The night after the Council’s retreat is not quiet.
Not truly.
It hums—low, electric, like the air before a storm breaks. 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 the 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 *him*. Kaelen. My father. My king. My blood. He’s in the next room, his presence a wall of shadow and restraint, his magic coiled tight with tension. I don’t go to him. Don’t speak. Just feel. The weight of what we’ve done. The truth we’ve exposed. The war we’ve survived.
And still—
I don’t feel clean.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—sending a pulse of heat through me, a whisper of *him*. Not just his presence. Not just his magic. But his *will*. Fierce. Unbending. *Free*. He’s not the monster I made him out to be. He’s not the tyrant who stood silent as my mother bled out. He’s something else entirely.
He’s a father.
And he’s mine.
A knock.
“Enter,” I say, not turning.
Kaelen steps in, his coat drawn tight, his face grim. “You’re not sleeping.”
“Neither are you.”
He doesn’t answer. Just walks to me, his boots silent on the stone, his presence a wall of heat and shadow. He stops beside me, his golden eyes burning, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “They’ll come again.”
“I know.”
“And when they do—”
“We’ll be ready.”
He studies me—long, hard. Then nods.
And then—
He presses his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just holds me there, our bodies close but not touching, the air between us humming with magic, with tension, with the weight of everything we’ve survived.
And then—
He pulls back.
“There’s one more thing we need to do.”
“What?”
“A Blood Oath.”
My breath catches.
A Blood Oath isn’t just magic. It’s not just ritual. It’s a vow etched in breath, in blood, in soul. It binds two beings not by law, not by magic, but by *choice*. And it’s rare. So rare that most supernaturals have never seen one. It’s not for lovers. Not for allies. It’s for those who’ve faced death together. For those who’ve bled for each other. For those who’ve chosen each other in the dark.
And now—
He wants to swear it with me.
“Why?” I ask, voice low.
“Because they’ll come again,” he says, stepping back. “Malrik has allies. The Council is fractured, but not broken. And if they think we’re divided—if they think the bond is just magic, not blood, not *love*—they’ll try to break us.”
“And the Oath will stop them?”
“No.” He turns to me, his golden eyes burning. “*We* will stop them. But the Oath will prove it. To them. To the world. To *us*.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t have to,” he says, voice soft. “It’s not a demand. It’s not a command. It’s a choice. And if you say no—”
“I’ll say yes,” I interrupt.
He stills.
“Because,” I say, stepping forward, “I don’t want to just survive this. I don’t want to just win. I want to *build*. I want to stand beside you. Not as your consort. Not as your heir. But as your *equal*.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
He reaches for me.
Not to touch me. Not to pull me to him. But to press his palm to the mark, right where the sigil glows faintly beneath my skin. The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through us both. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his back, thorns digging into his skin, drawing blood.
He doesn’t stop me.
Just holds me tighter.
And when I pull 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—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I don’t feel like vengeance.
I feel like *home*.
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 deeper.
A pull. A whisper. A thread leading deep into the heart of the Iron Spire—the crumbling fortress of the Supernatural Council, now abandoned, now *sacred*.
Because this is where it began.
This is where I was claimed.
This is where my mother died.
And this—
Is where we’ll be bound.
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 circle.
Not of shadow. Not of blood.
Of thorns.
Living vines, black as night, their thorns sharp as knives, their petals edged with silver. They coil from the floor, rising into the air, forming a perfect circle—ten feet wide, humming with magic, pulsing with power.
“It remembers you,” Kaelen says, stepping forward.
“Or it fears me.”
“No.” He turns to me, his golden eyes burning. “It *honors* you.”
I don’t hesitate.
I step into the circle.
The moment my boots touch the stone, the vines rise—wrapping around my arms, my legs, my waist—lifting me off the ground, suspending me in the air. I don’t fight. Don’t flinch. Just breathe. In. Out. Let the magic seep into my bones, into the places that still ache with the memory of my mother’s blood, of Aurelia’s laughter, of the way the bond flared when I nearly let myself become a killer.
And then—
Kaelen steps in.
The vines rise for him too—wrapping around his arms, his legs, his waist—lifting him off the ground, suspending him across from me. Our eyes lock. Our breaths sync. The bond hums between us, 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.
“This is not a ritual,” he says, voice low. “It’s a vow. And it cannot be undone.”
“I know.”
“Then say it.”
I take a breath.
And then—
I speak.
Not in words. Not in magic.
In *truth*.
“I, Rowan of the Thorned Blood, daughter of Lysandra, heir of the Bloodline, swear this oath—not by magic, not by law, but by blood, by fire, by the thorns that mark my skin and the bond that binds my soul.”
The vines tighten. The air shimmers. The runes flare.
“I swear to stand beside you,” I continue, my voice steady, “not as your consort, not as your heir, but as your equal. To fight with you, not for you. To bleed with you, not for you. To live with you, not for you.”
Kaelen’s breath hitches.
“I swear to protect this bond,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark, “not because it was forced upon me, but because I choose it. Because I choose *you*. Father. King. Blood. *Mine*.”
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I gasp, my magic flaring—vines erupting from my skin, curling around his arms, his back, thorns digging into his skin, drawing blood.
He doesn’t stop me.
Just holds me tighter.
And then—
He speaks.
“I, Kaelen D’Rae, King of the Obsidian Court, Bloodline of the First Night, swear this oath—not by power, not by fear, but by love, by loss, by the silence that nearly broke me and the fire that saved me.”
The vines tighten. The air shimmers. The runes flare.
“I swear to stand beside you,” he says, voice rough, “not as your father, not as your king, but as your equal. To fight with you, not for you. To bleed with you, not for you. To live with you, not for you.”
My breath hitches.
“I swear to protect this bond,” he says, pressing his palm to the mark, “not because it was forced upon me, but because I choose it. Because I choose *you*. Daughter. Heir. Blood. *Mine*.”
The bond explodes.
Heat crashes through us, a wave so intense the air shimmers, the vines ignite, their thorns glowing like embers, their petals curling into ash. The runes flare—white-hot, alive—and the bond ignites, not just between us, but through the chamber, through the Spire, through the world.
And everyone sees.
The truth.
The love.
The blood.
And the future.
When it’s over, we collapse—breathless, trembling, *ruined*. The vines retreat. The runes dim. The air is thick with the scent of blood, magic, and ash. And we—
We’re still bound.
Not by magic.
Not by law.
By *choice*.
Kaelen reaches for me—his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just pulls me into his chest, holding me, his face burying in my hair, his breath hot against my neck. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
I don’t answer.
Just cling to him, my fingers digging into his coat, my magic still humming beneath my skin, restless, *hungry*.
And I know—
This isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.
Because the Blood Oath isn’t just a vow.
It’s a declaration.
A reckoning.
A promise.
And as we rise from the ruins, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
But for the first time—
We’re not alone.
We ride back to the Obsidian Court in silence, the bond humming between us, the wind sharp with the promise of snow. 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*.
When we reach the Court, I don’t go to the chambers. Don’t shed my cloak. I walk straight 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.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me, a wave so intense I gasp, my magic erupting—vines bursting from the ground, the air, the walls, curling around a single stone bier, wrapping it in a living shroud of thorned roses, their petals unfurling like a final embrace.
And then—
I *burn*.
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 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 bier. No stone.
Just a single, perfect black rose, resting on the moss-covered earth.
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 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.