The silence after the Council’s revelation is not quiet. It’s not still. It hums—low, electric, like the air before a storm breaks. The Sanctum is empty now, the envoys vanished into shadow, the Arbiter’s final words echoing in the hollows of my bones: *“Let the truth be known.”* And it was. Not just to the Court. Not just to the Night Guard. But to the world. The bond flared, white-hot, and in that blinding pulse of magic, they saw it all. Me. Him. Us. Father and daughter. King and heir. Blood and thorns.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—but this time, the heat doesn’t burn. It *grounds* me. Like the bond has always known, even when I didn’t. Like it was waiting for me to catch up.
Kaelen walks beside me, his presence a constant through the link, his hand brushing mine, not for show, but because he needs to touch me. He hasn’t spoken since we left the Sanctum. Not since he claimed me as his daughter in front of the Council. Not since the world shifted beneath our feet. But I can feel it—his restraint, the way he’s holding himself back, not from me, but from the weight of centuries of silence.
And I—
I don’t know what to feel.
Not relief. Not joy. Not even anger.
Just… *space*.
Like the lie that shaped my life has been ripped away, leaving a hollow where hate used to live. And in that hollow—
Something fragile. Something new.
Hope.
We reach the chambers, and I don’t go to the bed. Don’t shed my cloak. I walk to the window, pressing my palm to the cold glass, watching the storm roll in over the Obsidian Court. The sky is bruised with purple and black, the wind howling through the spires, the first drops of rain slashing against the stained glass. The bond hums between us, steady and insistent, a second heartbeat that pulses in time with my own. But beneath it—
Something deeper.
A need. Not for vengeance. Not for blood.
For *truth*.
“You knew,” I say, not turning. “All this time.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?” I turn, my violet eyes locking onto his. “Because you thought I wasn’t strong enough? Because you thought I’d break?”
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, his golden eyes burning. “Because I thought you’d *love* me.”
My breath hitches.
“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.”
“So you let me hate you.”
“I let you *live*.”
The words hang between us, heavy as stone. And then—
I laugh.
Not a happy sound. Not a cruel one. But broken. Shattered. Like glass underfoot.
“You think that makes it better?” I whisper. “You think sacrificing my trust was worth it?”
“I think,” he says, stepping closer, “that love is not always gentle. Sometimes it’s a cage. Sometimes it’s a lie. But it’s always *protection*.”
“And what about me?” I step forward, my voice rising. “What about *my* choice? My *truth*? You took that from me. You let me come here to *kill* you. You let me believe you were the monster.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning. “And now?”
“Now,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark, “I don’t know who I am.”
“You’re Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” he says, stepping closer. “Daughter of Lysandra. Heir of the Bloodline. My child.”
“And your consort.”
“By bond. By magic. By fate.”
“And now, by blood.”
He stills.
And then—
He reaches out, his hand hovering over mine. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you forgive me.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Then say you’ll try.”
I look at him—really look at him. Not the king. Not the monster. Not the father. But the man. The one who stood silent as my mother bled out. The one who let me hate him to keep me safe. The one who cried when I was born. The one who’s been loving me in silence for twenty-three years.
And I realize—
I don’t hate him.
I never did.
Because hate was never real.
It was just fear.
Fear of being weak. Fear of being used. Fear of being *loved*.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I gasp, my magic flaring—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my arms, my neck. But this time, I don’t lash out. I don’t attack. I just *feel*.
The truth.
The love.
The blood.
And I realize—
I’m not broken.
I’m *whole*.
I step forward, closing the distance between us, and press my forehead to his. “I don’t forgive you,” I whisper. “Not yet. But I’m not going to kill you either.”
He exhales, his breath warm against my lips. “That’s a start.”
“And I’m not your prisoner,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. “I’m not your weapon. I’m not your *pawn*.”
“No,” he says, his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “You’re my equal. My match. My daughter.”
“Then stop treating me like I need to be protected.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he says, voice rough, “if I lose you, I lose everything.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
I pull him into my chest, holding him, my fingers threading through his hair. “Then don’t lose me,” I whisper. “Fight *with* me. Stand *beside* me. Don’t hide the truth. Don’t make choices for me. Let me be your heir. Let me be your daughter. Let me be *Rowan*.”
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 press my palm to the mark. “Because they’re not just here for the bond.”
“Then what?”
“They’re here,” I say, stepping toward the door, “for the reckoning.”
The Sanctum is colder than I remember, the air 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—
The Council.
Not just the envoys this time. Not just the Arbiter. But the full assembly—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 charged with magic, with tension, with the weight of centuries of law and lies.
And when we enter—
Silence.
Every head turns. Every eye locks onto me. Not with hatred. Not with fear.
With *recognition*.
They saw the truth in the bond’s flare. They know who I am.
Who we are.
“Rowan of the Thorned Blood,” says the Seelie envoy, his illusion flickering. “Daughter of Lysandra. Heir of the Bloodline. You have been called.”
“And?” I step forward, my voice low, deadly. “What do you want?”
“Justice,” says the Unseelie envoy, her claws flexing. “For the lies. For the blood spilled. For the balance broken.”
“Then name the guilty,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “And I’ll deliver it.”
The Arbiter steps forward, her silver hair braided with thorned vines, her eyes closed, her hands clasped before her. “There is one who remains. One who pulled the strings. One who orchestrated the coup, the betrayal, the death of your mother.”
My pulse hammers. “Who?”
She opens her eyes.
And the world *stops*.
“The Council Elder,” she says. “Malrik of the Iron Spire.”
My breath stops.
Malrik. The one who sat in silence as Orin plotted. The one who claimed neutrality. The one who *funded* the coup. The one who ordered Aurelia to kill her sister. The one who’s been pulling the strings from the shadows.
And now—
He’s here.
He rises from his throne, tall, ancient, his face lined with centuries, his eyes black as void. “You have no proof,” he says, voice like stone. “Only lies. Only magic. Only *her*.”
“I have the truth,” I say, stepping forward. “And I have the bond.”
“And if we do not believe you?”
“Then you’ll believe *him*.”
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 my skin, curling around my arms, my neck. I close my eyes. And then—
I *push*.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
I send the vision—through the link, down the thread that ties me to Kaelen, into the minds of every Council member in the chamber.
Malrik, in a dimly lit chamber. Aurelia kneeling before him. A silver dagger. The order: *“Kill the traitor. Secure the throne.”* Blood dripping onto the stone. A whisper: *“The half-blood must die.”*
And then—
Silence.
The High Priestess gasps. The werewolf Alpha snarls. The Seelie envoy steps back, his illusion flickering.
And Malrik—
He staggers, his hand flying to his heart, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “You can’t—” he whispers. “You can’t do this.”
“I just did,” I say, stepping closer. “You orchestrated the coup. You ordered my mother’s death. You used Aurelia. You used Orin. You used *everyone*.”
“And for what?” the Arbiter asks, stepping forward. “Power? Control? Fear?”
“For *order*,” he spits. “The world was breaking. The bloodlines were mixing. The Pact of Thorns was crumbling. I was restoring balance.”
“No,” Kaelen says, stepping forward. “You were afraid. Afraid of change. Afraid of *her*.” He jerks his head toward me. “Afraid of the future.”
Malrik’s eyes burn with hate. “And you love *her*?”
“I would die for her.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
He laughs. Low. Broken. “Then you’ll die.”
“Maybe,” Kaelen says, stepping closer. “But I’ll die knowing I chose right.”
He turns to Cassien. “Remove him.”
“And if he returns?” Cassien asks.
“Then kill him.”
Malrik doesn’t fight as the Night Guard drag him away. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg. Just watches me, his black eyes burning with hate, with jealousy, with the knowledge that he’s lost.
And when the doors close behind him—
Silence.
Then—
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.