The silence after the Garden doesn’t last.
It never does.
But this time, it’s not dread that follows. Not the cold, creeping weight of ancient forces rising from forgotten graves. This silence is different—soft, almost reverent, like the hush that settles over a battlefield after the last cry has faded, when the wind carries ash instead of war. The Obsidian Court stands untouched, but it feels different. The torches burn with a silver-green flame. The shadows move slower, their edges tinged with bloom. The air tastes of thyme and moonpetals, of old paper and something deeper—something alive.
I press my palm to the mark on my wrist. It flares—warm, golden, steady. No whisper. No pull. No hunger. Just heat. Just him.
Kaelen.
He stands beside me on the balcony, his coat drawn tight against the cold, his golden eyes reflecting the dawn. The sky is bruised with twilight, the stars still clinging to the edges of night. Below, the fortress stirs—guards shifting, torches relit, the Night Guard moving with purpose. But not in fear. Not in tension. In order. In peace.
“They see it,” he says, voice low, rough like velvet over stone.
I don’t turn. “See what?”
“The change.”
I do turn then. “You mean the vines? The blooms? The fact that every sigil in this place now pulses with my magic?”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his gaze sharp, searching. “I mean the truth.”
My breath catches.
“They see who you are,” he continues. “Not just the Thorned Blood. Not just the assassin. Not just my consort. They see the woman who faced the hunger of memory and didn’t break. Who burned the silence and let the truth rise from the ashes.”
I look down at my hands. At the vines still coiled beneath my skin, their thorns softened, their leaves edged with light. I don’t fight them. Don’t suppress them. I let them breathe. Just like the tree. Just like the rose.
Just like me.
“I didn’t do it alone,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But you were the one who reached through the veil. Who faced the whispers. Who remembered.”
I close my eyes. Breathe in.
And there it is.
Not the scent of roses. Not of blood. Not of ash.
Of home.
Of stone warmed by sun. Of ivy climbing black walls. Of a hearth where tea steams in chipped mugs. Of a voice that used to say, “You’re stronger than you know, little thorn.”
Mira.
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.
“She’s still here,” I whisper.
Kaelen doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He steps closer, his chest brushing mine, his hand lifting to my wrist, his thumb stroking the mark. The bond ignites—heat crashing through us both, a pulse so strong it makes the torches flicker in their sconces.
“She’s in the magic,” he says. “In the blooms. In the whispers between the roots. She’s not gone. She’s transformed.”
My breath hitches.
“Like the tree.”
“Like the rose.”
“Like me.”
He nods. “You’re not just surviving anymore, Rowan. You’re blooming.”
I don’t answer. Just press my forehead to his, letting the bond hum between us, steady and alive. For the first time, I don’t feel the need to fight it. To resist it. To question it. I just… let it be.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the bond. Not from Kaelen. Not from Cassien.
From her.
Mother.
My magic flares—vines erupting from my skin, curling around my arms, my neck. 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 lavender.
And old lace.
And something sweet—like honeyed wine, like forgiveness.
The scent of her chambers. Of the gown she wore the night she died. Of the perfume she dabbed behind her ears before she walked into the throne room, knowing she wouldn’t return.
My breath hitches.
“Mother,” 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 right there—”
“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?”
“My mother’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 Orin. Something worse than Malrik. Something—”
“—that even the redeemed 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. “My mother didn’t just die protecting you. She knew what was coming. She saw it. And she chose to stand in its way.”
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—lavender, old lace, honeyed wine—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 my mother’s presence should be. And for a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
A whisper.
Not words. Not magic.
A memory.
My mother, standing in her chambers, her violet eyes burning with something I can’t name. The air is thick with the scent of lavender, of old magic, of something ancient. And in her hands—
A mirror.
Not of glass. Not of silver.
Of bone.
Etched with sigils that pulse with bloodlight, with runes that shift like living things. And in its reflection—
A name.
Not mine.
Not Kaelen’s.
Not Orin’s.
Not Malrik’s.
Not Valera’s.
But one I’ve never heard before.
“Aurelia,” the whisper comes. “She walks in silence. She feeds on loyalty. She was there the night your mother died. She was there when the Hollow King rose. And she will be there when the Thorned Blood falls.”
My breath stops.
“Who is she?” I whisper.
“Not who,” my mother’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.
“Aurelia,” 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 Orin,” Kaelen says, his voice low. “Something that feeds on betrayal. On blood. On family.”
“Like Vaelen,” I say.
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Vaelen was a hunger born of regret. 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 betrayal. Wanted the blood. 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 Mirror of Bone. In the heart of the Fae Vale. Where the first seers saw their own deaths and wept.”
My breath catches.
“The Mirror 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 my mother’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 the Fae 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 lavender and old lace, of honeyed wine 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 mirror.
Not of glass. Not of silver.
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 Mirror doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just pulses.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the wind. Not from the trees.
From the glass.
“Rowan,” it says, voice like crumbling stone. “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 Aurelia. About the night my mother died. About—”
“—the truth?” the Mirror interrupts. “You already know it. You just don’t believe it.”
“Then say it,” I snarl.
And then—
The glass 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 my mother’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 betrayal grow. Let the bond fester.”
And my mother—
Watching from the shadows.
Her hand on a mirror. Her lips moving in a prayer. Her eyes burning with something I can’t name.
Fear.
And recognition.
“Aurelia,” 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 betrayal. In blood. In pain.”
“Because it feeds on it,” Cassien says, his voice low. “Like Orin. But stronger. Older. Darker.”
“And my mother 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 Orin. 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 Aurelia 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.