The first time I lit a fire that never died, it was an accident.
Not magic. Not ritual. Just rage—pure, unfiltered, molten—pouring from my palms as I stood over the ashes of my mother’s pyre, the silver flames still licking the stone, the Council’s sigil carved deep into the ground like a brand. I raised my hand, not to mourn, not to remember, but to defy. To say, *“You think this ends here? You think her fire is gone?”*
And it wasn’t.
It flared—red-gold, mine—spiraling from my palm, searing the air, twisting into a column that reached the stars. It didn’t burn out. Didn’t fade. Just… burned. For days. For weeks. Until the stone cracked, until the sigil shattered, until the Council sent enforcers to douse it with blood and salt and ancient wards.
And still, it smoldered.
They called it a curse.
I called it a promise.
Now, months after the fall of the Council, after the Blood Pact Renewal, after the liberation of the prisons and the crushing of the Blood Fangs, I stand in the heart of the Hollow Maw, where the wind bites through my tunic and the stars burn cold and bright above. The city moves below—torches flicker in the alleys, hybrids laugh in the square, wolves patrol the edges, Fae trade in the market—but I don’t see them.
Not yet.
First, I need to build.
—
The Eternal Flame isn’t just a fire.
It’s a symbol.
Kaelen and I decided it weeks ago, in the quiet after the last battle, when the echoes of war still hummed in the bond and the weight of leadership pressed heavy on our shoulders. We’d rebuilt the Council. Freed the hybrids. Crushed the rogue clans. But something was missing.
Not justice.
Not power.
Legacy.
“We need something that says, *‘We’re not going back,’”* I said, standing on the edge of the Maw, my hand pressed to the scar on my shoulder—the one from the Blood Pit, the one he bit in the heat of claiming. “Something that burns so bright, so loud, that no one can pretend they didn’t see it.”
He didn’t answer at first.
Just stepped beside me, his hand resting on my lower back, his scent—pine, iron, smoke, him—wrapping around me like a shield. Then he said, voice low, rough: “Then we build a fire that never dies.”
And so we did.
Not in the war room. Not in the council chamber.
In the center of the city.
Where everyone can see it.
—
The site is a wide plaza, once used for executions, for purges, for the public shaming of hybrids and witches who dared to love across bloodlines. The stone is blackened, scarred with old sigils of binding, the air still thick with the ghosts of suffering. But today—
Today, it’s alive.
Wolves drag stone from the ruins of Vexis’s fortress, laying the foundation in a perfect circle. Witches chant as they carve new runes into the edges—runes of unity, of protection, of truth. Fae weave strands of light into the arches rising above, their glamour enhancing the glow, making it visible for miles. Humans carry baskets of herbs, of oils, of kindling—gifts, offerings, prayers written on scraps of parchment.
And in the center—
A pedestal.
Not of silver. Not of obsidian.
Of bone.
Not just any bone.
Hybrid bone.
Scavenged from the ruins of the prisons, from the ashes of the Blood Pit, from the graves of those who were never given proper burials. Each piece etched with a name. A date. A story.
It’s not morbid.
It’s holy.
“You don’t have to do this,” Kaelen says, stepping beside me, his voice low, close to my ear. His storm-gray eyes scan the plaza, his fangs just past his lip, his claws retracted but ready. Not as a threat. As a witness.
“Yes, I do,” I say, pressing my palm to the pedestal. The bone is warm beneath my touch, humming with old magic, with memory. “This isn’t just a fire. It’s a reckoning. A promise. A vow that we’ll never forget what they did. What they took. Who they killed.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just places his hand over mine, his heat seeping through the thin fabric of my tunic, his magic humming in the bond. Not possessive. Not controlling.
Just there.
“Then we do it together,” he says. “Not as rulers. Not as mates. As keepers.”
—
By dusk, the plaza is packed.
Not with guards. Not with ceremony.
With people.
Hybrids stand tall, their scars visible, their magic unhidden. Wolves walk beside witches, their tails entwined, their fangs bared in smiles, not threats. Humans trade with Fae, their laughter ringing through the air. Even the Southern Beta is here, his pack flanking the edges, not as enforcers, but as family.
Mara stands at the edge of the crowd, her sharp gaze moving over the runes, her hands steady as she takes notes. Elira records it all on her crystal, her voice low, reverent: *“The Eternal Flame. The first fire lit not for destruction, but for remembrance.”*
Orin leans on his cane at the base of the pedestal, his ancient eyes warm, his voice soft as he chants the final binding. “From blood and bone, from fire and fang, we call the flame that will not die. Not for vengeance. Not for war. For truth. For healing. For the ones who were taken.”
The runes ignite—gold, then red—spreading outward in a wave of light that washes over the plaza, over the city, over the mountains beyond.
And then—
Silence.
Not empty.
Loaded.
Kaelen steps forward, his long coat open, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “This fire is not ours,” he says. “It belongs to the ones who suffered. To the ones who died. To the ones who were forgotten. And to the ones who fought to bring them home.”
The crowd stills.
Not in fear.
In reckoning.
I step beside him, my fire humming beneath my skin—low, steady, awake. I don’t speak. Just raise my hand.
And let the fire come.
Not wild.
Not reckless.
Precise.
It spirals from my palm—red-gold, mine—and touches the kindling at the base of the pedestal. The herbs ignite. The oils flare. The bones glow, their etched names pulsing with light.
And then—
The flame rises.
Not a column. Not a burst.
A tree.
Branches of fire spiral upward, twisting into the shape of a wolf, of a witch, of a child with storm-gray eyes and hair streaked with fire. The heat is intense, but not burning. Not destructive.
Purifying.
The crowd erupts—not in chaos, but in triumph. Howls. Cheers. Chants. Tears. The fire casts long shadows, dancing like spirits, like memories, like the ghosts of those who were never allowed to rest.
And then—
A child.
Not more than six. Half-wolf, half-witch, her eyes gold, her hair streaked with fire. She steps forward, her small hand clutching a carved wooden wolf. She doesn’t speak. Just walks to the flame, her face tilted up, her eyes wide with wonder.
And she smiles.
Not in fear.
Not in awe.
Belonging.
She turns, looks at me, at Kaelen, and holds out the toy.
“For the fire,” she says, voice soft.
I kneel, take it—slowly, carefully—and press it to the base of the flame.
It doesn’t burn.
It transforms.
The wood glows, the carvings flaring with light, before melting into the fire, becoming part of it—part of the tree, part of the wolf, part of the child with storm-gray eyes.
And then—
Another child steps forward.
Then another.
Then a witch, her hands stained with ink and blood, placing a journal into the flames.
Then a wolf, his muzzle scarred, laying a silver collar at the base.
Then a human, her face pale but determined, whispering a name—*“My sister. Taken. Never found.”*—before tossing a scrap of parchment into the fire.
And so it goes.
Offering after offering.
Memory after memory.
Not just of loss.
Of love.
Of resistance.
Of hope.
—
Later, we stand on the edge of the Maw, where the wind bites through my tunic and the stars burn cold and bright. The Eternal Flame burns behind us, its light casting long shadows over the city, its heat a steady pulse in the air. The bond hums between us—low, insistent, alive—like a heartbeat beneath the stone.
Kaelen stands 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.
—
That night, we return to our chambers—no guards, no ceremony, just us. The fire burns low in the hearth, the runes on the walls pulsing with a soft, steady light. I shed my coat, my boots, my tunic, standing in the glow of the flames, my storm-gray eyes meeting his in the mirror.
He doesn’t undress.
Just watches me—really watches.
“You’re not just a fire anymore,” he says, his voice low, rough. “You’re a leader. A healer. A mother to them all.”
“And you’re not just a beast,” I say, turning. “You’re a protector. A father. A man who kneels not in defeat, but in love.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, his hands lifting, slow, deliberate, and brushing my shoulders. Just a whisper of touch. But it’s enough. Heat explodes beneath my skin, racing down my arms, pooling in my core. My fangs lengthen. My claws erupt. My body tenses, ready to take, to claim, to burn.
But I don’t.
Because this isn’t about fire.
It’s about home.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he whispers, his lips brushing my temple, my cheek, the curve of my jaw. Not a kiss. Not a claim. Just… contact. Connection. A promise.
“No,” I say, my hand lifting, slow, deliberate, and brushing his cheek. “I’m not. Because you’re not a monster. You’re mine. And I’m not afraid of what I am.”
His heart stutters.
Because he is.
He’s terrified.
I can feel it in the bond—in the way his pulse jumps, in the way his magic flares, in the way his body trembles when I touch him.
But he’s not running.
He’s not fighting.
He’s staying.
And that—that is the most dangerous thing of all.
—
And then—
I kiss him.
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.
I taste 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.
—
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.