The peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
After the blooming of the vines, after the rise of the silver-green tree in the Garden of Thorns, after Kaelen knelt in the earth and whispered my mother’s name like a prayer—I thought, for one heartbeat, that the war was over. That the truth had not only set us free, but *renewed* us. That the Thorned Blood was no longer a curse, but a covenant. That we had broken the cycle.
But the dead don’t stay buried.
And the Hollow King is not so easily killed.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, alive—but this time, the heat is wrong. Not the golden pulse of life, not the quiet hum of unity, but a cold, creeping burn, like ice beneath the skin. My breath hitches. I close my eyes, reaching through the bond, searching for Kaelen. Not in the war room. Not in the chambers. Not in the garden.
Nowhere.
The link is there—steady, thrumming—but he’s *gone*. Not dead. Not lost. But… *veiled*. Like something has wrapped around him, smothering his presence, dulling the fire of his soul. My magic flares—vines twitching beneath my skin, thorns pricking at my sleeves. I don’t fight it. I let it rise, let it coil around my ribs like a second skeleton, because if I don’t, I’ll scream.
I’ll break.
And I can’t.
Not now.
Not when I’m so close to the truth.
“Cassien,” I call, my voice low, rough.
He appears in the doorway like a shadow given form—his coat drawn tight, his fangs just visible, his eyes sharp with tension. “My lady.”
“Where is he?”
“He left at dawn. Alone. Said he had to settle something in the east.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
My jaw tightens. “And you let him go?”
“He’s the king.”
“And I’m his heir.” I press my palm to the mark. “I’m his *blood*. And something’s wrong. I can *feel* it.”
Cassien studies me—long, hard. Then nods. “I’ll ready the horses.”
“No.” I turn to the window, my violet eyes scanning the horizon. “We’re not riding. We’re flying.”
His breath catches. “You don’t have the wings.”
“I have the bond.”
And before he can argue, I press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me—not fire, not rage, but a surge of raw, unfiltered magic, like the earth itself is rising beneath my feet. I close my eyes. And then—
I *push*.
Not with vines. Not with thorns.
With the bond.
I send a pulse—sharp, insistent—through the link, down the thread that ties me to Kaelen, into the hollow where his presence should be. And for a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
A whisper.
Not words. Not magic.
A memory.
Kaelen, standing in a ruined cathedral, his back to me, his coat drawn tight against the wind. The air is thick with the scent of decay, of old blood, of something *rotting*. And in front of him—
A throne.
Not of stone. Not of bone.
Of *shadow*.
Twisted, pulsing, alive. And on it—
A figure.
Not Orin. Not Malrik. Not Aurelia.
But something older.
Something darker.
The Hollow King.
And then—
The vision cuts off.
I gasp, stumbling back, my hand flying to my mouth. My magic flares—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my arms, my neck. The bond hums—steady, alive—but the cold burn remains.
“He’s there,” I whisper. “At the Cathedral of the Hollow Veil. And he’s not alone.”
Cassien’s eyes narrow. “The Hollow King is dead.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward, my voice low, deadly. “He’s *waiting*.”
We fly at dusk.
Not on horses. Not on wings. On magic.
I press my palm to the mark, and the bond answers—not with fire, not with rage, but with *flight*. Vines erupt from my back, not black and thorned, but silver-green, their leaves edged with light, their tips curling into delicate, feather-like tendrils. They wrap around me, lifting me into the air, carrying me like a storm wrapped in silk. Cassien follows—shifting just enough, just once, his claws tearing through the wind, his wolf howling through the silence.
The world blurs beneath us—forests, rivers, mountains—until we reach the east, where the land is cracked and lifeless, where the sky is bruised with perpetual twilight, where the air hums with the scent of decay. The Cathedral of the Hollow Veil rises from the wasteland—its spires broken, its stained-glass windows shattered, its doors hanging off their hinges. But something’s different.
The runes.
They’re glowing.
Not with light. Not with magic.
With *hunger*.
I land silently on the cracked stone steps, my boots crunching on frost-covered rubble. Cassien lands beside me, his presence a wall of shadow and restraint. I don’t speak. Don’t move. Just 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 the ground, the air, the walls, curling around the cathedral, probing, searching. And then—
I find him.
Kaelen.
Inside. In the nave. Standing before the throne of shadow, his back to me, his coat drawn tight, his fangs bared, his golden eyes burning. And in front of him—
The Hollow King.
Not a corpse. Not a ghost.
A *presence*.
Formless. Shifting. A mass of living shadow, its eyes two pits of endless black, its voice a chorus of whispers that crawl through the air like insects. And around it—
Chains.
Not of iron. Not of stone.
Of *memory*.
And they’re wrapped around Kaelen.
“No,” I whisper.
And then—
I run.
Not with boots. Not with magic.
With *rage*.
I burst through the shattered doors, my vines lashing out, my magic erupting in a storm of silver-green life, my voice a scream that tears through the cathedral. “Let him go!”
The Hollow King turns—its form shifting, its whispers rising into a howl. “You,” it says, its voice like rotting leaves. “The half-blood. The abomination. The *daughter*.”
“And you’re *nothing*,” I snarl, pressing my palm to the mark. “You’re a shadow. A lie. A *ghost*.”
“I am what he fears,” it hisses, its chains tightening around Kaelen. “I am the silence. The guilt. The *blood*.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his golden eyes burning, his breath ragged. And I know—
This isn’t possession.
This is *confession*.
The Hollow King isn’t controlling him.
It’s *showing* him.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, stepping forward, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t have to face it alone.”
“I do,” he rasps. “Because it’s *mine*.”
“No.” I press my palm to the mark. “It’s *ours*.”
And then—
I *push*.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
I send a pulse—sharp, insistent—through the link, down the thread that ties me to him, into the hollow where his pain lives. And the cathedral *shudders*.
The runes flare—white-hot, alive.
The chains *break*.
Not with force. Not with fire.
With *light*.
Silver-green. Delicate. *Alive*.
The Hollow King screams—its form unraveling, its whispers rising into a howl of fury and fear. “You cannot destroy me! I am his guilt! I am his silence! I am—”
“You’re *nothing*,” I say, stepping forward, my vines wrapping around it, lifting it off the ground, *containing* it. “You’re not his guilt. You’re not his silence. You’re not his *blood*.”
“Then what am I?” it hisses.
“You’re *forgotten*.”
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 Hollow King, the air itself. The scent of roses and blood fills the cathedral, 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 throne. No shadow. No chains.
Just silence.
And Kaelen.
On his knees.
Not in submission.
Not in surrender.
In *relief*.
I collapse beside him, my breath ragged, my magic humming beneath my skin. I press my palm to the mark. It flares—warm, golden, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “You’re crying,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips. “I haven’t cried in three hundred years,” he whispers. “Not since the night your mother died.”
“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*.
But the peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
Because as we rise from the ruins, the bond humming between us, I know—
This isn’t over.
It’s only just begun.
And whatever comes next—
We’ll face it together.
But not alone.
Because Cassien stands at the door, his presence a wall of shadow and restraint, his eyes sharp with something I can’t name. Not fear. Not anger.
Pride.
And then—
He smiles.
Not a happy sound. Not a cruel one. But broken. Shattered. Like glass underfoot.
“You were brilliant,” he says.
“So were you.”
He presses his palm to the hilt of his sword—the one that’s not whole, the one that’s been reforged with thorned steel, with *my* blood. “Then let me fight with you.”
I don’t answer.
Just press my 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.