The Blood Market stinks of iron and rot.
Not just the kind that clings to old wounds or lingers in slaughterhouses. This is deeper. Older. The scent of blood that’s been spilled for power, for magic, for secrets. It seeps from the stone walls of the underground tunnels beneath Prague, thick as oil, cloying as a curse. The air is damp, cold, alive with whispers—voices in a dozen tongues, bargaining, threatening, begging. Fae wrapped in illusions hawk vials of stolen magic. Werewolves with half-shifted claws barter in silver and bone. Vampires in velvet move like shadows, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
And in the center of it all—
Me.
Mira.
Human witch. Outcast. Mentor. Mother in all but blood.
I pull my hood lower, the frayed wool scratching my cheek, and press myself into the shadows of a crumbling archway. My hands are gnarled, my joints stiff with age, but my magic hums beneath my skin—quiet, controlled, ready. I don’t look like much. Just another broken crone, another relic of a forgotten coven. But they don’t know. They don’t see the sigils etched into my ribs, the ones I carved myself when I was young and desperate. The ones that keep me hidden. That keep me *alive*.
Because I’m not here for power.
I’m not here for magic.
I’m here for *her*.
Rowan.
My girl. My daughter. The child I pulled from the woods, wrapped in her mother’s blood-soaked cloak, screaming as the wolves howled in the distance. I raised her in exile. Taught her to fight. To survive. To hate the man who let her mother die.
And now—
She’s in love with him.
And I don’t know if that makes me proud.
Or terrified.
A vendor calls out—half-fae, half-demon, his eyes glowing red in the dim torchlight. “Fresh blood! Royal-grade! Sourced from the Obsidian Court!”
My stomach twists.
Not from the lie—most of it is animal blood, mixed with glamour. But from the *truth* buried beneath it. Because I know what real royal blood looks like. I’ve seen it spilled. I’ve tasted it on Rowan’s lips when she pressed her palm to the mark and whispered, *“I feel him.”*
And now—
Someone’s selling it.
Not just any blood.
Kaelen’s blood.
I move deeper into the market, my boots silent on the slick stone. The tunnels twist like a serpent’s gut, branching into alcoves where deals are made in blood and breath. A witch in rags offers cursed sigils. A vampire elder trades in memories, draining them from the living for a price. And in the farthest corner—
The Unseelie Coven.
They sit in a circle of black candles, their faces hidden behind masks of bone, their hands moving in silent incantations. Their leader—Lyria’s ally, the one who forged the scar, who whispered lies into the ears of the Council—leans forward, her voice a rasp. “We need more. The Hollow King is gone, but the work continues. The king must fall. The bond must break.”
My breath hitches.
They’re still moving. Still plotting. Even after Lyria was exposed, even after the Sanctum fell, they’re *still* trying to destroy them.
And I—
I can’t let that happen.
I press my palm to the sigil beneath my sleeve—a thorned circle, Rowan’s birthmark, the same one etched into the locket. It flares—faint, warm—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *her*. Not through the bond. Not through magic. But through blood. Through memory. Through the thousand nights I spent teaching her how to cast a fire spell, how to dodge a blade, how to hold her breath when the world was falling apart.
And now—
I have to do the same for her.
I step forward, my voice low, rough. “I have what you need.”
The coven stills. Ten pairs of eyes lock onto me, glowing like embers in the dark.
“And what is that, old woman?” the leader asks, her voice sharp.
“Blood,” I say, pulling a vial from my coat. “Royal-grade. Fresh. Drawn from the king’s veins six months ago.”
Gasps ripple through the circle.
“Prove it,” she demands.
I don’t hesitate. I press my thumb to the sigil on my wrist, letting a drop of my own blood fall onto the glass. It sizzles—white-hot—reacting to the ancient wards I’ve placed on the vial. A lie. A trap. The blood inside is mine. Human. Weak. But the magic makes it *look* like his. Like Kaelen’s. Dark. Thick. Alive with power.
“It’s real,” I say, voice steady. “And it’s yours—for the right price.”
The leader leans forward, her mask tilting. “And what do you want?”
“Information.”
“About what?”
“The Council.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Who funded Orin’s coup? Who gave the order to kill Lysandra? Who’s still pulling the strings?”
She laughs—low, brittle. “You think we’d tell you?”
“No.” I press the vial into her hand. “But you’ll tell *her*.”
Her eyes narrow. “Rowan?”
“She’s not just the king’s consort,” I say, stepping back. “She’s the heir of the Thorned Blood. And if you don’t give me the truth—she’ll burn your coven to ash.”
For a heartbeat, no one speaks.
Then—
The leader nods.
She reaches into her robes, pulling out a scroll sealed with black wax. “This was delivered to Orin six months before the coup. From a Council member. The seal is hidden, but the handwriting is unmistakable.”
My breath stops.
“Who?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer. Just hands me the scroll.
I tuck it into my coat, my fingers trembling. “And the blood?”
“Keep it,” she says, turning away. “It’s useless now. The king’s blood has changed. The bond has altered it. It won’t work in the rituals anymore.”
And then—
She’s gone—vanishing into the shadows, her coven following like wraiths.
I don’t wait.
I turn, moving fast, my heart hammering. The tunnels twist, the air thick with the scent of decay, of magic gone wrong. I can feel them watching—flickers of movement in the corners, whispers curling through the dark. But I don’t stop. I don’t look back.
Because I have the truth.
And I have to get it to Rowan.
I emerge into the city above—Prague at midnight, the spires of the old cathedral cutting into the moonlit sky, the Vltava River black as ink. The streets are empty, the air sharp with frost. I pull my coat tighter, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and press my palm to the sigil again.
It flares—brighter this time—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *her*. Rowan. I can feel her through the bloodline, not the bond, but something older. Something deeper. Like a thread tying us together, no matter the distance.
And then—
A shadow moves.
Not from the alleys.
Not from the rooftops.
From *above*.
I look up—
And see her.
Lyria.
She stands on the edge of the cathedral’s highest spire, her silver hair whipping in the wind, her violet eyes burning, her lips twisted in a smile. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me.
And I know—
She’s not here to kill me.
She’s here to *let* me go.
To let me deliver the message.
To let me think I’ve won.
And then—
She vanishes.
Like smoke.
Like a lie.
I don’t run.
I don’t hide.
I just walk—slow, steady, my hand clutching the scroll like a lifeline. Because I know what she’s doing. She wants me to deliver the truth. She wants Rowan to know. Because the truth isn’t just a weapon.
It’s a *trap*.
And when I reach the safehouse—a crumbling apartment above an old apothecary—I lock the door behind me, light a single candle, and unseal the scroll.
The handwriting is sharp. Precise. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Because I’ve seen it before.
In Rowan’s locket.
In the letters her mother wrote.
In the bloodline records of the Thorned Blood.
And now—
It’s here.
On this scroll.
From a Council member.
From someone inside Rowan’s own bloodline.
From her *aunt*.
My breath stops.
The words blur. The candle flickers. The room tilts.
Because it’s not just a name.
It’s a *betrayal*.
Not from Orin.
Not from the Council.
From *family*.
And now—
I have to send the message.
I pull out a slip of parchment, my fingers trembling, and write one word.
“Traitor.”
Then I seal it in a vial, attach it to the leg of a raven—black as night, its eyes glowing with magic—and send it into the storm.
It flies—fast, silent—toward the Obsidian Court, toward Rowan, toward the truth.
And as I watch it disappear into the clouds—
I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
Because Rowan thinks she’s fighting a war.
But she’s walking into a reckoning.
And when she learns the truth—
When she learns that the woman who raised her to hate Kaelen…
Was the one who killed her mother—
She won’t just break.
She’ll *burn*.
And I—
I can’t save her from that.
Not this time.
Because some truths—
They don’t set you free.
They destroy you.
And as the candle burns low, the shadows closing in, I press my palm to the sigil one last time.
It flares—faint, warm—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *her*.
“I’m sorry, Rowan,” I whisper. “I tried to protect you. I tried to keep you safe. But some lies… they’re too big to carry alone.”
And then—
I wait.
For the storm.
For the fire.
For the girl I raised to become the woman who will burn the world down.
And when she does—
I’ll be ready.
Not to stop her.
But to stand beside her.
Even if it kills me.