The morning after Kaelen kissed me in the shadows, I wake with fire in my veins.
Not from the dream—though I still feel the phantom press of his mouth, the scrape of fangs on my lip, the way his hand burned beneath my shirt like a brand. Not from the memory of how my body arched into his, how my magic flared, how I didn’t push him away.
No.
This fire is different.
It’s purpose.
It’s clarity.
Because for the first time since I walked into this cursed city, I’m not just reacting. I’m not just surviving. I’m not just letting the bond twist me into someone I hate.
I’m hunting.
Kaelen says Mira’s lies are bait. That Vexis is using her to drive a wedge between us. That he didn’t touch her. That he was with me—trapped in the bonding chamber, fighting the heat, fighting the bond, fighting me.
And I believe him.
Not because I trust him.
Not because I want to.
But because the bond doesn’t lie.
And in that kiss—brutal, desperate, real—I felt it. The truth. The hunger. The way his emotions bled through: frustration, yes, but also something deeper. Something fierce. Protective. Like he’d burn the world before he let anyone take me from him.
And that terrifies me.
Because if he’s not the monster I’ve built him up to be… then who is?
Who signed my mother’s death warrant?
Who forged Kaelen’s initials? Who confirmed the execution? Who’s pulling the strings from the shadows, using Mira, using the Council, using the bond itself as a weapon?
It’s not enough to hate Kaelen.
It’s not enough to survive the bonding ceremony.
I need proof.
I need the truth.
And I know where to find it.
—
The Witch Vault isn’t on any map.
It’s not listed in the Restricted Archive. It’s not guarded by Council sentries. It’s not even marked on the Spire’s schematics.
But I know it exists.
Orin told me.
Not in words. Not in a letter. But in a glance—a flicker of his eyes toward the eastern catacombs during one of our “chance” meetings in the lower gardens. A single raised brow. A sip of tea. A silence that lasted just a second too long.
He’s been here for centuries. Elder Witch. Keeper of forbidden knowledge. He knew my mother. He watched her die. And if anyone knows what really happened that night, it’s him.
So I go.
Not through the main corridors. Not through the ceremonial halls. I take the underpaths—the forgotten tunnels beneath the Spire, where the air is thick with damp and decay, where the runes flicker like dying stars, where the scent of old blood and forgotten magic lingers in the stone.
I move fast, silent, my boots barely making a sound. My magic hums beneath my skin, low and steady, ready. I don’t light a torch. I don’t need one. The bond gives me something sharper than sight—the ability to feel the magic in the air, to sense the pulse of ancient wards, to hear the whisper of hidden doors.
And then—
There.
A fissure in the wall, half-hidden behind a collapsed pillar. The stone is cracked, the runes fractured, the air thick with the scent of ozone and burnt sage. A ward has been broken. Recently.
I press my palm to the stone.
Heat flares in my veins.
Not pain.
Recognition.
This is a witch’s mark. Bloodline of Ember. My mother’s sigil.
She was here.
Before she died.
My breath catches. My fingers tremble.
I push.
The stone groans, shifting just enough to reveal a narrow passage—dark, descending, the walls lined with blackened torches and ancient carvings of women with fire in their eyes, their hands raised in defiance.
I step inside.
The air changes instantly—colder, heavier, laced with the scent of old parchment and something metallic. Blood ink. Ritual residue. Power, long dormant but not gone.
I close the entrance behind me, sealing it with a whisper of magic—“Claustrum.” The stone shifts back into place. I’m alone now. Hidden. Hunted.
But I don’t care.
Because ahead—
A door.
Massive. Iron. Sealed with a sigil that pulses faintly in the dark—a spiral of flame, encircled by thorns. The mark of the Emberborn.
My mark.
I press my palm to it.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
The sigil flares, red-gold light spilling across the floor like liquid fire. The door groans, then swings inward, revealing a chamber so vast it steals my breath.
The Witch Vault.
Rows of black shelves stretch into shadowed heights, just like the Restricted Archive—but this is different. This is alive. The books pulse with trapped magic, their spines glowing faintly, their pages whispering as I pass. Scrolls float in glass cases, suspended in midair, their ink shifting like living things. Crystals hang from the ceiling, humming with stored power. And in the center—
A pedestal.
On it, a single, leather-bound journal.
My mother’s handwriting.
I know it instantly. I’ve seen it a thousand times—in the letters she left me, hidden in the walls of our safehouse, written in blood and ash. The looping script. The sharp angles. The way she dotted her i’s like stars.
I don’t hesitate.
I cross the room, my boots silent on the stone, my breath shallow. I reach the pedestal. My fingers hover over the journal. Then I open it.
The first page is blank.
The second—
“If you’re reading this, I’m already dead.”
My throat closes.
I keep reading.
“They’ll tell you I was executed for loving a werewolf. That I corrupted the bloodline. That I was a traitor to the covens.”
“They’re lying.”
“The Purity Edict was never about purity. It was about control. About erasing hybrids like us—witches with fire in their veins, werewolves with magic in their blood. They fear what we can become. What you can become.”
“They framed me. They forged the evidence. They used blood magic to falsify the records. And they made sure Kaelen Dain’s name was on the order—because they knew you’d hate him. They knew you’d come for him. And when you did, they’d have you too.”
My hands shake.
I turn the page.
“Kaelen didn’t sign it. His blood was stolen during a ritual. They used it to forge his signature, to confirm the execution. He was drugged. He was betrayed. And if you’re reading this, he’s probably standing in your way—because they’ve made him believe he’s guilty.”
“But he’s not.”
“He loved me like a sister. He protected me when he could. And now, he’s your only hope.”
“Find the ledger. It’s hidden in the northern vault, behind the Council seal. Names. Dates. All the hybrids they’ve killed. All the lies they’ve buried.”
“And Zara—”
“Burn it all.”
The journal slips from my fingers, hitting the pedestal with a soft thud.
I can’t breathe.
My vision blurs. My knees weaken. I press my back against the pedestal, sliding down until I’m on the floor, my hands clutching the journal like a lifeline.
He didn’t do it.
Kaelen didn’t sign the order.
He didn’t confirm it.
He was framed.
Just like me.
Just like my mother.
And I’ve spent every moment since I met him hating him. Accusing him. Letting the bond twist me into someone I hate—someone who fights not just the Council, but the one person who might actually help me destroy it.
Shame coils in my gut, sharp and acidic.
I came here to burn them all.
But I’ve been burning myself instead.
I close my eyes, pressing the journal to my chest.
But then—
A sound.
Faint.
Like stone grinding against stone.
I freeze.
My eyes snap open.
The torches—
They’re going out.
One by one.
Starting at the far end of the chamber, the flames snuff out, plunging the shelves into darkness. The whispering pages fall silent. The floating scrolls drop to the floor.
And then—
The door.
It slams shut.
With a final, echoing boom, the iron door swings closed, sealing me inside. The sigil on the surface dims, then fades to black.
I’m trapped.
My breath comes fast. My pulse hammers. I scramble to my feet, rushing to the door, slamming my palms against the cold iron.
“Open!” I hiss, channeling magic into the sigil. “Claustrum frango!”
Nothing.
The door doesn’t budge.
I press my ear to the metal.
Silence.
Then—
A whisper.
Not from outside.
From inside.
From the shadows between the shelves.
“You shouldn’t have come here, little Ember.”
My blood runs cold.
I spin, magic flaring in my palms, the air around me shimmering with heat.
“Show yourself.”
No answer.
Just movement.
A shadow shifts. Then another. Then another.
Figures step from the darkness—tall, cloaked, their faces hidden beneath hoods. Five of them. No scent. No aura. No magic I can read.
Assassins.
Council clean-up.
They move in silence, surrounding me, cutting off every exit. The shelves loom like prison bars. The darkness presses in.
“The Alpha won’t save you this time,” one of them says, voice distorted, unnatural. “The bond can’t reach you here. This place is warded against all magic—especially his.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
The bond—
I can’t feel it.
Not Kaelen’s presence. Not his emotions. Not his need.
Nothing.
I’m alone.
And these bastards know it.
“You killed her,” I say, voice steady. “You executed my mother. You forged the records. You used Kaelen’s blood.”
“We did what was necessary,” another says. “The hybrid bloodline was a threat. It had to be erased.”
“And now you’ll erase me too?”
“Not yet.” The first assassin steps forward, a silver dagger in his hand—engraved with the Council’s sigil. “You’re too valuable. The bond with the Alpha—it’s unprecedented. We need to study it. To replicate it. To control it.”
“You’ll never get it.”
“Oh, we already have.” He tilts his head. “We’ve been watching. Listening. The way your magic flares when he touches you. The way your body betrays you when he’s near. The way you tremble when he whispers in your ear.”
My stomach drops.
They’ve been spying on us.
“And tonight,” he continues, “when the bonding ceremony begins, you’ll submit. You’ll let him mark you. And when you do—” He smiles beneath his hood. “—we’ll take the bond from you. Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.”
“You’re insane.”
“No.” He raises the dagger. “We’re inevitable.”
I don’t wait.
Fire explodes in my palms—red-gold flames that roar to life, licking up my arms, searing the air. The temperature in the chamber spikes. The assassin flinches, stepping back.
“You think fire scares us?” another sneers. “We’ve burned witches before.”
“Then you won’t mind doing it again.”
I lunge.
Not at the one with the dagger.
At the one on the left—closest to the journal.
He moves fast, but I’m faster.
My fire slams into him like a wave, knocking him back into the shelves. Books rain down, their pages igniting, the flames spreading fast. The air fills with smoke and the scent of burning parchment.
But the others are on me.
A blade grazes my shoulder. I spin, kicking out, my boot connecting with a jaw. A fist slams into my ribs. I gasp, but channel the pain into fire—blasting the attacker with a burst of heat that sends him crashing into a crystal display.
They’re strong. Fast. Coordinated.
But I’m angry.
And when an Emberborn witch is angry, the world burns.
I raise my hands, summoning every ounce of magic, every spark of rage, every memory of my mother’s scream—
And I release.
Fire erupts from my palms in a roaring inferno, a wave of heat and light that engulfs the center of the chamber. Shelves ignite. Crystals shatter. The floating scrolls turn to ash.
The assassins scatter.
But not fast enough.
One screams as the flames catch his cloak. Another stumbles back, shielding his face. The one with the dagger lunges at me—
I catch his wrist, twist, and slam his hand into the pedestal.
The dagger clatters to the floor.
“You don’t get to use that on me,” I snarl, pressing my palm to his chest.
Fire surges.
He screams—once—then collapses, his body smoldering.
The others retreat, vanishing into the smoke, fleeing through hidden passages in the walls.
I don’t chase them.
I can’t.
The fire is spreading too fast.
Flames lick up the shelves, consuming the books, the scrolls, the crystals. The air is thick with smoke. The heat is unbearable.
And in the center of it all—
The journal.
Still on the pedestal.
Unburned.
Protected by some final ward my mother cast.
I grab it, shoving it into my belt, then turn to the door.
It’s still sealed.
But the frame—
The stone around it is cracking, weakened by the heat.
I raise my hands, pouring magic into the fissures—
“Frango!”
The stone explodes.
Debris rains down. The door groans, then bursts open, revealing the dark passage beyond.
I don’t look back.
I run.
Through the tunnel. Up the underpaths. Past the collapsed pillar. Into the lower corridors.
By the time I reach the surface, my clothes are singed, my shoulder bleeding, my lungs burning.
But I have the proof.
And the truth.
Kaelen didn’t kill my mother.
He was framed.
And now, the real enemy knows I know.
They’ll come for me.
They’ll come for him.
But this time—
I won’t be running.
I’ll be waiting.
With fire in my hands.
And vengeance in my heart.