The Court is quiet after the Archives.
Not the kind of quiet that means peace. Not the kind that follows a storm. This is the silence of awe. Of fear. Of something ancient and terrible having been *seen*—and survived.
I walk through the halls with Kaelen at my side, our steps in sync, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat. The Night Guard bows as we pass, their eyes down, their fangs just visible. Even the vampires—those cold, immortal bastards who’ve spent centuries sneering at my hybrid blood—now look at me like I’m something holy. Something to be feared.
Good.
Let them.
Because I’m not just Rowan of the Thorned Blood anymore.
I’m the woman who burned the Hollow King.
The woman who starved Vaelen.
The woman who stood in the heart of the Archives and gave light to the void.
And I’m not done.
Kaelen’s hand brushes the small of my back, a silent question. *Are you all right?* I don’t answer. Just press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, golden—and the bond surges, heat crashing through us both, a pulse so strong it makes the torches flicker in their sconces.
He exhales, low, rough. “You’re stronger.”
“So are you,” I say.
He doesn’t deny it. The last few days have changed him. Not just in the way he holds himself—less like a king, more like a man—but in the way he looks at me. Not with possession. Not with challenge.
With *wonder*.
We reach the throne room.
The doors are open, the chamber flooded with moonlight. The Obsidian Throne looms at the far end, carved from black stone, its surface etched with thorned sigils that pulse faintly in the dark. But it’s not empty.
Cassien stands before it, his coat drawn tight, his fangs bared, his eyes sharp with tension. In his hand—a scroll.
Not from the Archives.
This one is different.
Smaller. Older. Bound in leather so dark it looks like dried blood.
“What is it?” I ask, stepping forward.
He doesn’t look at me. Just holds out the scroll. “A message. From the Fae High Court.”
My breath catches.
Kaelen steps forward, his hand tightening on my arm. “They’ve been silent since the Blood Sigil incident.”
“Not silent,” Cassien says. “Waiting.”
I take the scroll.
The moment my fingers touch it—
Pain.
Not physical. Not magical.
Emotional.
It crashes through me like a wave—grief, rage, betrayal—all wrapped in the scent of crushed moonpetals and old paper. My magic flares—vines twitching beneath my skin, thorns pricking at my sleeves—but 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 unroll the scroll.
The script is in Fae—elegant, looping, written in ink so dark it looks like dried blood. But I don’t need to read it.
I *know* what it says.
Rowan of the Thorned Blood,
Daughter of Lysandra,
By order of the Fae High Court, you are summoned to Blackthorn Vale to answer for your crimes against the Pact of Thorns.
You are half-blood.
You are illegal.
You are an abomination.
And you will be judged.
My hands shake.
Not from fear.
From *fury*.
“They’re calling me a criminal,” I say, my voice low, deadly. “For existing.”
“They’ve always seen you that way,” Kaelen says, his voice rough. “But now? After the Archives? After Vaelen? They’re afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of you,” Cassien says. “Of what you are. Of what you’ve done.”
“Then let them be afraid,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “I’m not going to Vale to be judged. I’m going to *judge them*.”
Kaelen studies me—long, hard. Then nods. “Then we go together.”
“No,” I say. “You stay here. Guard the Court. If they’re summoning me, it’s a trap. They want you weak. They want the bond broken.”
“And if I let you walk into it alone?” he asks, stepping closer. “Then I’m not the king I promised to be.”
My breath hitches.
He’s right.
The bond doesn’t just link us.
It *binds* us.
And if I fall, he falls.
So I nod.
“Then we go together.”
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 throne.
Not of stone. Not of bone.
Of *shadow*.
Twisted, pulsing, alive. And on it—
A figure.
Not Orin. Not Malrik. Not Aurelia.
But someone I recognize.
My aunt.
Valera.
Her silver hair is braided with thorned vines, her violet eyes burning with something I can’t name. She wears a gown of living shadow, its edges shifting like smoke, its hem crawling with sigils that pulse with bloodlight. And in her hand—
A dagger.
Not of steel. Not of bone.
Of *memory*.
And it’s pointed at me.
“Rowan,” she says, her 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,” she says. “But what you *are*.”
My breath hitches.
“You killed her,” I say, my voice low, deadly. “You killed my mother.”
She smiles—faint, aching. “I did what I had to do. To protect the Pact. To protect the bloodline.”
“You betrayed her,” I snarl. “You let her die.”
“No,” she says, stepping down from the throne. “I *saved* her. From him.” She points the dagger at Kaelen. “From the vampire king who would have used her. Who would have destroyed us all.”
“And Vaelen?” I demand. “Did you save her from the thing that fed on her death? From the hunger that grew in the silence?”
Her eyes flicker. “I didn’t know—”
“You *knew*,” I say, pressing my palm to the mark. “Mira knew. You knew. And you did nothing.”
“Because it was too strong,” she whispers. “Too ancient.”
“And now?” I ask, stepping closer. “Now that it’s gone? Now that the bond is no longer born in guilt? What do you fear now?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just raises the dagger.
And then—
The forest *moves*.
Not the trees. Not the wind.
The *ground*.
Roots erupt from the earth, coiling around Kaelen, around Cassien, around *me*. Vines wrap around my arms, my neck, my ribs, pinning me in place. I don’t fight. Don’t scream. Just 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 Valera’s fear lives. And the forest *shudders*.
The roots *break*.
Not with force. Not with fire.
With *light*.
Silver-green. Delicate. *Alive*.
Valera screams—rising into a howl of fury and fear. “You cannot destroy me! I am her blood! I am her silence! I am—”
“You’re *forgotten*,” I say, stepping forward, my vines wrapping around her, lifting her off the ground, *containing* her. “You’re not her blood. You’re not her silence. You’re not her *legacy*.”
“Then what am I?” she hisses.
“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 roots, the air itself. The scent of roses and blood fills the forest, 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 dagger.
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.