The northern border stinks of iron and rot.
I step over a child’s shoe, half-buried in ash, and don’t let myself look down. Not at the bones. Not at the blood-soaked earth. Not at the sigil drawn in entrails at the center of the square. I’ve seen war. I’ve fought in coups, purges, border skirmishes that lasted decades. But this—this is a message. A declaration. And it’s not meant for the Vampire King.
It’s meant for her.
I turn, scanning the ruins. The Night Guard are securing the perimeter, dragging bodies into piles for burning. Kaelen stands near the sigil, his back rigid, his hands clasped behind him. He hasn’t spoken since we arrived. Not even to me. But I feel it—the tension in the air, the way his magic coils beneath his skin like a serpent ready to strike.
And then there’s her.
Rowan.
She’s crouched beside one of the corpses, her fingers brushing the edge of a claw wound. Her dress is torn at the shoulder, her cheek still bears the faint trace of blood from his tongue. Her magic hums beneath her skin, restless, agitated. She hasn’t looked at him since he tasted her. Since he pinned her to that wall and nearly took her in the ruins.
And I know—
She wanted him to.
She still wants him to.
I’ve watched kings fall. I’ve seen empires crumble. But I’ve never seen a man unravel like this. Not in centuries. Not since the night Lysandra died.
Kaelen moves like a man possessed. Not by bloodlust. Not by rage. But by something far more dangerous.
Need.
And she’s the only one who can sate it.
I approach slowly, boots crunching on ash. “My lord.”
He doesn’t turn. “Report.”
“Sixty werewolves. All dead. Alpha’s spine was crushed by her vines.” I glance at Rowan. “She didn’t hesitate.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“The message was clear. They’re testing the bond.”
“They’re not testing,” he says, voice low. “They’re hunting.”
“Then we hunt back.”
He finally turns, golden eyes burning. “No. We wait.”
“They’ll regroup. Stronger. Faster. They’ll come for her again.”
“Let them.”
“You can’t protect her if you’re waiting for them to strike.”
“I’m not protecting her,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m using her.”
I don’t flinch. “Liar.”
His jaw tightens. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” I hold his gaze. “You don’t send your consort into battle to test the bond. You send her because you can’t bear the thought of her being caged. Because you need to see her fight. Because you need to know she’s as untamed as you are.”
He stares at me. Long. Hard. And then—
He laughs. Low. Dark. The sound of a man who’s been caught.
“You always were too observant,” he says.
“And you,” I reply, “are too blind.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just turns back to the sigil, his hands clenching at his sides. “They’re not just werewolves. They’re not just rogue. They’re organized. They left a message for her. They know who she is. They know what she means to me.”
“Then they’re not just hunting her.”
“They’re hunting the bond.”
“And if they break it—”
“I die.” He says it calmly. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s already happened. “Slowly. Painfully. A vampire king doesn’t survive the loss of his consort. The magic won’t allow it.”
My stomach tightens. “And her?”
“She’ll live.”
“But not well.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches her as she stands, brushing ash from her hands. She’s speaking to one of the Night Guard, her voice sharp, commanding. She’s not a prisoner. Not a puppet. She’s a force. A storm.
And she’s his.
“She suspects,” I say. “That this is bigger than a border skirmish.”
“Of course she does.”
“She wants to investigate.”
“I won’t let her.”
“You can’t stop her.”
He turns to me, eyes blazing. “I can chain her.”
“You could. But you won’t.” I step closer. “Because you know she’s right. Because you know this isn’t just about werewolves. It’s about the Council. About the bloodline. About the truth she’s uncovering.”
He doesn’t answer.
But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. The doubt. The fear.
He’s not afraid of death.
He’s afraid of losing her.
“Let her go,” I say. “Let her investigate. Let her find the truth. And when she does—” I pause, “—you’ll be ready.”
He stares at me. Then, slowly, he nods.
“Fine,” he says. “But she doesn’t go alone.”
“I’ll go with her.”
“No.” His gaze flicks to me. “You stay with me. I need you here.”
“Then who—”
“You.”
I freeze. “Me?”
“You’re the only one I trust to keep her alive.”
My breath catches. “You’re sending me to protect your consort?”
“I’m sending you to protect the bond.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “And if she dies, I’ll kill you myself.”
I don’t flinch. “Understood, my lord.”
He turns back to Rowan. “Summon her.”
I nod, striding across the square. She sees me coming, her violet eyes narrowing.
“What?” she asks, voice sharp.
“The king wants you.”
“I’m not his dog.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re his heart.”
Her breath hitches. Just once. But I see it. The crack. The vulnerability.
She follows me in silence, boots crunching on ash. When we reach Kaelen, he doesn’t look at her. Just speaks.
“There’s a Blood Market near the Romanian border,” he says. “Black-market hub for blood, magic, and secrets. Werewolves have been spotted there. Trading. Recruiting.”
She lifts her chin. “You want me to go.”
“I’m allowing you to go.”
“Same difference.”
He finally turns, golden eyes burning. “You’ll take Cassien.”
Her gaze flicks to me. “Him?”
“He’s loyal. He’s strong. And he won’t let you die.”
“And if I don’t want him?”
“Then you don’t go.”
She stares at him. Then—
She smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “Fine. But he follows my lead.”
“Agreed.”
“And when I find the truth—”
“You’ll report to me.”
“No.” She steps closer. “I’ll tell you what I want, when I want. And if you try to control me, I’ll walk away.”
For a heartbeat, he says nothing.
Then—
He nods. “You have three days.”
“I’ll need supplies.”
“Take what you need.”
She turns, walking back toward the horses. I follow, but she stops, turning to me.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says.
“I don’t?”
“You could refuse. Tell him you won’t protect me.”
“And if I did,” I say, stepping closer, “he’d send someone else. Someone who wouldn’t care if you lived or died.”
She studies me. “Why do you?”
“Because I’ve seen what he becomes when he loses someone he loves.”
Her breath catches.
“And I don’t want to see it again.”
She doesn’t answer. Just walks away.
We leave at dawn.
The journey to the Blood Market is a two-day ride through the Carpathians—forests of black pine, jagged cliffs, rivers that run red with iron. The air is thick with the scent of decay, of magic gone wrong. Rowan rides in silence, her magic simmering beneath her skin, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
I don’t speak. Not at first. I’ve spent centuries guarding Kaelen, watching him from the shadows, listening to his silence. I know how to be still. How to be quiet. How to be invisible.
But she’s not like him.
She’s fire. She’s storm. She’s alive.
And she’s watching me.
“Why did he send you?” she asks, breaking the silence on the second day.
“To protect you.”
“You could have refused.”
“And he’d have sent someone worse.”
“Like who?”
“Someone who wouldn’t care if you lived or died.”
“And you do?”
“I care about the bond.”
She laughs—sharp, brittle. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.”
She studies me. “You’ve known him a long time.”
“Centuries.”
“And you’ve never seen him like this?”
“No.”
“What’s different?”
“You.”
She looks away, her fingers brushing the mark on her wrist. “He doesn’t love me.”
“He doesn’t know how.”
“And you think he’s learning?”
“I think he’s trying.”
She doesn’t answer. Just rides in silence, the wind tugging at her braid.
We reach the Blood Market at dusk.
It’s hidden in a valley, surrounded by jagged peaks, the entrance guarded by two werewolves in human form—tall, scarred, eyes glowing amber. The market itself is a sprawl of tents, stalls, and black-market shops, lit by flickering torches and the glow of forbidden magic. The air is thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and desperation.
Rowan dismounts, adjusting her cloak. She’s dressed in dark leather, her hair loose, the mark on her wrist hidden beneath a silver bracelet. She looks like a hunter. A predator.
“Stay close,” she murmurs.
“You’re the one who needs watching,” I reply.
She smirks. “Try to keep up.”
We move through the market, silent, observant. Vampires in shadowed hoods. Fae wrapped in illusions. Witches bartering in sigils etched on skin. Werewolves with claws hidden beneath gloves. The whispers follow us—Thorned Blood. Half-breed. The king’s consort.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look down. Just walks like she owns the place.
We stop at a stall selling vials of blood—human, vampire, fae, witch. The vendor, a hunched old man with milky eyes, watches us with interest.
“Looking for something specific?” he croaks.
“Information,” Rowan says, placing a silver coin on the counter. “Werewolves. Recruiting. Trading.”
The man picks up the coin, sniffs it, then nods. “They come. They buy. They sell. They leave.”
“Who leads them?”
“No one. They’re rogue.”
“Liar,” I say, stepping forward. “They left a message. For the Blood Consort.”
The man’s eyes flicker. “Then they’re not so rogue.”
“Who’s behind it?” Rowan presses.
“Ask the Alpha,” he says. “He’s in the back. Playing cards.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She moves through the market, toward a tent at the far end. I follow, hand on my sword.
Inside, five werewolves are playing cards, a pile of gold and blood vials between them. The Alpha—tall, scarred, eyes glowing—looks up as we enter.
“Well, well,” he growls. “If it isn’t the Thorned Blood. Come to play?”
“I came for answers,” Rowan says, stepping forward. “Who sent you to the northern border?”
He laughs. “No one sent us. We go where we please.”
“Then why leave a message for me?”
“Because you’re a traitor. You lie with the vampire. You’re filth.”
“And yet,” I say, stepping beside her, “you didn’t kill her when you had the chance.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches us, his hand inching toward the knife at his belt.
Rowan presses her palm to the mark.
It flares—white-hot—searing into her skin, then into the air, projecting a vision—her in the battle, vines erupting, the Alpha crushed, the bond singing.
The werewolves flinch.
“You see that?” she says, stepping closer. “That’s what happens when you come for me. And if you’re working for someone—” she leans in, “—tell them to stop. Or next time, I won’t just break your spine.”
The Alpha stares at her. Then—
He nods.
“There’s another,” he says. “Another Alpha. Stronger. Older. He’s gathering packs. He’s coming for the bond.”
“Who is he?”
“They call him the Hollow King.”
My blood runs cold.
Rowan doesn’t flinch. “And where is he?”
“In the Blackthorn Vale.”
She steps back. “Then we’ll go to him.”
And then—
A hand grabs her wrist.
She whirls—
But it’s not an enemy.
It’s a child.
A little girl, no older than eight, her face smeared with dirt, her eyes wide with fear. In her hand—a locket. Silver. Tarnished. Etched with a familiar sigil.
My breath stops.
Rowan crouches. “What is it?”
The girl presses the locket into her hand. “For you,” she whispers. “From Mira.”
My stomach drops.
Mira.
Rowan’s mentor.
Her mother.
And the last time we saw her—
She was dying in Rowan’s arms.
Rowan opens the locket.
Inside—a single word, written in blood.
“Traitor.”
And beneath it—a name.
“Orin.”
High Councilor Orin.
The man who said the Council acknowledged her.
The man who claimed justice was served.
The man who’s been watching us all along.
Rowan looks up at me, her violet eyes burning.
“We’re not hunting werewolves,” she says.
“We’re hunting a king.”