The morning after Lyria’s exposure should feel like peace.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like the air before a storm—still, heavy, charged with the kind of tension that makes your skin prickle. The Obsidian Court is quiet, the whispers of rebellion silenced for now, the Night Guard standing straighter, their eyes no longer flickering with doubt when they look at me. Cassien walks beside me like a shadow, his presence steady, but I can feel it—something’s changed. Not in the Court. Not in the bond. But in *him*. A distance. A fracture. Like he’s stepped back to watch, not protect.
And Kaelen—
He watches me like I’m something sacred. Something *his*. But there’s fear beneath it. Not of me. Not of the Court. But of what comes next. Because we both know—
Lyria was just the beginning.
With Orin dead, the Hollow King ash, and the Blood Sigil destroyed, the balance of power has shifted. The Supernatural Council is fractured, its authority crumbling. And where there’s a void—
Others will rush in.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—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 even that feels different now. Not weaker. Not broken. But… heavier. Like the bond isn’t just a connection. Like it’s a claim. A demand. A tether that pulls me toward him, whether I want to go or not.
And I *do* want to go.
That’s the worst part.
I don’t miss the woman I was—the one who came here to kill. I don’t miss the cold focus, the hunger for vengeance, the way my magic used to flare only with rage. I don’t miss the loneliness.
But I miss the *certainty*.
Now, everything is shadow. Everything is doubt. Even my own heart.
Kaelen finds me in the library at dawn, the first light of morning slicing through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured colors across the ancient tomes. I’m seated at the long oak table, maps spread before me, scrolls of old bloodlines unfurled, my fingers tracing the sigil of the Thorned Blood. The same one on the locket. The same one etched into the walls of the Chamber of Binding.
“You’re thinking again,” he says, stepping beside me, his voice low, rough with sleep.
“I’m planning.”
“You don’t need to.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head, his lips warm against my hair. “The war is over.”
“No,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. “It’s just changed shape.”
He studies me—golden eyes burning, jaw tight. “What do you feel?”
“Fear.”
“Of what?”
“Of us.”
He stills. “You don’t trust the bond.”
“I trust *us*.” I press my palm to the mark. “But I don’t trust what it’s becoming. I don’t trust what *I’m* becoming.”
He doesn’t answer. Just cups my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, his gaze searching mine. “You’re not losing yourself,” he murmurs. “You’re becoming who you were always meant to be.”
“And who is that?”
“Mine.”
And for a heartbeat, I believe him.
Then—
A knock.
Cassien steps in, his expression grim. “My lord. There’s a visitor.”
“Who?” Kaelen asks, not turning.
“The Fae High Court.”
My breath catches.
The Fae High Court.
Seelie and Unseelie. Light and shadow. Order and chaos. The rulers of Blackthorn Vale, the keepers of ancient law, the enforcers of the Pact of Thorns—the decree that forbids fae from claiming human-born heirs. A law broken the moment my mother married a witch. A law broken the moment *I* was born.
They’re supposed to be neutral. Distant. Above the petty wars of vampires and werewolves.
But they’re here.
And that means only one thing—
They want something.
“They demand an audience,” Cassien continues. “In the Sanctum. Now.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightens. “Then let them wait.”
“They won’t.”
I stand. “Then let’s not keep them.”
He turns to me. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
He studies me. Then—
He nods.
We find them in the Sanctum—three figures standing in a semicircle, their presence like a blade to the throat. The Seelie envoy is first—tall, radiant, his illusion flawless, his golden hair cascading like sunlight, his eyes the color of summer sky. He wears a gown of white silk, embroidered with silver threads that shift like stars. The Unseelie envoy is opposite—smaller, darker, her skin like moonlight on ash, her hair a cascade of midnight, her eyes twin pools of obsidian. She wears black leather, tight and sharp, her fingers tipped with claws. And between them—
The Arbiter.
Older. Ancient. Her face lined with centuries, her silver hair braided with thorned vines, her eyes closed, her hands clasped before her. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just *waits*.
And I know—
She’s here to judge.
Kaelen steps forward, his voice cutting through the silence. “You were not summoned.”
The Seelie envoy smiles—too perfect, too bright. “We come in peace, King D’Rae. To discuss a matter of… *legitimacy*.”
My pulse hammers.
“And that matter?” Kaelen asks, not looking at me.
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood.” The Seelie’s gaze flicks to me. “Daughter of Lysandra of the Silver Bough. Born of fae and witch. A hybrid. An abomination.”
“Careful,” Kaelen growls.
“The Pact of Thorns is clear,” the Unseelie envoy hisses. “No fae may claim a human-born heir. No hybrid may inherit. No half-blood may rule.”
“And yet,” the Seelie continues, “she stands beside you. Marked. Claimed. *Chosen*.”
“By magic,” the Unseelie spits. “By curse. Not by right.”
“Then you challenge the Blood Claim?” Kaelen asks, stepping closer. “You challenge the bond?”
“We challenge *her* existence,” the Seelie says, voice sweet, deadly. “She is not fae. She is not witch. She is *nothing*. A mistake. A violation of natural law.”
My magic flares—vines twitching beneath my skin, thorns pricking at my sleeves. “And if I say I *am* fae? If I say I *am* witch? If I say I’m *more* than either?”
The Arbiter opens her eyes.
And the world *stops*.
Her gaze locks onto mine—pale, ancient, knowing. And I feel it—
Not magic.
Not power.
But *recognition*.
Like she’s seen me before. Like she’s waited for me.
“Rowan,” she says, her voice like wind through dead leaves. “Daughter of Lysandra. Heir of the Thorned Blood. You are not nothing.”
The Seelie stiffens. “Arbiter—”
“Silence.” She raises a hand, and the Seelie bows his head. “You speak of law. Of purity. Of tradition. But you forget—the Pact of Thorns was not made by the gods. It was made by *men*. By fear. By greed. By those who feared what they could not control.”
“The law is sacred,” the Unseelie whispers.
“And yet,” the Arbiter says, turning to Kaelen, “you broke it. You claimed her. You chose her. And the magic *accepted*.”
“Because it’s not a curse,” I say, stepping forward. “It’s a *calling*.”
“Or a trap,” the Seelie snaps. “The bond is unnatural. It twists the will. It corrupts the blood.”
“And if it’s not?” the Arbiter asks. “If it’s *fate*? If she is not a mistake, but a *bridge*? A union of bloodlines meant to heal what was broken?”
“Then the Court is at risk,” the Unseelie says. “The balance. The order.”
“Or it’s being *rebuilt*,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “The Iron Spire is gone. Orin is dead. The Hollow King is ash. The blood that bound the Council is destroyed. The old rules don’t apply anymore.”
“And what do you propose?” the Seelie asks, voice sharp. “That we tear down centuries of law for *her*?”
“No,” I say. “I propose we *rewrite* them.”
Silence.
Then—
The Arbiter smiles.
“You speak boldly, child.”
“I speak truth.”
“And if the Court refuses?”
“Then I’ll burn it down too.”
The Unseelie snarls—fast, furious—but the Arbiter raises her hand, and she stills.
“You are dangerous,” the Arbiter says. “Like your mother.”
My breath catches.
“She defied the Court. She married a witch. She bore a child of mixed blood. And they called her traitor. They called her whore. They called her *monster*.”
“And yet,” I say, voice low, “she saved Kaelen. She died protecting him.”
“And you?” The Arbiter steps closer. “What will *you* do?”
“I’ll protect him,” I say, stepping beside Kaelen. “I’ll protect *us*. And I’ll protect every hybrid, every outcast, every soul who’s been told they don’t belong.”
The Arbiter studies me—long, hard. Then—
She turns to the envoys. “The Fae High Court will not interfere. The Blood Claim stands. Rowan of the Thorned Blood is recognized as consort to the Vampire King.”
“But the Pact—” the Seelie begins.
“Is *over*,” the Arbiter says, voice final. “The world is changing. And if we do not change with it, we will be left behind.”
And with that—
She turns.
And walks away.
The envoys bow. Follow.
And just like that—
They’re gone.
Kaelen turns to me, his golden eyes burning. “You were brilliant,” he says.
“So were you.”
He steps closer, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
My breath catches.
“But not about me.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Never about you.”
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*.
But as we walk back to the chambers, the bond humming between us, I can’t shake the feeling—
The Fae aren’t done.
The Arbiter may have spoken, but the envoys didn’t bow out of respect.
They bowed out of *strategy*.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.