The walk back to the Obsidian Court feels like crossing a battlefield I didn’t know I’d already lost.
Not because of the ruins we leave behind—the shattered Spire, the scorched Chamber of Binding, the ghost of Lyria’s body cooling on cracked stone. No. It’s because of the silence between us. Not the quiet of grief, not the hush of exhaustion, but the kind of stillness that follows a detonation. The world is intact, but nothing will ever be the same.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—white-hot, alive—but this time, the pulse of heat isn’t comfort. It’s a brand. A reckoning. Because now I know. Not just the truth about my mother. Not just the lie I’ve carried like armor since I was a child. But the deeper, more devastating truth:
Kaelen knew.
He knew my mother died protecting *me*.
He knew Orin’s coup was meant to kill the infant heir—the half-blood daughter who could unite fae and witch bloodlines, who could break the Pact of Thorns from within.
And he knew—*he knew*—that I was not just the daughter of Lysandra of the Silver Bough.
I was his.
Not by bond.
By blood.
And he said nothing.
I don’t look at him as we ride. Don’t speak. Don’t reach for the bond. I just feel it—humming beneath my skin, a live wire of shared memory, of suppressed truth, of centuries of silence. He rides beside me, his presence a wall of shadow and restraint, his golden eyes burning with something I can’t name. Not guilt. Not fear. But *regret*. Deep, ancient, carved into his bones.
And I hate him for it.
Not because he kept the secret.
But because he thought he was protecting me.
Because he believed, all this time, that love was something to be hidden. Something dangerous. Something that would make me weak.
And I—
I believed hate would make me strong.
The Court looms ahead, its obsidian spires cutting into the storm-heavy sky, its stained-glass windows glowing faintly with residual magic. The Night Guard flanking us are silent, their faces grim, their weapons drawn. Cassien rides at the rear, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but I feel it—his tension, his awareness. He knows something has shifted. Not just in the air. Not just in the bond.
In *us*.
We dismount in the courtyard, our boots crunching on frost-covered stone. The air is thick with the scent of iron and crushed moonpetals, the wind sharp with the promise of snow. I don’t go to the chambers. Don’t shed my cloak. I walk straight to the Chamber of Binding—the very room where I was claimed, where the runes etched into the floor still pulse faintly with ancient magic.
It’s empty now. Silent. But I can feel her.
Not Mira.
My mother.
Her presence lingers in the stone, in the air, in the way the light fractures through the high windows. I press my palm to the mark. The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *her*. Not a memory. Not a vision.
A *truth*.
I close my eyes.
And I see it.
The night she died.
Not as I imagined it—Kaelen standing cold and silent as she bled out on black marble. No. This is different. Clearer. Sharper.
She’s kneeling.
Not in surrender.
In *protection*.
Her arms are wrapped around a bundle—a swaddled infant, its face pale, its eyes wide with terror. Me.
Orin stands over her, his blade dripping with blood, his eyes burning with triumph. “The line ends tonight,” he hisses.
And my mother—
She lifts her head.
Her violet eyes meet Kaelen’s.
And she *smiles*.
“Protect her,” she whispers. “No matter the cost.”
And then—
She throws herself forward.
Taking the blade meant for me.
Bleeding out in seconds.
And Kaelen—
He doesn’t move.
Not because he’s heartless.
Not because he’s a monster.
Because she *bound* him.
A final spell, etched in blood and breath, forcing him to stand still, to watch, to *live* with the weight of her sacrifice. Because if he’d acted—if he’d killed Orin, if he’d saved her—the coup would have been exposed. The Council would have torn the Court apart. And I—
I would have been hunted from birth.
So he let her die.
Not because he wanted to.
But because he loved her.
And because he loved *me*.
I gasp, stumbling back, my hand flying to my mouth. The vision fades, but the truth remains—seared into my bones, into my blood, into the very core of who I am.
“You knew,” I whisper, turning to him. He’s standing in the doorway, his coat drawn tight, his face pale, his golden eyes burning.
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?” My voice cracks. “Because you thought I wasn’t strong enough to handle the truth? Because you thought I’d break?”
“No.” He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “Because I thought you’d *love* me.”
I freeze.
“And that,” he says, voice low, rough, “would have made you a target. Orin’s allies are still out there. The Council is fractured, but not defeated. If they knew you were my daughter—if they knew the Blood Claim wasn’t just magic, but *blood*—they would have killed you before you could walk.”
My breath hitches.
“So you let me hate you.”
“I let you *live*.”
And the dam breaks.
Not with tears. Not with screams.
With magic.
Raw. Unfiltered. *Furious*.
The bond explodes.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I scream, my magic erupting in a storm of thorned vines, cracking the floor, shattering the windows, wrapping around Kaelen, lifting him off his feet, slamming him against the wall. Thorns dig into his coat, his skin, drawing blood. He doesn’t fight. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning, his breath steady.
“You lied to me,” I hiss, stepping forward. “You let me believe you were the monster. You let me come here to *kill* you.”
“And now?” he asks, voice calm. “Will you?”
My magic flares—vines tightening, thorns pressing deeper. Blood trickles down his neck, his collar, his chest. I can smell it—dark wine and storm-laced iron, the scent that’s haunted me since the first night. The scent that makes my thighs clench, my breath stutter, my heart *break*.
“I should,” I whisper.
“Then do it.” He lifts his chin. “End it. Take your vengeance.”
And I want to.
Gods, I *want* to.
But I can’t.
Because the truth isn’t just about my mother.
It’s about *me*.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond hums—steady, alive—like a second heartbeat.
And I realize—
I don’t hate him.
I never did.
I hate the lie.
I hate the betrayal.
I hate that he thought I wasn’t strong enough to carry the truth.
But I don’t hate *him*.
Because he’s not the monster I made him out to be.
He’s my father.
And he’s the only man who’s ever truly seen me.
The vines retreat.
The magic stills.
And I collapse—knees hitting the stone, hands clutching the mark, breath coming in ragged gasps.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning.
And then—
He kneels.
Not in submission.
Not in surrender.
In *witness*.
“You came here to kill a king,” he says, voice low. “But you were sent by a murderer.”
I lift my gaze to his. “And now?”
“Now,” he says, reaching out, his hand hovering over mine, “you get to choose who you become.”
I don’t take his hand.
Not yet.
But I don’t pull away.
And that’s enough.
We stay there for a long time—kneeling in the wreckage, the bond humming between us, the air thick with the scent of blood and magic. The Night Guard doesn’t enter. Cassien doesn’t call. The world holds its breath.
And then—
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I cry out, my magic flaring—vines erupting from the ground, the air, the walls, curling around us, binding us together. Not in chains. Not in punishment.
In *truth*.
I reach for him.
Not to strike.
Not to push.
To *touch*.
My fingers brush his cheek, his jaw, the scar on his neck. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning, his breath hitching.
“You’re crying,” I whisper.
He stills.
And then—
A single tear rolls down his cheek.
“I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
My breath catches.
“And now?”
“Now,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine, “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—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I don’t feel like vengeance.
I feel like *home*.
But the peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
A knock.
Cassien steps in, his expression grim. “My lord. The Council envoys have returned. They demand an audience.”
Kaelen pulls back, his jaw tight. “Now?”
“Now.”
He turns to me. “You don’t have to face them.”
“Yes, I do.” I stand, brushing the dust from my knees, my magic simmering beneath my skin, ready. “Because they’re not just here for the bond.”
“Then what?”
“They’re here,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark, “for the throne.”
He studies me. Then nods.
We find them in the Sanctum—three figures standing in a semicircle, their presence like a blade to the throat. The Seelie envoy. The Unseelie envoy. And the Arbiter, her silver hair braided with thorned vines, her eyes closed, her hands clasped before her.
But something’s different.
The air is heavier. The light darker. The silence sharper.
And when the Arbiter opens her eyes—
She’s not looking at me.
She’s looking *through* me.
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” she says, her voice like wind through dead leaves. “Daughter of Lysandra. Heir of the Bloodline. You have been called.”
My pulse hammers. “For what?”
“To claim your birthright.”
Kaelen steps forward. “She answers to no one but the bond.”
“The bond does not absolve blood right,” the Arbiter says, stepping forward. “And if her blood is royal—”
“Then she is not just your consort,” the Seelie says, his illusion flickering. “She is your *heir*.”
The Unseelie hisses. “And if the Blood Claim was not just magic… but *lineage*… then the throne is not yours to give.”
My breath stops.
“You know,” I say, voice low, deadly.
“We see,” the Arbiter says. “The magic remembers. The blood speaks. And it whispers of a king who hid his child in shadow to protect her. Of a mother who died so she could live. Of a girl who came to kill… and found her father instead.”
The chamber falls silent.
And then—
Kaelen steps forward, 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 turns to the Council.
“She is my blood,” he says, voice cold, final. “My heir. My daughter. And if you challenge her right—” His golden eyes burn. “—you challenge *me*.”
The Arbiter smiles.
“Then let the truth be known.”
And with that—
She raises her hand.
The runes in the floor flare—white-hot, alive—and the bond ignites, not just between us, but through the chamber, through the Court, through the world.
And everyone sees.
The truth.
The love.
The blood.
And the future.
As the light fades, 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 don’t feel like vengeance.
I feel like *home*.
But as we walk back to the chambers, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.