The silence after Mira’s death is worse than the scream.
It’s not empty. It’s not still. It’s *thick*—like the air itself is mourning, like the Obsidian Court has drawn breath and refused to let it go. Rowan doesn’t cry. Not at first. She just kneels in the wreckage of the Chamber of Binding, cradling Mira’s body, her fingers tangled in the old woman’s silver-streaked hair, her face blank, her violet eyes wide and unseeing. The bond between us—usually a steady hum, a pulse of heat beneath my skin—has gone cold. Not broken. Not severed. But *frozen*, like it’s afraid to move, afraid to wake her.
I don’t touch her.
Not yet.
I know what she needs. Not comfort. Not words. Not even me. She needs the silence. She needs the space to *feel* it—the weight of loss, the finality of death, the truth that no magic, no bond, no power can bring back the ones we love.
And still—
I want to tear the world apart.
Lyria is dead. Shot through the heart by the very woman who raised Rowan, who taught her to fight, to survive, to *live*. The irony isn’t lost on me. The woman who spent centuries clawing for power, who forged lies and scarred her own neck to claim me, died at the hands of a human witch with nothing but love and a silver bullet.
And yet—
It doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like ash.
The Night Guard stands back, weapons lowered, faces grim. Cassien is on his knees, one hand pressed to a gash on his temple, the other clutching the hilt of his shattered sword. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches Rowan, his expression unreadable. But I see it—the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for her, to pull her away from the body, to *protect* her.
But he knows better.
So do I.
Because Rowan doesn’t need protection.
She needs vengeance.
And I—
I need to give it to her.
“We take her home,” I say, voice low, rough.
No one argues.
No one questions.
Cassien rises, nods once, and steps forward, gently lifting Mira’s body into his arms. She’s small, fragile in death, her face pale, her lips parted as if she died mid-sentence. Mid-*warning*. Mid-*love*.
Rowan doesn’t resist. Doesn’t protest. Just stands, her hands trembling, her breath shallow, and follows as we carry Mira through the ruins of the Iron Spire. The air is thick with the scent of blood and scorched stone, the sky bruised with storm clouds, the wind howling through the broken towers like a dirge. The bond remains cold, distant, but I can feel her—just beneath the silence, just beyond the grief—burning.
She’s not broken.
She’s *ignited*.
When we reach the Obsidian Court, I don’t take her to the chambers. Not yet. I lead her to the Garden of Thorns—a hidden courtyard at the heart of the fortress, where black roses bloom from living vines, their petals edged with silver, their scent sharp as a blade. It’s quiet here. Sacred. The kind of place where the dead are remembered, where the living come to grieve.
Cassien lays Mira’s body on a stone bier, draped in crimson silk, her hands folded over her chest, a single black rose between her fingers. Rowan steps forward, her boots silent on the moss-covered stone, and kneels beside her.
She doesn’t speak.
Just presses her palm to the mark on her wrist.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through her, a wave so intense I stagger, my fangs baring, my magic coiling beneath my skin in response. Her magic erupts—vines bursting from the ground, the air, the walls, curling around Mira’s bier, wrapping her in a living shroud of thorned roses, their petals unfurling like a final embrace.
And then—
She *burns*.
Not with fire. Not with flame.
With magic.
White-hot, searing, *unstoppable*. The vines ignite, their thorns glowing like embers, their leaves curling into ash as they consume the silk, the stone, the air itself. The scent of roses and blood fills the courtyard, the heat so intense it warps the light, the sound like a thousand whispers rising into the night.
And when it’s over—
There’s nothing left.
No body. No bier. No silk.
Just a single, perfect black rose, resting on the stone.
Rowan collapses.
I catch her before she hits the ground, my arms wrapping around her, pulling her against my chest. She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t speak. Just buries her face in my neck, her breath hot and ragged, her body trembling.
“I’m here,” I murmur, holding her. “I’m here.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just clings to me, her fingers digging into my coat, her magic still humming beneath her skin, restless, *hungry*.
And I know—
This isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.
Because Mira’s last words weren’t just a farewell.
They were a *command*.
“Stay alive. For me. For him. For the future.”
And Rowan—
She’s going to obey.
But not the way Mira meant.
She’s not going to live.
She’s going to *fight*.
I carry her to the chambers, lay her on the bed, and strip off her bloodstained clothes, my fingers brushing over every scar, every thorn-mark, every place where she’s bled for me. She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t open her eyes. Just lies there, pale, still, like a queen in her tomb.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *her*. Not grief. Not rage. But *need*. Raw. Unfiltered. And it’s not just hers.
It’s mine too.
Because I’ve spent centuries ruling alone. Centuries of silence, of cold logic, of power without love. And now—
I can’t imagine a world without her.
I climb into bed beside her, pull her into my chest, and wrap my arms around her, my face burying in her hair. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes—slow, deep, like she’s trying to remember how.
And then—
She turns.
Not away.
Toward me.
Her hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek, my jaw, the scar on my neck. Her touch is light, almost reverent, like she’s memorizing me, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“You’re alive,” she whispers.
“Because of you.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, her violet eyes burning. “Then prove it.”
My breath hitches.
“What do you want?”
“I want,” she says, voice low, deadly, “to burn the world down.”
And I—
I don’t hesitate.
“Then we’ll burn it together.”
She doesn’t kiss me.
Doesn’t touch me.
Just presses her palm to the mark.
The bond explodes.
Heat crashes through us, a wave so intense the bed groans, the air shimmers, the vines in the walls erupting, curling around us like a living cage. Her magic flares—vines bursting from her skin, thorns pricking at her sleeves, her breath coming in ragged gasps. I don’t stop her. Don’t hold back. Just pull her closer, my fangs grazing her neck, my hands framing her face, my body pressing against hers.
“Say it,” I growl. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she breathes, arching into me. “And you’re *mine*.”
And then—
We burn.
Not with sex. Not with release.
With *magic*.
Our powers collide—hers wild, untamed, born of grief and rage; mine ancient, controlled, honed by centuries of war. The bond hums between us, not just in our wrists, but in our chests, our souls, our *everything*. Vines lash out, cracking the walls, shattering the mirrors, wrapping around us, pressing us together. The chandelier shatters. The windows explode. The headboard splinters.
And still—
We don’t stop.
Because this isn’t about pleasure.
It’s about *survival*.
It’s about proving we’re still alive.
It’s about proving we’re still *together*.
When it’s over, we collapse—breathless, trembling, *ruined*. The room is a wreck. The air thick with the scent of blood, sex, and magic. And Rowan—
She’s awake.
Her eyes are open, her gaze sharp, her body humming with power. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just presses her palm to the mark, then swings her legs over the edge of the bed.
“We’re going back,” she says.
“To the Iron Spire?”
“To the *truth*.” She stands, her voice steady, her magic simmering beneath her skin. “Mira didn’t just die for me. She died to give me a message. And I’m going to hear it.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“Then we walk into it anyway.”
I don’t argue. Don’t try to stop her. Just rise, dress, and follow.
Because I know—
This isn’t just her war.
It’s mine.
It’s *ours*.
We ride at dawn, a small contingent of Night Guard flanking us, our cloaks drawn tight against the chill. The bond hums between us, steady and insistent, a second heartbeat that pulses in time with my own. But beneath it—
Something darker.
A pull. A whisper. A thread leading deep into the heart of the Iron Spire.
And I know—
She’s not just going back for answers.
She’s going back for *revenge*.
We reach the Spire by midday.
It’s quieter than before. No wind. No howling. Just silence—thick, heavy, *waiting*. The gates hang off their hinges, the towers cracked, the walls scorched. But something’s different.
The runes.
They’re glowing.
Faint at first, pulsing beneath the stone like a heartbeat. Then brighter. Stronger. Until the entire Chamber of Binding is lit with white-hot light, the sigils etched into the floor burning with ancient magic.
And in the center—
A scroll.
Sealed with black wax. Etched with the sigil of the Thorned Blood.
Rowan doesn’t hesitate.
She steps forward, her boots silent on the stone, and breaks the seal.
One word.
“Remember.”
That’s all.
No explanation. No context. No name.
Just that single, devastating word—inked in a hand I’d recognize anywhere.
Mira’s.
Rowan 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 closes her eyes. And then—
She *remembers*.
Not a vision. Not a memory.
A *truth*.
Her mother didn’t die protecting Kaelen.
She died protecting *Rowan*.
And the man who stood silent as she bled out on black marble—
Wasn’t a monster.
He was her *father*.
My breath stops.
Rowan opens her eyes.
And for the first time—
She looks at me.
Not with hate.
Not with fear.
With *recognition*.
“You knew,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say.
“And you never told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say, stepping closer, “if you knew the truth… you might have loved me sooner.”
And then—
She slaps me.
Hard. Sharp. A crack that echoes through the chamber.
But I don’t flinch.
Just hold her gaze.
And then—
She pulls me into her chest, holding me, her fingers threading through my hair. “Then stay alive,” she whispers. “For me. For us. For the future we’re going to build.”
I don’t answer.
Just hold her.
And for the first time—
I don’t feel like a king.
I don’t feel like a monster.
I feel like *home*.
But as we walk back to the Obsidian Court, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.