The cottage smells of damp earth, old magic, and blood.
Not fresh blood. Not spilled in violence. But something older. Deeper. The kind that seeps into wood, into stone, into the bones of a place. It clings to the air like a curse, thick and cloying, and the moment I step over the threshold, the bond flares—hot, sudden—warning me.
Rowan doesn’t flinch. She walks in like she owns the shadows, her boots silent on the packed dirt floor, her violet eyes scanning the room with the precision of a hunter. The cottage is small—crude, really—walls of warped timber and moss-covered stone, a single window cracked and clouded with age. A fire burns low in the hearth, casting flickering light across the shelves lined with dried herbs, vials of dark liquid, sigils etched into bone. And in the center of it all—
Mira.
Rowan’s mentor. Her mother in all but blood. The woman who raised her in exile, who taught her to hate me, who trained her to kill.
And now—
She stands before us, frail but unbroken, her silver hair pulled back, her hands gnarled with age but steady. Her eyes—sharp, fierce—lock onto mine.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she says, voice rough. “Not together.”
“You sent the message,” Rowan replies, stepping forward. “You summoned me.”
“I summoned *you*.” Her gaze flicks to me. “Not him.”
“Then you should’ve been clearer,” I say, stepping beside Rowan. “Because she doesn’t move without me. Not anymore.”
Mira’s jaw tightens. “You’ve already changed her.”
“No,” Rowan says, lifting her chin. “I’ve *become*.”
The silence that follows is heavy—charged with history, with grief, with the weight of decades of lies. I don’t look at Rowan. I don’t need to. I can feel her through the bond—her pulse, her breath, the simmering magic beneath her skin. She’s not afraid. Not of Mira. Not of this place. Not of the truth we’re about to uncover.
But I am.
Not for myself.
For *her*.
Because I know what it’s like to have the foundation of your life shattered. To realize the people you trusted—the ones who raised you, who shaped you—were lying from the beginning. And if Mira is about to tell her something that breaks that bond between us—
I don’t know if I’ll survive it.
“The blood,” Rowan says, pressing her palm to the locket. “The vial. You said it was mine. From the night I was born.”
Mira doesn’t answer. Just walks to the hearth, stirring the embers with a blackened stick. “They took it,” she says, voice low. “Orin’s men. They came in the night. Lysandra was already bleeding out. She’d been stabbed—by one of her own. A cousin. A traitor in the bloodline.”
My breath catches.
Rowan’s mother didn’t die by my hand.
She died by betrayal.
And I—
I held her as she died.
I felt her last breath.
I promised her I’d protect her daughter.
And I failed.
“They took the child’s blood,” Mira continues. “While she screamed. While Lysandra begged them to stop. They said it was for the Council. For balance. For *peace*.” She spits the word like poison. “But it was never about peace. It was about control. About weakening the hybrids. About ensuring no half-blood could ever rise to power.”
Rowan’s magic flares—vines twitching beneath her skin, thorns pricking at her sleeves. “And you let them?”
“I didn’t *let* them,” Mira snaps. “I was bound. Silenced. They drugged me. Left me for dead in the woods.”
“And then?”
“Then I found you.” Her voice cracks. “A screaming infant, wrapped in your mother’s cloak, left in a hollow tree. They thought you were dead. But you weren’t. You were *alive*. And you were *hers*. So I took you. I raised you. I taught you to survive. To fight. To *remember*.”
“To hate him,” Rowan whispers.
Mira lifts her gaze to me. “To hate the man who let your mother die.”
“I didn’t let her die,” I say, stepping forward. “I *tried* to save her. I fought the assassins. I held her as she bled. I *wept* for her.”
“And then you let Orin cover it up.”
“Because he said it was the only way to protect Rowan.”
“Liar.”
“Truth.” I turn to Rowan. “I thought if you hated me, if you believed I killed her, you’d be safe. That Orin wouldn’t touch you. That he’d see you as a weapon, not a threat.”
She stares at me.
And then—
She nods.
Just once.
But it’s enough.
“The blood,” she says, turning back to Mira. “Where is it?”
“Hidden.”
“Where?”
“In the Iron Spire. In the Chamber of Binding. They’ve been using it for decades—to weaken the hybrids, to control the bloodlines, to ensure no one like you could ever rise.”
Rowan’s breath hitches. “And if it’s destroyed?”
“Then the bindings break. The lies unravel. The Council falls.”
“And Orin?”
“Dies.”
For a heartbeat, no one speaks.
Then—
Rowan lifts her chin. “Then we burn it.”
Mira’s eyes widen. “You don’t understand what you’re saying. The Iron Spire is guarded. Fortified. You’ll never get inside.”
“We don’t have to.” Rowan presses her palm to the mark. “We have the bond. We have the truth. And we have *each other*.”
Mira studies her. Then—
She steps forward, pressing a small vial into Rowan’s hand. “Then take this. It’s a piece of the original binding. A sliver of your blood, preserved in wax. If you destroy it—while touching the main vessel—it’ll trigger a chain reaction. The magic will collapse. The Council will fall.”
Rowan takes it, her fingers trembling. “And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then you die.”
“And if it does?”
“Then you become what you were always meant to be.”
Rowan doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just pockets the vial, her violet eyes burning. “Then we go.”
“Now?” Mira asks.
“Now.”
Mira nods. “Then may the old gods watch over you.”
We leave the cottage in silence, the bond humming between us like a live wire. The forest is still—no wind, no birds, no breath—just the crunch of our boots on frost-covered earth, the pulse of our hearts, the weight of what we’re about to do.
We don’t speak.
We don’t need to.
Because we both know—
This isn’t just a mission.
This is a reckoning.
The Iron Spire rises from the Vienna skyline like a blade—black stone, jagged spires, glowing with forbidden magic. It’s the heart of the Supernatural Council, the seat of power for all species, the place where bloodlines are judged, where bonds are broken, where hybrids are outlawed.
And tonight—
We’re going to burn it down.
We approach from the north, cloaked in shadow, moving like ghosts through the ruins of an old cathedral. The air is thick with the scent of decay, of magic gone wrong. The Spire looms ahead, its gates guarded by Council enforcers—vampires in silver armor, werewolves with claws bared, fae wrapped in illusions.
“We can’t fight them all,” Rowan whispers, crouched beside me.
“We don’t have to.” I press my palm to the mark. “We just have to get inside.”
She lifts her chin. “Then let me go first.”
“No.”
“Kaelen—”
“You’re not doing this alone.” My voice is low, rough. “If we’re going to burn the Council, we do it *together*.”
She stares at me. Then—
She nods.
We move as one—blindingly fast, a whirlwind of shadow and thorn. I take the left flank, fangs bared, claws out, tearing through the enforcers before they can react. Rowan takes the right—her magic erupting, vines lashing out, thorns impaling chests, snapping necks. We don’t speak. We don’t hesitate. We just *destroy*.
And then—
We’re inside.
The Chamber of Binding is deep beneath the Spire—a circular room of black stone, the walls lined with vials of blood, sigils etched into the floor, the air thick with the scent of old magic and old lies. And in the center—
The vessel.
A obsidian urn, pulsing with dark energy, filled with a thick, coagulated liquid—blood. *Her* blood. The blood they stole from her the night she was born.
Rowan steps forward, her magic simmering beneath her skin. “This is it.”
I don’t answer. Just watch her, my heart hammering, my fangs aching, my body coiled with tension. Because I know what she’s about to do.
And I know what it could cost.
She pulls the vial from her pocket, her fingers trembling. “When I break it—when I touch it to the vessel—it’ll trigger the collapse.”
“And if the magic rebounds?”
“Then I die.”
“And if you live?”
She turns to me, her violet eyes burning. “Then we rule.”
I step forward, cupping her face in my hands. “Then live.”
She presses her palm to the mark.
It flares—white-hot—searing into her skin, then into the air, projecting a vision—her in the Sanctum, the bond sealing, the Council falling, Orin screaming as the magic consumes him.
And then—
She drops the vial.
It shatters on the stone.
And the world *explodes*.
Heat crashes through the chamber, a wave so intense I cry out, my body thrown back, my vision blurring. The urn cracks—then shatters—black blood spilling across the floor, the sigils flaring to life, the vials on the walls exploding in a rain of glass and gore.
And Rowan—
She stands in the center of it, her arms outstretched, her magic erupting—thorned vines bursting from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, wrapping around the collapsing magic, binding it, *containing* it.
“Rowan!” I scream, lunging toward her.
But the magic lashes out—
A blade of pure energy, sharp and deadly, slicing through the air—
And into her.
She gasps—staggering, blood blooming across her shoulder—her knees buckling.
“No!” I roar, catching her before she falls, my arms wrapping around her, my fangs bared, my magic coiling beneath my skin.
“Kaelen—” she whispers, her breath ragged. “It’s working. The Council—”
“I don’t care about the Council,” I growl, pressing my palm to the wound. “I care about *you*.”
She smiles—weak, trembling. “Then stay with me.”
And then—
The chamber collapses.
Stone rains from the ceiling, the walls cracking, the magic imploding in a vortex of shadow and fire. I hold her—shielding her with my body, my coat, my blood—as the world comes apart around us.
And when the dust settles—
We’re alive.
But she’s bleeding.
Badly.
I carry her through the ruins, my arms tight around her, my fangs aching, my body trembling with the need to *bite*, to *claim*, to *save* her. But I don’t. Not yet. Because I know—
If I turn her, she’ll never forgive me.
And I’d rather die than lose her trust.
We make it to the surface—just as the first light of dawn cuts through the smoke. The Iron Spire is in ruins—its spires cracked, its magic gone, its power broken. The Council is in chaos—spies fleeing, nobles screaming, enforcers scrambling.
And in the center of it all—
Orin.
He stands amidst the wreckage, his silver hair matted with blood, his eyes wide with disbelief. He sees us—sees Rowan in my arms, sees the blood on her shoulder, sees the vial shattered at her feet.
“You,” he whispers. “You’ve destroyed everything.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward, Rowan cradled against my chest. “*You* did.”
He snarls—lunging at me with a dagger—
But Rowan moves first.
Her hand shoots out—vines erupting from the ground, wrapping around his wrist, yanking the blade from his grip. He stumbles—falls to his knees—and she stands, swaying, blood soaking her sleeve, her violet eyes burning.
“You took my blood,” she says, voice low, deadly. “You used my mother’s death to control Kaelen. You tried to break our bond. You tried to *kill* me.”
“And now?” Orin spits.
“Now,” she says, pressing her palm to the mark, “you *burn*.”
The vines tighten—thorns digging into his flesh, drawing blood—and he screams, a sound so raw it echoes through the ruins.
But I don’t let her kill him.
I step forward, pressing my boot to his chest, pinning him down. “No,” I say, looking at Rowan. “He doesn’t die by your hand. He dies by *mine*.”
She stares at me.
Then—
She nods.
I lean down, my fangs bared, my voice a whisper. “You wanted war, Orin? You’ve got it. And you’ve lost.”
And then—
I snap his neck.
The silence that follows is absolute.
Then—
Rowan collapses.
I catch her—lowering her gently to the ground, my hands pressing to the wound, my voice rough with panic. “Stay with me,” I whisper. “*Please*.”
She lifts a trembling hand, brushing her thumb over my lip. “I told you to stay with me.”
“I am.”
“Then don’t let go.”
And then—
She closes her eyes.
Her breath hitches.
And for the first time in three hundred years—
I cry.
Not for power.
Not for control.
But for *her*.
Because if she dies—
I die with her.
I press my wrist to her lips. “Drink,” I growl. “*Live*.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
She bites—deep, desperate—and my blood floods her, thick with magic, with life, with centuries of power. The wound begins to close. Her breath steadies. Her pulse strengthens.
And when she opens her eyes—
They’re glowing.
Violet. Electric. *Alive*.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers.
“And you’re mine,” she breathes.
And for the first time—
I believe it.