. Most accessible. But also the most dangerous—if they’ve kept it hidden this long, they’ve protected it well.”
“The wards will be blood-based,” Orin says, tapping the edge of the map. “Hybrid blood. They’ll have used it to power the bindings, to mask the prison from detection. To keep the prisoners weak.”
“Then we break them with stronger blood,” I say. “Mine.”
“Too risky,” Mara says. “If the wards are keyed to Emberborn magic, your blood could trigger a trap. A collapse. A purge.”
“Then we go in quiet,” Riven says. “No fire. No magic. Just stealth. Extract the prisoners. Get out.”
“And leave the rest?” I ask. “Let them rebuild? Let them take more? No.” I press my palm to the map, fire spiraling from my fingertips, searing the silver cage. “We don’t just free them. We *erase* the prison. We burn it so completely that no one will ever dare to build it again.”
“Then we need a distraction,” Elira says, her voice quiet but steady. “Something big. Something loud. Something that makes them look away.”
Silence.
Then—
Kaelen smiles.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
Like a predator.
“The Summer Queen’s envoy arrives tomorrow,” he says. “Official visit. Peace talks. Full ceremonial guard.”
“You want to use the envoy as bait?” Mara asks, eyes narrowing.
“No,” I say, the idea igniting in my chest. “We use the *threat* of an attack. We leak a rumor—false, but credible—that the Fae are planning to assassinate the envoy. The Council will divert resources. The guards at the prison will be on high alert… but looking in the wrong direction.”
“And while they’re distracted,” Kaelen says, stepping closer, his hand brushing mine, “we go in. Fast. Quiet. With fire.”
“And when they realize the truth?” Orin asks.
“By then,” I say, lifting my head, “we’ll be gone. With the prisoners. With the proof. With the fire.”
The room stills.
Not in fear.
In reckoning.
Because they know—
This isn’t just a mission.
It’s a declaration.
—
We move at twilight.
Not in force. Not in ceremony.
Just five of us—Kaelen, Riven, Orin, Elira, and me—cloaked in shadow, riding silent through the mountain pass on wolves bred for speed and silence. The air is sharp with frost, the stars burning cold and bright above. No torches. No magic. Just the crunch of snow beneath paws, the low breath of the beasts, the steady pulse of the bond between me and Kaelen.
Elira rides behind Riven, her arms tight around his waist, her face pale but determined. Orin sits tall on his mount, his cane strapped to his back, his eyes scanning the path ahead. And Kaelen—bare-chested beneath his coat, fangs bared, claws out—rides beside me, his presence a wall of heat and silence.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, his voice low, close to my ear.
“I’m remembering,” I say. “The first time I came for revenge, I was alone. I didn’t plan. I didn’t wait. I just *burned*.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not just burning.” I turn, look at him. “I’m *building*. And you can’t build on ashes if you don’t clear the ground first.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches over, his hand brushing mine—just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. Heat explodes beneath my skin, racing down my arm, pooling in my core. My fangs lengthen. My claws erupt. My body tenses, ready to take, to claim, to fight.
But I don’t.
Because this isn’t about us.
It’s about *them*.
The ones who’ve been taken.
The ones who’ve been forgotten.
The ones who’ve been waiting.
—
The prison rises from the valley like a wound in the earth—black stone, jagged spires, no windows, no doors visible. The air around it hums with old magic, the scent of blood and iron thick in the wind. Wards pulse along the walls—silver runes, glowing faintly, feeding on something dark and alive.
We dismount in the tree line, the wolves melting back into shadow. Orin steps forward, his fingers tracing the air, his voice low as he reads the wards.
“Blood-locked,” he says. “Hybrid blood. They’ve woven it into the stone. Break the blood, break the ward.”
“Then we break it,” I say, biting into my palm.
“No,” Kaelen says, stopping me. “Too fast. They’ll feel it. We go in quiet first. Scout. Confirm the prisoners are alive. Then we burn.”
I want to argue.
Want to scream.
Want to light the sky with fire and watch the walls crumble.
But I don’t.
Because he’s right.
And I’m not just fire anymore.
I’m *strategy*.
—
We move through the undergrowth, silent, shadows among shadows. Riven leads, his Beta’s instincts guiding us to a weak point in the wards—a crack in the stone, barely visible, humming with a lower frequency. Orin touches it, whispers a counter-rune, and the ward flickers—just for a second.
Enough.
We slip through.
The interior is a maze of corridors—cold, damp, the air thick with the scent of decay and something else—*fear*. Old fear. Trapped fear. The kind that seeps into stone.
Then—
A sound.
Not a voice.
A *whisper*.
From behind a door, barred with silver.
Kaelen signals—*wait*—and presses his ear to the wood.
Then he pulls back.
His eyes are wide.
Not with shock.
With *recognition*.
“Werewolf,” he says. “Young. Weak. But alive.”
I don’t hesitate.
Step forward.
Press my palm to the door.
And let the fire come.
Not wild.
Not reckless.
Precise.
The silver melts—slow, controlled—until the bar falls with a soft clang. I push the door open.
And there—
A boy.
No more than sixteen. Half-wolf, half-witch. His eyes are gold, his hair streaked with ash, his body thin, his wrists scarred with silver burns. He’s curled in the corner, shivering, his breath shallow.
But he’s *alive*.
“It’s okay,” I say, kneeling. “You’re not alone anymore.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just stares.
Then—
A tear.
One. Silent. Falling.
And I know—
He’s not just alive.
He’s *free*.
—
We find six more.
Not in cells.
In *tubes*.
Clear glass, filled with a dark liquid, their bodies suspended, their magic siphoned through thin wires into vials on the wall. Witches. Werewolves. Fae hybrids. All young. All weak. All *alive*.
Orin works fast—breaking the seals, draining the fluid, cutting the wires. Riven carries them out, one by one, his strength steady, his voice low as he reassures them.
And I—
I burn.
Not the prisoners.
The *prison*.
Fire spirals from my palms, searing the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The wards scream as they break. The runes flare—red, then black—before shattering into dust. The vials explode. The machines collapse. The air fills with smoke and the scent of burning metal.
And then—
A voice.
From the shadows.
“You don’t have to do this.”
I turn.
A man steps forward—pale, gaunt, his eyes hollow, his hands trembling. He wears a tattered lab coat, his fingers stained with blood and ink.
“I didn’t want this,” he says. “I was forced. I was threatened. I—”
“You drained them,” I say, my voice low, rough. “You siphoned their magic. You kept them alive just long enough to steal everything they were.”
“I had no choice—”
“*You always have a choice.*”
I raise my hand.
Fire spirals—red-gold, *mine*—and the last of the prison burns.
—
We carry the prisoners out—seven of them, wrapped in cloaks, their bodies weak, their eyes wide with something I recognize—*hope*.
Kaelen walks beside me, his hand on my lower back, his scent flooding me—pine, iron, smoke, him. He doesn’t speak. Just watches the sky, the stars, the path ahead.
“You did it,” he says finally.
“We did,” I correct. “And this is just the beginning.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me close, one arm wrapping around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
—
Later, we return to the Hollow Maw.
Not with silence.
With *fire*.
The courtyard is lit—torches, braziers, flames spiraling from witches’ hands, wolves howling in the square. The hybrids are brought to the healers, to food, to warmth. And when the first one speaks—her voice weak, her words trembling—*“Thank you”*—the entire city *roars*.
Not in fear.
Not in anger.
In triumph.
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.