The night after Malrik’s exposure is quiet—not peaceful, but still, like the world is holding its breath. The Obsidian Court stands in shadow, its spires cutting into the storm-heavy sky, the stained-glass windows glowing faintly with residual magic. The air is thick with the scent of iron and crushed moonpetals, the wind sharp with the promise of snow. The Night Guard patrols are doubled, their steps silent, their eyes sharp. Cassien walks the halls like a ghost, his presence a constant hum at the edge of my awareness. But I don’t call for him. Don’t summon him. I know what he’s doing—scanning for threats, listening for whispers, watching for the next knife in the dark.
And I don’t blame him.
Because I’m doing the same.
I stand at the window of my chambers, my back straight, my hands clasped behind me, the weight of my sword a familiar comfort at my hip. The bond hums beneath my skin—steady, alive—tying me to *her*. Rowan. My daughter. My heir. My blood. She’s asleep in the next room, her breathing slow and even, her magic simmering beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. I don’t go to her. Don’t wake her. She’s earned this rest. After everything—Aurelia’s betrayal, Mira’s death, the truth of her birth—she’s earned the right to sleep without nightmares.
And yet—
I can’t.
Because the war isn’t over.
It’s just changed shape.
Malrik is gone. Exiled. Stripped of rank. But he’s not dead. And as long as he draws breath, as long as his allies remain in the shadows, the threat remains. The Council is fractured, its authority crumbling. The Supernatural Council was built on lies, on blood, on fear. And now that the truth has been exposed—now that the world knows Rowan is not just my consort, but my *daughter*—the balance of power has shifted.
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 *her*. Not just her presence. Not just her magic. But her *will*. Fierce. Unbending. *Free*. She’s not the girl who came here to kill me. She’s not the weapon I feared she’d become. She’s something else entirely.
She’s a queen.
And she’s mine.
A knock.
“Enter,” I say, not turning.
Cassien steps in, his coat drawn tight, his face grim. “My lord. The Council envoys have returned. They demand an audience.”
“Again?” I turn, my golden eyes burning. “They were here *yesterday*.”
“And now they’re back.” He steps closer, his voice low. “They’re not here for the bond. Not for the blood. They’re here for *unity*.”
I still.
“Unity?”
“They want a joint declaration. A public statement. That the Vampire King and his heir stand united. That the Obsidian Court is not fractured. That we are not weak.”
My jaw tightens.
They’re not asking.
They’re testing.
“And if we refuse?”
“Then they’ll claim instability. They’ll push for intervention. They’ll say the Blood Claim was a farce, that the bond is broken, that the throne is vulnerable.”
I don’t answer. Just turn back to the window, my gaze scanning the horizon. The storm is closer now, the first lightning splitting the sky like a blade. I can feel it—the tension in the air, the shift in the magic, the way the bond hums between Rowan and me, not with desire, not with heat, but with something quieter. Something deeper. A current that runs beneath the surface, pulling us together even when we try to resist.
“Wake her,” I say.
“Now?”
“Yes.” I turn, my voice hard. “They want a show? We’ll give them one.”
Cassien nods once and leaves.
I don’t wait. I move to the wardrobe, stripping off my coat, my shirt, my boots. I dress in black silk, the fabric tight, the collar high, the cuffs etched with silver thorn sigils—Rowan’s mark, now mine. I don’t wear the crown. Not yet. But I take the ring—the ancient band of obsidian and silver, passed down through centuries of kings. I slide it onto my finger, the metal cold against my skin, and press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I stagger, my fangs baring, my magic coiling beneath my skin in response. I close my eyes. And then—
I *push*.
Not with words. Not with commands.
With the bond.
I send a pulse—sharp, insistent—through the link, down the thread that ties me to her, into her dreams, her blood, her soul.
And she answers.
Not with words. Not with protest.
With fire.
I hear her before I see her—boots on stone, steady, deliberate. She steps into the chamber, her violet eyes burning, her presence a storm wrapped in silk. She’s dressed in crimson—her battle gown, the left sleeve cut away, baring the mark on her wrist. Her hair is pulled back, her face pale, her lips painted the color of dried blood. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. Just walks to me, her magic flaring—vines twitching beneath her skin, thorns pricking at her sleeves.
“You woke me,” she says, voice low.
“They’re back,” I say. “The Council. They want a declaration.”
“And you’re going to give it to them?”
“No.” I step closer, my hand lifting to her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “*We* are.”
She studies me—long, hard. 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.
“Kaelen D’Rae,” she says, her voice like wind through dead leaves. “King of the Obsidian Court. You have been called.”
“I was *just* here,” I say, stepping forward, Rowan at my side. “You’ve had your answers. Your justice. Your reckoning.”
“And now,” the Seelie says, his illusion flickering, “we seek stability.”
“Stability?” Rowan steps forward, her voice low, deadly. “You mean *control*.”
“We mean *unity*,” the Unseelie hisses. “The Council must stand. The balance must be restored.”
“The balance was never real,” I say, stepping closer. “It was built on lies. On blood. On fear. And now that the truth is known—” I glance at Rowan. “—you want to pretend it never happened?”
“No,” the Arbiter says, stepping forward. “We want to *rebuild*.”
Rowan laughs—low, brittle. “And you think we’ll help you?”
“You already have,” the Seelie says. “By exposing Malrik. By revealing the truth. By proving that the Blood Claim was not a curse, but a *calling*.”
“And what do you want now?” I ask, voice cold.
“A declaration,” the Arbiter says. “That you stand united. That the Obsidian Court is not fractured. That the throne is not vulnerable.”
“And if we refuse?” Rowan asks.
“Then the Council will consider intervention,” the Unseelie says, her claws flexing. “We cannot allow instability. Not now. Not when the Hollow King’s forces still linger in the shadows.”
Rowan’s magic flares—vines erupting from her skin, curling around her arms, her neck. “You want a declaration? You want *unity*?” She presses her palm to the mark. “Then here it is.”
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through her, a wave so intense she gasps, her magic erupting—vines bursting from the floor, the air, the walls, wrapping around the envoys, yanking them off their feet, thorns digging into their robes, drawing blood.
They don’t fight. Don’t scream. Just watch her.
And I know—
This is what they want.
For her to lose control.
For her to become the monster they say she is.
So I step forward.
Not to stop her.
But to stand beside her.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond explodes.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense the air shimmers, the runes in the floor flaring, the stained-glass windows vibrating. My magic erupts—shadow coiling around my arms, my chest, my legs, wrapping around Rowan, binding us together. Not in chains. Not in punishment.
In *truth*.
She turns to me, her violet eyes burning. “You’re joining me?”
“I’m not joining you,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m *with* you.”
And then—
We *push*.
Together.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
We send the vision—through the link, down the thread that ties us to each other, into the minds of every Council member in the chamber.
Rowan, in the Chamber of Binding, pressing her palm to the mark, the bond igniting, the truth flooding through her—her mother’s sacrifice, my silence, the lie that shaped her life.
Rowan, in the Garden of Thorns, burning Mira’s body, her magic erupting, her grief consuming the air.
Rowan, in the Sanctum, exposing Malrik, sending the vision, delivering justice.
And then—
Us.
Standing side by side. Not as king and consort.
As father and daughter.
As blood and thorns.
As *one*.
The chamber falls silent.
The High Priestess gasps. The werewolf Alpha snarls. The Seelie envoy steps back, his illusion flickering.
And the Arbiter—
She smiles.
“You see it,” she says, stepping forward. “The truth. The love. The blood. And the future.”
“And?” Rowan demands, her voice low, deadly.
“And,” the Arbiter says, “the Council will not intervene. The Obsidian Court stands. The throne is not vulnerable. The heir is not a threat.”
“And Malrik?” I ask.
“He will not return.”
“And if he does?”
“Then,” she says, turning to Rowan, “you will burn him to ash.”
Rowan doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just presses her palm to the mark.
The bond hums—steady, alive—like a second heartbeat.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
But for the first time—
We’re not alone.
As we walk back to the chambers, the bond humming between us, I press my palm to the mark.
She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps walking, her boots silent on the stone, her magic simmering beneath her skin.
“You were brilliant,” I say.
“So were you.”
I step closer, my hand lifting to her wrist, my thumb stroking the mark. “You lied about something.”
Her breath catches.
“But not about me.”
She lifts her gaze to mine. “Never about you.”
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*.