The Obsidian Court has always been a place of shadows.
Not just the kind that cling to the corners of torch-lit halls or pool beneath the thrones of ancient kings. No—the shadows here are alive. They breathe. They watch. They remember.
And today, they’re restless.
I stand at the edge of the war room, my back straight, my hands clasped behind me, the weight of my sword a familiar comfort at my hip. The air is thick with tension—sharp as a blade, heavy as a curse. The Night Guard are assembled, their armor gleaming, their eyes hard. Maps of the Blackthorn Vale are spread across the table, sigils etched into the stone floor still pulsing faintly with the Hollow King’s mark. But it’s not the enemy that has them on edge.
It’s *her*.
Rowan.
She stands beside Kaelen, her violet eyes burning, her presence a storm wrapped in silk. She’s changed. Not just in power—though the vines that curl around her wrists like living cuffs are proof enough of that. But in *certainty*. Where once she hesitated, now she commands. Where once she fought to survive, now she fights to rule.
And Kaelen—
He watches her like she’s the only light in his darkness.
I’ve seen it before. That look. The way his golden eyes soften when she speaks. The way his hand brushes hers, not for show, but because he *needs* to touch her. The way he flinches when she bleeds, like her pain is his own.
He’s not just her king.
He’s her slave.
And I—
I’m the only one who sees it.
“The Hollow King is dead,” Kaelen says, his voice cutting through the silence. “His mark is broken. His forces are scattered. But the threat remains. He was a puppet. And every puppet has a master.”
Rowan steps forward, her voice low, deadly. “Orin is gone. But someone else is pulling the strings. Someone who wants the Council in chaos. Someone who wants *us* divided.”
“Lyria,” I say.
Every head turns.
Kaelen’s gaze narrows. “You have proof?”
I don’t hesitate. I step forward, placing a sealed scroll on the table. “This came from a Blood Market informant in Prague. A coven of Unseelie witches—Lyria’s allies—have been moving in secret. They’ve been funneling blood, magic, and weapons to rogue werewolf packs. Payment was made in silver… and in a vial of blood.”
Rowan’s breath hitches. “My blood?”
“No.” I meet her eyes. “Kaelen’s.”
“Impossible,” Kaelen says. “My blood is guarded. No one could steal it.”
“Not steal,” I correct. “*Take*.” I unroll the scroll, revealing a sketch—a scar on a woman’s neck. Crescent-shaped. Familiar. “Lyria claims you marked her. That you claimed her as your Blood Consort years ago. But that’s a lie. And if we’re going to stop her, we need to prove it.”
Rowan’s magic flares—vines twitching beneath her skin, thorns pricking at her sleeves. “We already know it’s a lie.”
“The Court doesn’t,” I say. “And right now, they’re divided. Half believe you’re the rightful consort. The other half think you’re a half-blood usurper, using dark magic to bind the king. If we don’t expose the truth—”
“Then the Court will turn,” Kaelen finishes, his voice cold.
“And war will follow,” I say.
Rowan turns to Kaelen. “Then we expose her. Publicly. In front of the Council.”
He studies her. Then nods. “Prepare the Sanctum. We convene at dusk.”
The Night Guard bows, disperses. I remain.
“You’re certain of this?” Kaelen asks, stepping closer.
“I’ve known Lyria for centuries,” I say. “She’s cunning. Ruthless. She’s wanted you since the moment she first saw you. But you never gave her what she wanted. Not truly. So she took it. A scar. A story. A lie.”
“And now she’s using it to destroy us.”
“No.” I meet his gaze. “She’s using it to *have* you.”
He says nothing. Just turns, walking toward the window, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. “You’ve always been loyal, Cassien.”
“I serve the Court,” I say. “Not just the king.”
He glances at me. “And Rowan?”
“She’s not just your consort,” I say. “She’s your equal. Your match. And if you lose her—”
“I’ll die,” he says quietly. “I know.”
And for the first time, I see it.
Not just love.
But *fear*.
Not of war.
Not of enemies.
But of losing her.
And I—
I understand.
Because I’ve felt it too.
Not for her.
But for *him*.
Kaelen is the only family I’ve ever known. The only one who saw me—not as a half-blood, not as a mistake, but as a weapon worth sharpening. He took me in when the others would have cast me out. Trained me. Trusted me.
And now—
He’s letting her in.
And I don’t know if I can stand beside them both.
But I will.
Because duty is not a choice.
It’s a vow.
Dusk falls like a shroud over the Obsidian Court.
The Sanctum is packed—vampires in velvet, fae wrapped in illusions, werewolves with eyes glowing amber, witches with sigils etched into their skin. They fill the semicircle of bone thrones, their whispers curling through the air like smoke. The air is thick with incense—myrrh, dragon’s blood, crushed night-bloom petals—burning in silver censers that hang from the vaulted ceiling. The stained-glass windows cast fractured light across the black marble floor, painting the room in hues of crimson and shadow.
And at the center—
Kaelen and Rowan.
They stand side by side, not touching, but close enough that their arms brush. She wears a gown of deep crimson, the left sleeve cut away, baring the mark on her wrist. It flares faintly, a pulse of white-hot light, a reminder. A warning. A claim.
He is dressed in black silk, his coat drawn tight, his expression unreadable. But I see it—the way his fingers twitch at his side, like he wants to reach for her. The way his gaze flicks to her, just once, before he turns to the Council.
“You summoned us,” says a Seelie envoy, his illusion flickering. “Why?”
“To expose a lie,” Kaelen says, his voice cutting through the silence. “To reveal a traitor.”
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
And then—
She appears.
Lyria Vex.
She walks like a queen—tall, elegant, draped in black silk that clings to her curves like shadow. Her silver hair is pulled back, her violet eyes burning, her lips painted the color of dried blood. She smirks as she takes her seat, her gaze flicking to Rowan, then to Kaelen.
“You called me,” she purrs. “I came.”
“You claim to bear my mark,” Kaelen says, stepping forward. “That I claimed you as my Blood Consort years ago.”
“And you did,” she says, lifting her chin. “Before *her*.” She jerks her head toward Rowan. “Before the half-blood whore stole my place.”
Rowan doesn’t flinch. Just presses her palm to the mark. It flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through her, through the bond, through the room.
“Your mark is fake,” she says, voice low, deadly. “And we’re going to prove it.”
Lyria laughs—cold, brittle. “You have no proof.”
“We do.”
I step forward, holding up the scroll. “This is a record from the Blood Market in Prague. A transaction log. Lyria Vex purchased a vial of Kaelen D’Rae’s blood six months ago. Payment: one ounce of Unseelie silver, and a lock of her hair.”
The chamber erupts.
Lyria’s smirk falters. “Lies. Forged evidence.”
“No forgery,” I say, stepping closer. “The vial still exists. Hidden in her chambers. And the blood—” I turn to Rowan. “Test it. Through the bond.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
She presses her palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through her, a wave so intense she gasps, her magic flaring—vines erupting from her skin, curling around her arms, her neck. She steps forward, her violet eyes burning, her voice a whisper. “Let’s see what your blood says, Lyria.”
She reaches out—
And touches the scar.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
The vision.
Not magic. Not power. But *memory*.
Lyria, in a dimly lit chamber. A vampire elder with cracked obsidian eyes. A silver dagger. The scar being carved—not with magic, but with steel. Blood dripping onto the stone. A whisper: *“This will make him believe.”*
And then—
Rowan *pushes*.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
She sends the vision—through the link, down the thread that ties her to Kaelen, into the minds of every Council member in the chamber.
The High Priestess gasps. The werewolf Alpha snarls. The Seelie envoy steps back, his illusion flickering.
And Lyria—
She staggers, her hand flying to her neck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “You can’t—” she whispers. “You can’t do this.”
“I just did,” Rowan says, stepping closer. “You forged the mark. You stole his blood. You lied to the Council. And for what? To have him?”
Lyria’s eyes burn with hate. “He was *mine* first.”
“No,” Kaelen says, stepping forward. “You were never mine. You were a distraction. A political alliance. A means to an end. And when that end was served, I let you go.”
“And her?” Lyria spits, jerking her head toward Rowan. “You love *her*?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I would die for her.”
Her breath hitches.
And then—
She laughs. Low. Broken. “Then you’ll die.”
“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer. “But I’ll die knowing I chose right.”
He turns to me. “Remove her.”
“And if she returns?” I ask.
“Then kill her.”
Lyria doesn’t fight as the Night Guard drag her away. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg. Just watches Rowan, her violet eyes burning with hate, with jealousy, with the knowledge that she’s lost.
And when the doors close behind her—
Silence.
Then—
Kaelen turns to Rowan, his golden eyes burning. “You were brilliant,” he says.
“So were you.”
He steps closer, his hand lifting to her wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
Her breath catches.
“But not about me.”
She lifts her gaze to his. “Never about you.”
And then—
He kisses her.
Slow. Soft. Aching.
And when he pulls back—
There’s a single tear on his cheek.
She brushes it away with her thumb. “You’re crying.”
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
Her breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now I’m alive again.”
She pulls him into her chest, holding him, her fingers threading through his hair. “Then stay alive,” she whispers. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds her.
And I—
I turn away.
Because for the first time in my life—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a guard.
I feel like a ghost.
The Sanctum empties, the Council bowing, leaving in silence. Rowan and Kaelen stay, their bond humming between them like a live wire. I follow them back to the chambers, my footsteps echoing in the empty hall.
When we reach the door, Kaelen turns to me. “You did well today, Cassien.”
“I served the Court,” I say.
He studies me. Then nods. “Rest. We’ll need you tomorrow.”
“Always,” I say.
But as I walk away, I know—
Something has changed.
Not just in the Court.
Not just in the bond.
But in me.
Because I’ve spent my life believing in duty.
In loyalty.
In the unbreakable chain of command.
And now—
I’m not sure I can stand in the shadow of their love.
Not when I’ve never had it.
Not when I’ve never been chosen.
Not when I’ve never been *seen*.
But I will.
Because I made a vow.
And I don’t break my promises.
Even if they break me.