The first thing I feel when I smell him is relief.
Not the quiet, gentle kind—the kind that comes after a storm has passed. No, this is deeper. Sharper. A visceral pull in my gut, a primal recognition that slices through the fog of guilt and grief like a blade. Rhys. My brother. My blood. The only family I had left—until I learned that the man I came to destroy was the one who’d kept me alive.
But Rhys… Rhys is different.
He’s not tied to the bond. Not tangled in the magic. Not bound by prophecy or fate or the weight of a throne. He’s just… mine. And the scent of him—pine and iron and the faintest trace of moonflower, the same as it was twenty years ago—wraps around me like a promise.
I stop in the corridor, my breath catching. The training yard is behind me, the echoes of my wolf’s snarls still ringing in my ears. My skin is slick with sweat, my muscles burning from the fight I didn’t win. But I don’t care. Because he’s here. And for the first time since I stepped into this cursed fortress, I don’t feel alone.
Then I see him.
He’s standing at the end of the hall, half in shadow, arms crossed, golden wolf-eyes watching me with that same quiet intensity he’s always had. He’s taller than I remember. Broader. His dark hair is shorter, his jaw sharper, his stance more controlled. But it’s him. No doubt. No hesitation. Just… Rhys.
“You look like hell,” he says, voice low.
I don’t move. Can’t. My legs feel like stone. My chest tightens. The sigil on my wrist flares—faint, warm, like it knows him too.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” I whisper.
“So are you,” he says, stepping forward. “But here we are.”
And then—
I’m running.
Not thinking. Not strategizing. Just *moving*. My boots strike the stone, my breath comes in ragged gasps, and before I can stop myself, I’m in his arms, my face buried in his chest, his scent flooding my senses. He doesn’t hesitate. Just wraps his arms around me, tight, solid, *real*, and holds me like he’s never letting go.
“I thought you were gone,” I choke. “I thought—”
“I know,” he says, his voice rough. “But I wasn’t. I’ve been watching. Waiting. Making sure you were ready.”
I pull back, my hands still gripping his arms. “Ready for what?”
“For the truth,” he says. “For *him*.”
My breath hitches. “You knew.”
“I suspected,” he says. “But I couldn’t say anything. Not until you saw it for yourself. Not until you *felt* it.”
“And now?” I ask, my voice breaking. “Now that I know? Now that I’ve spent twenty years hating the wrong man? Now that I’ve come here to destroy the only family I have left?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Now you fix it.”
“How?” I whisper. “How do I fix twenty years of lies? Of rage? Of *betrayal*?”
“By facing it,” he says. “By stopping the war inside you. You came here to burn his empire to the ground. But you don’t want to do that anymore, do you?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
The truth—sharp and terrible—is this: I don’t want to destroy Kael.
I want to *understand* him.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid,” Rhys says, stepping back. “He’s terrified of you knowing. Of you hating him more. Of losing you *again*.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because he was waiting for you to be strong enough to hear it,” he says. “And you weren’t. Not until now.”
I press a hand to my forehead. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Start by breathing,” he says. “Then talk to him. Not as his enemy. Not as his mate. But as his *daughter*.”
My breath catches.
Daughter.
The word feels foreign. Wrong. And yet… right. Like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed.
“And if I can’t?” I ask. “If I can’t look at him and see anything but the man who let them call my mother a traitor?”
“Then you’re not the woman I thought you were,” he says. “And you’re not the heir the world needs.”
I want to argue. Want to scream that he doesn’t understand, that the pain is too deep, the betrayal too vast. But the sigil burns. The bond hums. And the worst part?
I know he’s right.
“Come on,” Rhys says, turning. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the Veil Between Worlds,” he says. “I’ve been working with the Fae. They have information—about Malrik. About the Tribunal. About what really happened the night she died.”
My breath stops. “You’ve been with the Fae?”
“They don’t lie,” he says. “They twist truths. Bargain in memories. But they *know* things. And they’re willing to help—for a price.”
“And what’s the price?”
He stops, turning to me. “One touch. One truth. But you lose a memory. A real one. Something that matters.”
My stomach twists. “And you’ve done this?”
“Twice,” he says. “Once to find you. Once to confirm what I already knew about Kael.”
“And what did you lose?”
He hesitates. “The last time I saw her. My mother. The way she smiled at me before she sent me away.”
My breath hitches.
“You gave that up?” I whisper.
“For you,” he says. “Always for you.”
I don’t speak. Just stare at him, my brother, my protector, the only one who’s never wavered. And I know—
I don’t deserve him.
“Let’s go,” I say.
The Veil Between Worlds is not a place. It’s a *state*—a thin, shimmering layer between realms, accessible only during lunar eclipses or through Fae magic. Rhys leads me through a hidden passage beneath the fortress, down spiraling stairs carved into living stone, until we reach a circular chamber lined with obsidian mirrors. The air is thick with ozone and something sweeter, like crushed petals and old wine. The mirrors don’t reflect us. They reflect *elsewhere*—glimpses of other worlds, other times, other versions of ourselves.
At the center of the chamber, a silver door stands ajar, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat.
“This is it,” Rhys says. “Step through. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t touch anything. And whatever you do—don’t make a deal you’re not willing to lose.”
I nod, my pulse roaring.
He places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not alone, little wolf. I’m right behind you.”
And then—
I step through.
The world *shifts*.
One second, I’m in the chamber. The next—
I’m standing in a forest of silver trees, their leaves glowing faintly, their roots twisting into the earth like veins. The sky is a deep violet, streaked with stars that pulse like living things. The air is thick with magic—old, sharp, *hungry*. And in the center of it all, seated on a throne of woven thorns, is a Fae.
She’s beautiful. Terrifying. Her skin is pale as moonlight, her hair a cascade of black silk, her eyes two pools of liquid gold. She wears a gown of living vines, their thorns glistening with dew. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Ah,” she says, voice like wind through dead leaves. “The lost heir. The hybrid. The woman who came to destroy her father… and found herself destroyed instead.”
My breath catches. “You know who I am.”
“I know *everything*,” she says. “But I won’t tell you unless you ask. And even then… the truth comes at a cost.”
“I’ll pay it,” I say.
She tilts her head. “One touch. One truth. But you lose a memory. A real one. Something that matters.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you walk away,” she says. “Ignorant. Weak. Doomed to repeat the past.”
I glance at Rhys. He gives me a small nod.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
She rises, gliding toward me like a shadow. “Then give me your hand.”
I hesitate.
Then I hold it out.
Her fingers are cold as ice, her touch like a blade. She takes my hand, her golden eyes locking onto mine. “Speak your question,” she says. “And I will answer.”
My breath comes in shallow gasps. “Tell me… what really happened the night my mother died.”
She smiles.
And then—
The world *shatters*.
Images flood my mind—flickering, ghostly, rising from the forest floor like smoke.
A forest bathed in silver light.
My mother, standing tall, her dark hair loose, her eyes glowing with power. She’s holding a dagger—not to kill, but to *seal*. A blood oath. A binding.
And beside her—
Kael.
Younger. Not a king, but a prince. His storm-gray eyes wide with fear, with grief, with *love*.
They press their palms together, blood mingling, and the air thrums with magic—ancient, sacred, *fated*.
“I bind you,” my mother says. “Not by force. Not by duty. But by choice. By love. By the future we see.”
“I accept,” Kael says, voice rough. “By blood. By soul. By fate.”
The magic surges—bright, blinding—and for a single, breathless second, I see it: the bond. Not between us. Between *them*.
Then—
Malrik appears, flanked by Tribunal guards. His eyes are cold, his voice sharp. “You’ve betrayed your kind,” he says. “You’ve allied with the vampires to destroy the pureblood lines. You must die for the peace of all realms.”
My mother doesn’t flinch. “I did it for the future. For balance. For *her*.”
“Then she dies with you,” Malrik says.
Kael steps forward. “No. Take me instead. Let her live. Let the child live.”
Malrik hesitates. Then: “So be it. But the world will believe *you* are the traitor. That *you* killed her. That *you* stole her throne.”
“I accept,” Kael says. “But let them live. Let *her* live.”
And then—
The blade falls.
My mother collapses. Kael catches her. He whispers the words—*“For the peace of all realms”*—not as a killer, but as a mourner. As a man who has lost everything.
And me—twelve years old, screaming, running—
“If I die, you die too!”
I cut him. With a child’s dagger. A blood pact.
And he *promised*.
The vision fades.
I stumble back, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my hands pressed to my forehead. The truth—sharp, terrible, *inescapable*—remains.
He didn’t kill her.
He *saved* me.
And I’ve spent twenty years hating him for it.
“What did I lose?” I whisper.
The Fae smiles. “The first time you kissed him.”
My breath stops.
“It was before the war,” she says. “You were sixteen. He was twenty. You met in secret, in the forest. You thought no one knew. But the Fae see all. And now… you don’t.”
Tears burn in my eyes.
My first kiss.
Gone.
“Was it worth it?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
Just turn and walk back toward the silver door, Rhys falling into step beside me.
“You know now,” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
“And?”
“And I have to face him,” I say. “Not as his enemy. Not as his mate. But as his daughter.”
He nods. “Then do it.”
We step back through the door, returning to the obsidian chamber. The mirrors flicker, showing glimpses of other worlds, other versions of me—some still vengeful, some broken, some kneeling before Kael in rage. But one… one shows me standing beside him, hand in hand, a crown on my head, fire in my eyes.
That one, I believe.
We return to the fortress in silence. The corridors blur around me, but my mind is clear. The fever from the bond has receded, soothed by proximity, by truth. The sigil glows faintly, steady, unbroken. And the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark—pulses with every heartbeat, not as a claim, but as a *connection*.
I find him in the study, seated at his desk, reviewing documents. He doesn’t look up when I enter. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps writing, his pen moving across the parchment like a blade.
“I know,” I say.
He stops.
Slowly, deliberately, he sets the pen down.
And looks at me.
And for the first time, I see it—*fear*.
Not of me.
Not of the bond.
Of *this*.
Of me knowing.
“Who told you?” he asks, voice low.
“The Fae,” I say. “One touch. One truth. But I lost a memory.”
“And what did you lose?”
“My first kiss,” I say. “With you.”
His breath catches.
“It was before the war,” I say. “In the forest. You thought no one knew. But the Fae see all.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his storm-gray eyes endless.
“You didn’t kill her,” I say. “You *saved* me. You took the blame so I could live. You let the world believe you were the monster—so I could survive.”
He exhales, slow and controlled. “And do you hate me for it?”
“I did,” I say. “But not anymore.”
He stands, crossing the room in three strides, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “You are not a mistake,” he says, voice rough. “You are the reason I survived. The reason I kept breathing. The reason I carried every lie, every curse, every drop of blood on my hands—so you could live.”
“And if I had died?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Then I would have followed,” he says. “Because the bond wouldn’t have let me live without you. And neither would I.”
I don’t pull away.
Just press my forehead to his chest, my hands fisting in his shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
I let myself cry.
He holds me. Not as a mate. Not as a king.
As a father.
And the Oracle’s final words echo in the silence:
“The betrayal wasn’t his. It was yours.”
And she was right.
Because I betrayed the truth.
I betrayed *him*.
And now—
Now I have to make it right.