The Obsidian Court has secrets.
Not the kind whispered in shadowed corridors or traded in blood markets. Not the kind buried beneath lies and political pacts. The kind etched in bone. Sealed in silence. Hidden behind doors that haven’t opened in centuries.
The Blood Archives.
They say the first vampire king built them beneath the fortress, beneath the throne room, beneath even the dungeons—deep in the earth where sunlight never reaches and time forgets to move. Scrolls written in blood. Tomes bound in skin. Records of every Blood Claim, every betrayal, every death that shaped the Council. And if the legends are true—
They hold the truth about Vaelen.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, golden—but beneath it, the cold burn lingers. The dread. The whisper of something ancient, something *hungry*, stirring in the dark. Mira’s scent still clings to the edges of my magic—thyme, moonpetals, old paper—like a ghost refusing to fade.
“You don’t have to do this,” Kaelen says, his voice low, rough.
I turn to him. He stands in the torchlit hall, his coat drawn tight, his golden eyes burning with something I’ve only seen once before—fear. Not for himself. For *me*.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “If Vaelen was there the night my mother died… if it’s been feeding on our bond since the beginning… then the Archives are the only place that might tell us how to kill it.”
“Or how it kills *us*,” Cassien mutters, his hand resting on the hilt of his reforged sword. He’s silent most of the time now, his presence a shadow at my back, but when he speaks, his voice cuts through the air like a blade.
Kaelen steps forward, his fingers brushing the mark on my wrist. The bond flares—heat crashing through us both—and for a heartbeat, I forget the cold. Forget the dread. Forget everything but the way his touch makes my magic hum, the way his breath hitches when I lean into him.
But then I remember.
Remember the shadows. The whispers. The way they coiled around my mother’s body, around Kaelen’s throat, feeding on silence.
“I need to know,” I say, stepping back. “I need to *see*.”
Kaelen studies me—long, hard. Then nods. “Then I go with you.”
“No,” I say. “You stay here. Guard the Court. If something comes while we’re down there—”
“Then I’ll be useless,” he interrupts, stepping closer. “Because if you fall, I fall. If you die, I die. The bond doesn’t just link us, Rowan. It *binds* us. And I’m not letting you face this alone.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him he’s the king, that he has a court to protect, a war to lead. But the truth is—
I don’t want to be alone.
So I nod.
“Then let’s go.”
We descend.
The stairs spiral deep into the earth, carved from black stone, their edges worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Torches flicker in iron sconces, their flames unnaturally still, as if the air itself is holding its breath. The deeper we go, the heavier the silence becomes—thick, suffocating, like the walls are listening.
Cassien leads, his boots silent, his fangs just visible beneath his lip. Kaelen follows, his hand resting on the small of my back, his presence a wall of warmth against the cold. I don’t speak. Don’t look back. Just press my palm to the mark, letting the bond guide me, letting it pull me toward the truth.
And then—
We reach it.
The door is not iron. Not wood. Not stone.
It’s *bone*.
Twisted, fused together from thousands of fragments, each one etched with thorned sigils that pulse faintly in the torchlight. The air hums with ancient magic, with something older than the Court, older than the Council. The scent of dried blood and old parchment fills my nose, sharp as a blade.
“The Blood Seal,” Cassien says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Only a Blood Consort can open it.”
I step forward.
Press my palm to the bone.
The sigils flare—white-hot—and the door groans, grinding open like a jaw unhinging. Beyond it—
Darkness.
And then—
Light.
Not from torches. Not from lanterns.
From the scrolls.
They line the walls, stacked floor to ceiling, their surfaces glistening like wet skin. Some are bound in leather. Some in metal. Some in *flesh*. And in the center—
A pedestal.
Carved from black marble, its surface etched with the same thorned sigils as the door. And on it—
A single scroll.
Not like the others.
This one is larger. Older. Its edges are frayed, its surface stained with something dark—blood, maybe, or time. And the sigils on it—
They’re moving.
Shifting. Crawling like insects beneath the skin.
I don’t hesitate.
I step forward, my boots silent on the stone. Kaelen follows, his hand tightening on my arm. Cassien stays at the door, his eyes scanning the shadows, his fangs bared.
I reach for the scroll.
The moment my fingers brush it—
Pain.
White-hot, searing, *unstoppable*. It crashes through me, not in my body, but in my *mind*, like a thousand needles piercing my skull. I gasp, stumbling back, my magic flaring—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my arms, my neck. The bond ignites—heat crashing through Kaelen, through me, through the chamber—and the scrolls *scream*.
Not with sound.
With *memory*.
Images flood my mind—too fast, too sharp, too real.
A throne room. Black marble. My mother, bleeding out, her violet eyes wide, her breath ragged. Kaelen, bound by magic, his golden eyes burning with rage. 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—
Another vision.
Centuries ago. A cathedral. Not of stone. Not of bone.
Of *shadow*.
And on its throne—
A figure.
Not Orin. Not Malrik. Not Aurelia.
But something older.
Something darker.
The Hollow King.
And kneeling before it—
A man.
Not a vampire. Not a fae. Not a witch.
But something *else*.
His skin is pale, almost translucent, his eyes black as void, his fingers long, his nails like thorns. And around him—
Chains.
Not of iron. Not of stone.
Of *memory*.
And he’s feeding.
Not on blood.
On silence.
On guilt.
On *pain*.
And the voice—
It’s not his.
It’s *theirs*.
The whispers. The shadows. The thing that wasn’t a man.
“Vaelen,” I whisper, staggering back. “It’s not a name. It’s a *title*.”
Kaelen catches me before I fall, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me against his chest. “What did you see?”
I don’t answer. Just press my palm to the mark, letting the bond ground me, letting it pull me back from the edge.
And then—
I see it.
The scroll.
It’s open now, though I don’t remember unrolling it. The sigils are still moving, still crawling, but now they’re forming words—words in a language I’ve never heard, but somehow *know*.
“Vaelen,” the script reads. “The Hunger That Walks. The Silence That Feeds. The Memory That Consumes. Born not of flesh, but of regret. Not of blood, but of betrayal. Not of magic, but of *absence*.”
My breath hitches.
“It’s not a being,” I say, my voice low. “It’s a *void*. A hunger that takes shape when pain is left to fester. When guilt is left to grow. When silence is left to speak.”
“And the bond,” Kaelen says, his voice rough. “It was born in silence. In guilt. In pain.”
“And it fed on that,” Cassien says, stepping forward. “For centuries.”
“But now,” I say, stepping toward the scroll, “the bond isn’t pain. It’s *love*. It’s truth. It’s *light*.”
“And it can’t feed on that,” Kaelen says.
“So it will try to break it,” I say.
“Or consume it,” Cassien says.
The chamber falls silent.
The scrolls hum around us, their voices a chorus of whispers, of memories, of *secrets*. The bond flares—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 to destroy it,” I say.
“How?” Kaelen asks.
“The scroll says it can’t be killed,” I say. “Not by fire. Not by steel. Not by magic.”
“Then how do we stop it?” Cassien demands.
I press my palm to the mark. It flares—white-hot—and for a heartbeat, I see it.
Not the way to kill Vaelen.
But the way to *starve* it.
“We don’t fight it,” I say, stepping forward. “We *feed* it.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightens. “What?”
“It feeds on silence,” I say. “On guilt. On pain. So we give it none of those.”
“We give it *truth*,” Kaelen says, realization dawning in his eyes.
“We give it *love*,” I say.
“And light,” Cassien says, stepping forward. “And life.”
“And when it tries to consume us,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark, “we let it in—”
“—and then we burn it from the inside,” Kaelen finishes.
The bond flares—hot, sudden—sending a pulse of heat through us both. My magic surges—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my arms, my neck. The scrolls *scream* again, their voices rising into a chorus of fury and fear.
And then—
The door slams shut.
Not by hand.
By *force*.
The bone door grinds closed, sealing us in. The torches flicker. The air thickens. And from the shadows—
Whispers.
Not from the scrolls.
From the *walls*.
“Rowan,” they say, voice like rotting leaves. “Daughter of the Thorned Blood. Heir of the Oracle. You have come.”
“And you are?” I demand, stepping forward, my vines lashing out, my magic flaring.
“Not what you seek,” the whispers say. “But what you *are*.”
“You’re Vaelen,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “And you’re *nothing*.”
The whispers rise into a howl. The scrolls tear from the walls, their surfaces splitting open, their contents spilling like blood. The sigils crawl across the floor, forming chains—chains of memory, of guilt, of *silence*—and they wrap around Kaelen, around Cassien, around *me*.
But I don’t fight.
Not with vines.
Not with thorns.
With the bond.
I press my palm to the mark.
The bond ignites.
Heat crashes through me—not fire, not rage, but a surge of raw, unfiltered *love*. I reach for Kaelen, not to pull him free, but to press my forehead to his, to let him feel it—my truth, my trust, my *choice*.
And then—
I *push*.
Not with magic.
Not with vines.
With the bond.
I send it—through the link, down the thread that ties me to Kaelen, into the hollow where Vaelen lives. And the chamber *shudders*.
The chains *break*.
Not with force. Not with fire.
With *light*.
Silver-green. Delicate. *Alive*.
The whispers scream—rising into a howl of fury and fear. “You cannot destroy me! I am his guilt! I am his silence! I am—”
“You’re *forgotten*,” I say, stepping forward, my vines wrapping around the shadows, lifting them off the ground, *containing* them. “You’re not his guilt. You’re not his silence. You’re not his *blood*.”
“Then what am I?” the whispers hiss.
“You’re *nothing*,” I say. “And I’m *everything*.”
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 shadows, the air itself. The scent of roses and blood fills the chamber, 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 scrolls. No chains. No whispers.
Just silence.
And the bond.
Humming between us—steady, alive—like a second heartbeat.
Kaelen pulls me into his chest, holding me, his face burying in my hair, his breath hot against my neck. “You’re crying,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer. Just cling to him, my fingers digging into his coat, my tears soaking into his collar. I don’t know why I’m crying. Not from pain. Not from grief. Not even from relief.
From *recognition*.
Because this—this truth, this love, this quiet, aching beauty—this is who I am.
Not just vengeance.
Not just rage.
Not just a weapon.
I’m life.
I’m growth.
I’m *love*.
And I didn’t have to burn the world down to find it.
I just had to stop fighting myself.
Cassien steps forward, 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.