The peace doesn’t last.
It never does.
After the blooming of the silver-green tree, after Kaelen knelt in the earth and whispered my mother’s name like a prayer, after the bond flared and the world *saw*—I thought, for one heartbeat, that the war was over. That the ghosts had been laid to rest. 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 Oracle speaks in riddles.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, golden, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. But beneath it—
A whisper.
Not from the bond. Not from Kaelen. Not from Cassien.
From *her*.
Mira.
The woman who raised me. Who taught me to cast fire from my fingertips. Who held me when I screamed in my sleep, haunted by the memory of my mother’s blood on black marble. Who told me, over and over, that Kaelen D’Rae was the monster who killed her.
And now—
She’s speaking to me from beyond the veil.
Not in words. Not in visions.
In *scent*.
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.
I close my eyes. Breathe in.
And there it is.
Not the scent of roses. Not of blood. Not of ash.
Of *thyme*.
And *moonpetals*.
And *old paper*.
The scent of her cottage in the woods. Of the hearth where she brewed her potions. Of the bookshelf where she kept the scrolls no one was supposed to read.
My breath hitches.
“Mira,” I whisper.
And then—
A flicker.
Not in the air. Not in the light.
In the *bond*.
Like a thread pulled taut, like a note struck in silence. A pulse—sharp, insistent—through the link, down the thread that ties me to Kaelen, into the hollow where his presence should be. But this time, it’s not him.
It’s *her*.
“Rowan,” the whisper comes, not in my ears, but in my bones. “*Remember*.”
My eyes snap open.
“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.”
“Get Kaelen.”
“He’s in the war room, reviewing the—”
“Now,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “And seal the chamber. No one enters. No one leaves.”
His eyes narrow. “What is it?”
“Mira’s speaking.”
His breath catches. “The dead don’t—”
“She’s not just dead,” I say, stepping forward. “She’s *Oracle-born*. And if she’s reaching through the veil, it’s because something’s coming. Something worse than the Hollow King. Something worse than Malrik. Something—”
“—that even the dead fear,” Kaelen says, stepping into the chamber.
His presence is a wall of shadow and restraint, his golden eyes burning, his coat drawn tight against the chill. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, his gaze sharp, searching.
“You feel it too,” I say.
He nods. “A pull. A whisper. Not from the bond. From… deeper.”
“The Oracle bloodline,” I say. “Mira didn’t just raise me. She *trained* me. She taught me the old ways. The forgotten spells. The blood rituals. And she knew—” My breath hitches. “—she knew I’d need them.”
Kaelen steps forward, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “Then let her speak.”
I close my eyes.
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 breathe in—thyme, moonpetals, old paper—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 Mira’s presence should be. And for a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
A whisper.
Not words. Not magic.
A memory.
Mira, standing in her cottage, her silver hair braided with thorned vines, her violet eyes burning with something I can’t name. The air is thick with the scent of burning herbs, of old magic, of something *ancient*. And in her hands—
A scroll.
Not of parchment. Not of leather.
Of *skin*.
Etched with sigils that pulse with bloodlight, with runes that shift like living things. And on it—
A name.
Not mine.
Not Kaelen’s.
Not Malrik’s.
Not Aurelia’s.
But one I’ve never heard before.
“Vaelen,” the whisper comes. “He walks in shadow. He feeds on silence. He was there the night your mother died. He was there when the Hollow King rose. And he will be there when the Thorned Blood falls.”
My breath stops.
“Who is he?” I whisper.
“Not who,” Mira’s voice comes, broken, fading. “*What*.”
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.
“Vaelen,” I whisper.
Kaelen’s jaw tightens. “I’ve never heard the name.”
“Neither have I,” Cassien says, stepping forward. “But the way she said it—like it’s not a name. Like it’s a *title*.”
“A title for what?” I ask.
“Something older than the Hollow King,” Kaelen says, his voice low. “Something that feeds on silence. On guilt. On *memory*.”
“Like the Hollow King,” I say.
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “The Hollow King was a man who became a monster. This… this is a monster that was never a man.”
My breath hitches.
“And it was there,” I say, “the night my mother died.”
“And it let her die,” Kaelen says, his voice rough. “Because it wanted the guilt. Wanted the silence. Wanted the *bond* to fester.”
“And now,” I say, stepping forward, “it wants to break it.”
“No,” Kaelen says, pressing his palm to the mark. “It wants to *consume* it.”
The chamber falls silent.
The bond hums between us—steady, alive—but this time, the pulse of heat isn’t war. It’s not rage. It’s not even relief.
It’s *dread*.
“We need answers,” I say.
“The Blood Archives,” Cassien says. “The oldest records. The sealed scrolls. The ones even the Council doesn’t know exist.”
“And if they don’t have answers?” I ask.
“Then we go to the source,” Kaelen says, his golden eyes burning. “To the Oracle’s Well. In the heart of Blackthorn Vale. Where the first seers drank from the blood of the earth and saw the end of all things.”
My breath catches.
“The Well is forbidden,” Cassien says. “No one’s gone there in centuries.”
“Then we’ll be the first,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “Because if Mira’s warning us, if she’s reaching through the veil, then we don’t have a choice.”
Kaelen studies me—long, hard. Then nods.
We ride at dawn.
Not on horses. Not on magic.
On silence.
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 Blackthorn Vale—the shifting forests of England, where the trees move when you’re not looking, where the roots remember every drop of blood ever spilled, where the air hums with the scent of decay and old magic.
And I know—
Something is waiting.
Something that has always been waiting.
We reach the Vale by midday.
It’s quieter than before. No wind. No howling. Just silence—thick, heavy, *waiting*. The trees loom like sentinels, their bark etched with thorned sigils, their roots tangled in bone. The air is thick with the scent of thyme and moonpetals, of old paper and something *rotting*. 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 forest is lit with white-hot light, the sigils etched into the trees burning with ancient magic.
And in the center—
A well.
Not of stone. Not of wood.
Of *bone*.
Twisted, pulsing, alive. And around it—
Chains.
Not of iron. Not of stone.
Of *memory*.
And they’re wrapped around the roots.
“No,” I whisper.
And then—
I run.
Not with boots. Not with magic.
With *fear*.
I burst through the trees, my vines lashing out, my magic erupting in a storm of silver-green life, my voice a scream that tears through the forest. “Let it go!”
The Well doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just *pulses*.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the wind. Not from the trees.
From the *water*.
“Rowan,” it says, voice like rotting leaves. “Daughter of the Thorned Blood. Heir of the Oracle. You have come.”
“And you are?” I demand, stepping forward.
“Not what you seek,” it says. “But what you *are*.”
My breath hitches.
“I want answers,” I say. “About Vaelen. About the night my mother died. About—”
“—the truth?” the Well interrupts. “You already know it. You just don’t *believe* it.”
“Then say it,” I snarl.
And then—
The water *rises*.
Not in a wave. Not in a flood.
In a *hand*.
Formless. Shifting. A mass of living shadow, its fingers long, its nails like thorns, its palm etched with sigils that pulse with bloodlight. And in its grip—
A memory.
Not mine.
Not Kaelen’s.
But Mira’s.
I reach for it.
And then—
I *see*.
My mother, bleeding out on black marble, her violet eyes wide, her breath ragged. Kaelen, bound by magic, his golden eyes burning with rage, his fangs bared. Aurelia, her hand on the dagger, her voice a whisper. “You should have died with her.”
And then—
Shadows.
Not from the corners. Not from the walls.
From *nowhere*.
Coiling around my mother’s body. Wrapping around Kaelen’s throat. Whispering in a voice that isn’t a voice. “Let her die. Let the silence grow. Let the bond fester.”
And Mira—
Watching from the shadows.
Her hand on a scroll. Her lips moving in a prayer. Her eyes burning with something I can’t name.
Fear.
And *recognition*.
“Vaelen,” she whispers. “You were never supposed to wake.”
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.
“It was there,” I whisper. “It *wanted* her to die.”
“Not just her,” Kaelen says, stepping forward. “It wanted the bond to be born in guilt. In silence. In *pain*.”
“Because it feeds on it,” Cassien says, his voice low. “Like the Hollow King. But stronger. Older. *Darker*.”
“And Mira knew,” I say, my voice breaking. “She knew what it was. And she didn’t stop it.”
“No,” Kaelen says, pressing his palm to the mark. “She *tried* to stop it. But it was too strong. Too ancient. And now—”
“—it’s coming for us,” I say, stepping forward. “Because the bond is no longer a weapon of guilt. It’s a weapon of *love*. And it can’t feed on that.”
“So it will break it,” Cassien says.
“Or consume it,” Kaelen says.
I press my palm to the mark. It flares—white-hot—sending a jolt of pain up my arm, down my spine. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my ribs, thorns pricking at my sleeves.
“Then we’ll burn it,” I say, voice low, deadly. “Like we burned the Hollow King. Like we burned Malrik. Like we burned the lies.”
Kaelen steps forward, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “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 Vaelen isn’t just a name.
It’s a *hunger*.
And it’s coming.
But not alone.
Because Cassien stands at the edge of the clearing, 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.