The locket burns in my palm like a brand.
“Traitor.”
“Orin.”
Two words. One name. And a lifetime of lies collapsing beneath them.
I crouch in the filth of the Blood Market, the stench of blood and desperation thick in the air, the flickering torchlight casting long, jagged shadows across the dirt. The little girl is gone—vanished into the crowd like smoke—but her touch lingers, cold and trembling on my wrist. The locket is real. The blood is real. And Mira—
Mira is alive.
She died in my arms. I felt her last breath. I watched the light leave her eyes. I screamed her name into the void as Kaelen held me, his voice rough with grief, his arms the only thing keeping me from shattering completely.
But she’s not dead.
She’s out there.
And she’s been watching.
“Rowan.”
Cassien’s voice cuts through the haze, low, urgent. He crouches beside me, his hand on my shoulder, grounding. His eyes flick to the locket, then back to my face. “We need to move. This place isn’t safe.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My pulse hammers, my breath comes too fast, too shallow. The mark on my wrist flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *him*. Kaelen. I can feel him through the bond, a steady, insistent hum, like a thread tying us together no matter the distance.
But this—
This is bigger than us.
This is bigger than the Obsidian Court. Bigger than the Blood Claim. Bigger than vengeance.
This is war.
“Orin,” I whisper, the name like ash on my tongue. “He was there. He watched Lyria fall. He said the Council acknowledged me. He said justice was served.”
“And it wasn’t,” Cassien says, voice grim. “He lied.”
“He’s been lying for years.” I stand, clutching the locket, my fingers trembling. “He was there the night my mother died. He stood beside Kaelen. He watched her bleed out on black marble and did nothing.”
“And now he’s hunting us.”
“No.” I lift my chin, my magic simmering beneath my skin, restless, agitated. “He’s hunting the bond. He wants it broken. He wants Kaelen weak. And he’s using the werewolves to do it.”
Cassien doesn’t argue. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “Then we go to him.”
“No.” I turn, scanning the market. The whispers have grown louder—Thorned Blood. Half-breed. The king’s consort.—but I don’t care. Let them talk. Let them fear. “We go to the Blackthorn Vale. To the Hollow King. If Orin’s behind this, he’ll want his puppet close. He’ll want the Alpha who can break the bond.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“Then we walk into it anyway.”
He studies me for a long moment, then—
He nods. “Then we ride.”
We leave the Blood Market at a gallop, the wind tearing at our cloaks, the bond humming between me and Kaelen like a live wire. I don’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I know the truth. Not until I can look him in the eye and say, “The Council is rotten. The man you trusted is the enemy.”
But the bond doesn’t care about secrets.
It doesn’t care about lies.
It only cares about *truth*.
And the truth is—
I’m afraid.
Not of Orin. Not of the Hollow King. Not of the war coming.
But of what this means.
If Orin is the traitor, then the Council is compromised. The Supernatural Council—the body that governs all species, that enforces the Blood Claim, that protects the fragile peace between vampires, werewolves, fae, and witches—is built on betrayal.
And if the Council is corrupt—
Then everything I’ve fought for—everything I’ve believed in—was a lie.
The Blackthorn Vale is a wound in the earth—a valley of twisted trees, blackened roots, and fog that never lifts. The air is thick with decay, with magic gone wrong, with the scent of old blood and older pain. The forest shifts as we ride, paths appearing and vanishing, shadows moving when they shouldn’t.
Fae magic.
But not Seelie.
Unseelie.
Chaos. Shadow. Death.
We dismount at the edge of the clearing, tethering the horses to a gnarled oak. The silence is absolute—no birds, no wind, no breath. Just the pulse of the bond, the thud of my heart, the whisper of my magic beneath my skin.
And then—
He appears.
The Hollow King.
Not a man. Not a beast. Something in between. Tall, skeletal, his skin stretched too tight over bone, his eyes hollow pits of darkness. He wears a crown of thorns—real ones, dripping with sap like blood—and his fingers end in claws that scrape the earth as he walks.
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” he rasps, his voice like dry leaves. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t step back. Just lift my chin, pressing my palm to the mark. “Then you know why I’m here.”
“To kill me?” He laughs—a sound like cracking bone. “You already tried. Your vines crushed my spine. You left me broken. But I rose. I *always* rise.”
My breath catches.
It’s him. The Alpha from the northern border. The one I thought I’d killed.
But he’s not just a werewolf.
He’s something else.
Something older.
“You’re not just an Alpha,” I say, stepping forward. “You’re a ghost. A revenant. You died centuries ago, didn’t you? And someone brought you back.”
His hollow eyes gleam. “Someone with power. With *ambition*.”
“Orin.”
He doesn’t confirm. Doesn’t deny. Just smiles—a rictus of broken teeth. “He promised me vengeance. Promised me a kingdom. Promised me your blood.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed in hate. In rage. In the fire that burns when you’ve been wronged.” He steps closer, his claws dragging through the dirt. “And you, Rowan—you burn with it too. I can smell it. The Thorned Blood doesn’t break. But it *burns*.”
“And you think Orin will let you rule?” I challenge. “You think he’ll share power with a corpse?”
“No.” He lifts a clawed hand, pointing at me. “But he’ll let me destroy you. And when the bond breaks, when the Vampire King dies screaming, then I’ll take what’s left.”
My stomach drops.
It’s not just about me.
It’s about Kaelen.
Orin doesn’t just want the bond broken.
He wants Kaelen dead.
And he’s using the Hollow King to do it.
“You’re a puppet,” I say, stepping closer. “A weapon. And when you’ve served your purpose, he’ll discard you like the rotting thing you are.”
He snarls—fast, furious—and lunges.
I don’t move.
Because I don’t have to.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I cry out, my magic erupting—thorned vines bursting from the ground, the air, the blackened roots, lashing out like whips, wrapping around the Hollow King, yanking him off his feet, thorns digging into flesh, drawing black blood.
He howls.
He fights.
But he’s not fast enough.
I press my palm to the mark.
And the bond explodes.
Not with magic.
Not with fire.
But with *memory*.
Images flood my mind—blinding, searing, unstoppable.
A child. Bleeding. Screaming.
A throne room. Dark. Cold. The scent of blood thick in the air.
And Kaelen—
Younger. Softer. Not the king. Not the monster. Just a man.
He’s on his knees, cradling a body—a woman, her throat torn open, her eyes wide, unseeing.
My mother.
Lysandra.
And he’s weeping.
Not for power. Not for control.
For *her*.
“No,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “Not you. Not *her*.”
And then—
Orin steps forward, his hand on Kaelen’s shoulder. “It’s done. She’s gone. The coup is over.”
“She died protecting me,” Kaelen says, lifting his head, his golden eyes burning with grief. “She gave her life so I could live.”
“And now you must be strong,” Orin says. “You must rule. You must forget.”
“I’ll never forget.”
“Then you’ll never be king.”
The vision fades.
I stumble, gasping, my hands flying to my head, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The Hollow King lies on the ground, still bound in vines, his hollow eyes wide with shock.
“You saw it,” he rasps. “You saw the truth.”
“Yes.” My voice is raw. Shaking. “My mother didn’t die by his hand. She died protecting him. And Orin—” I look up, my violet eyes burning—“Orin helped cover it up. He used her death to control him. To weaken him.”
“And now,” the Hollow King says, “he’s using me to finish what he started.”
“No.” I step forward, pressing my palm to the mark. “Now he’s finished.”
I close my eyes.
And I *push*.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
I send the vision—Kaelen weeping, my mother’s blood on his hands, Orin’s cold words—through the link, down the thread that ties me to him, into his mind, his heart, his soul.
And I feel it—
His shock.
His grief.
His rage.
And beneath it all—
Relief.
Because he’s not alone.
Because I see him.
Because I *know*.
The Hollow King struggles, but the vines hold. I don’t kill him. Not yet. He’s not the real enemy.
Orin is.
“You’ll take him back,” I say, turning to Cassien. “To the Obsidian Court. He’ll stand before the Council. He’ll tell them the truth.”
“And if they don’t believe him?”
“Then I’ll make them.”
We ride back in silence, the Hollow King bound and gagged behind Cassien, his hollow eyes burning with hate. The bond hums between me and Kaelen, steady, insistent, no longer a chain but something more complex. A tether. A thread. A current I can’t ignore.
When we reach the Obsidian Court, Kaelen is waiting.
He stands in the courtyard, his coat drawn tight against the wind, his golden eyes burning. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches as we dismount, as Cassien drags the Hollow King forward, as I step toward him.
And then—
He sees it.
The truth.
Not just in my eyes.
But in the bond.
He staggers, his hand flying to his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “You saw it,” he whispers. “You saw *her*.”
“I saw everything,” I say, stepping closer. “I saw her die. I saw you weep. I saw Orin lie.”
He closes his eyes. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought if you hated me, if you came here to kill me, you’d be safe. That Orin wouldn’t touch you.”
“And now?”
He opens his eyes. Golden. Molten. Endless.
“Now I’ll kill him.”
“No.” I press my palm to the mark. “Now we destroy him. Together.”
He stares at me.
And then—
He pulls me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me, his face burying in my hair. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice rough. “And I’m yours.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“No more lies.”
“No more lies.”
“No more running.”
“No more running.”
He lifts his head, his golden eyes burning. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you want this. That you want *me*. That you’ll never leave.”
I lift my hand, brushing my thumb over his lip. “I want you. I want *us*. And I’ll never leave. Not unless you cast me out.”
He stares at me.
And then—
He kisses me.
Slow. Soft. Aching.
And when he pulls back—
There’s a single tear on his cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb. “You’re crying.”
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
My breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” I whisper. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me.
And for the first time in my life—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like *home*.