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 past never truly dies.
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 him.
Orin.
The last time I saw him, he was chained in the Obsidian Court’s deepest dungeon, his silver eyes hollow, his fangs broken, his voice reduced to a rasp. He had tried to manipulate the bond between Kaelen and me, to twist it into a weapon of control. He had failed. And for that, he was stripped of rank, of power, of voice.
But not of memory.
And now—
He’s speaking.
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 iron.
And old stone.
And something bitter—like crushed thistle, like betrayal.
The scent of the dungeon. Of damp walls. Of chains that never rust. Of a man who once wore a crown of shadows and now wears silence like a shroud.
My breath hitches.
“Orin,” 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 him.
“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?”
“Orin’s speaking.”
His breath catches. “The silent one doesn’t—”
“He’s not just silent,” I say, stepping forward. “He’s remembering. And if he’s reaching through the veil, it’s because something’s coming. Something worse than Vaelen. Something worse than Valera. Something—”
“—that even the broken 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 bloodline,” I say. “Orin wasn’t just a traitor. He was a guardian. A keeper of secrets. And if he’s breaking his silence now, it’s because the past is rising.”
Kaelen steps forward, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. “Then let him 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—iron, stone, crushed thistle—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 Orin’s presence should be. And for a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
A whisper.
Not words. Not magic.
A memory.
Orin, standing in the throne room centuries ago, his silver eyes burning with loyalty, his fangs bared, his hands bound in chains of living shadow. The air is thick with the scent of dried blood and old magic, of something ancient. And in his hands—
A crown.
Not of gold. Not of silver.
Of bone.
Twisted, fused together from thousands of fragments, each one etched with thorned sigils that pulse faintly in the torchlight. And on it—
A name.
Not mine.
Not Kaelen’s.
Not Valera’s.
But one I’ve never heard before.
“Malrik,” the whisper comes. “He walks in silence. He feeds on loyalty. 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,” Orin’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.
“Malrik,” I whisper.
Kaelen’s jaw tightens. “I’ve never heard the name.”
“Neither have I,” Cassien says, stepping forward. “But the way he said it—like it’s not a name. Like it’s a title.”
“A title for what?” I ask.
“Something older than Vaelen,” Kaelen says, his voice low. “Something that feeds on loyalty. On duty. On silence.”
“Like Orin,” I say.
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Orin was a man who became a traitor. This… this is a force that was never human.”
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 loyalty. 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 Silent Spire. In the heart of the Iron Wastes. Where the first guardians were buried with their oaths.”
My breath catches.
“The Spire 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 Orin’s warning us, if he’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 the Iron Wastes—the desolate plains of Eastern Europe, where the wind never stops howling, where the ground is cracked with ancient runes, where the air hums with the scent of rust and old blood.
And I know—
Something is waiting.
Something that has always been waiting.
We reach the Wastes by midday.
It’s quieter than before. No wind. No howling. Just silence—thick, heavy, waiting. The earth is blackened, the sky bruised with perpetual twilight, the air thick with the scent of iron 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 wasteland is lit with white-hot light, the sigils etched into the ground burning with ancient magic.
And in the center—
A spire.
Not of stone. Not of steel.
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 cracked earth, my vines lashing out, my magic erupting in a storm of silver-green life, my voice a scream that tears through the silence. “Let it go!”
The Spire doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just pulses.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the wind. Not from the earth.
From the stone.
“Rowan,” it says, voice like grinding metal. “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 Malrik. About the night my mother died. About—”
“—the truth?” the Spire interrupts. “You already know it. You just don’t believe it.”
“Then say it,” I snarl.
And then—
The stone 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 Orin’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 Orin—
Watching from the shadows.
His hand on a crown. His lips moving in a prayer. His eyes burning with something I can’t name.
Fear.
And recognition.
“Malrik,” he 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 loyalty. In silence. In pain.”
“Because it feeds on it,” Cassien says, his voice low. “Like Vaelen. But stronger. Older. Darker.”
“And Orin knew,” I say, my voice breaking. “He knew what it was. And he didn’t stop it.”
“No,” Kaelen says, pressing his palm to the mark. “He 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 Vaelen. 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 Malrik isn’t just a name.
It’s a hunger.
And it’s coming.
But not alone.
Because Cassien stands at the edge of the wasteland, 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.