The first thing I feel when the blade bites into my side is shock.
Not pain—yet. Not fear. Not even instinct. Just a cold, bright flash of disbelief, like the world had tilted on its axis and I hadn’t noticed until the sky cracked open. One second, I’m walking through the eastern corridor, the scent of old stone and torch smoke thick in the air, my boots striking the floor with steady rhythm. Kael is ahead of me, speaking to Torin about border patrols, his voice low, controlled. The bond hums beneath my skin, a quiet, steady pulse—no longer the feverish scream of heat, but something deeper, calmer. Like a river after the storm.
And then—
A flicker in the torchlight.
A shift in the shadows.
A whisper of movement too fast for human eyes.
I turn—just in time to see the dagger.
Not aimed at me.
Aimed at *him*.
It comes from the archway above, thrown with lethal precision—a silver blade etched with suppression runes, meant to sever his connection to the bond, to weaken him, to *kill* him. It slices through the air like a viper, glinting in the firelight, and I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I just *move*.
My body arcs in front of his.
The blade sinks into my side—just below the ribs—deep, brutal, *final*. Fire erupts through me, white-hot and blinding, and for a single, breathless second, I feel it: the cold weight of steel in my flesh, the warm rush of blood, the sudden, terrifying silence where the bond should be.
Then I collapse.
I don’t hear the shouts. Don’t feel the hands catching me. Don’t register the snarls, the thuds, the sickening crunch of bone as Kael tears into the assassin. All I feel is the cold. The *absence*. The bond—gone. Severed. And with it, the last thread of control I’d been clinging to.
Darkness swallows me.
—
I wake to warmth.
Not the feverish heat of the cycle. Not the electric pulse of the bond. This is different. Deeper. A slow, molten glow that seeps into my bones, my blood, my very soul. I’m lying on something soft—silken sheets, cool against my bare skin. The air is thick with the scent of old wine and cold stone, of iron and something darker, sweeter. *Him.*
Kael.
My eyes flutter open, vision blurred at the edges. The chamber is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the hearth, the runes on the walls pulsing in slow, steady rhythm. The bond—still weak, still fractured—but there. Faint. Thready. Like a heartbeat fighting to return.
And he’s here.
Seated beside the bed, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me, his hand resting lightly on my wrist. His thumb brushes the sigil—just a graze, but fire erupts beneath my skin, sharp and bright. Not pain. Not pleasure. *Recognition.*
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough.
I try to speak, but my throat is raw, my voice a whisper. “The blade—”
“Gone,” he says. “The wound is healing. But you lost a lot of blood.”
I press a hand to my side, wincing as my fingers brush the bandages. “You should’ve let it hit you.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just leans closer, his hand sliding up to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “And let you die? Never.”
“It wasn’t meant for me,” I say, my voice breaking. “It was meant for *you*.”
“And you took it anyway,” he says. “Why?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because I don’t know.
Was it instinct? Protection? The bond? Or something deeper—something I haven’t let myself name?
He studies me, his gaze endless, his fingers trembling where they touch my skin. “You could’ve died.”
“So could you,” I whisper.
“But I’m not you,” he says, voice raw. “And if you’d died—” His breath hitches. “—I would’ve followed. The bond wouldn’t have let me live. And neither would I.”
My chest tightens.
He doesn’t say it as a lover. Doesn’t say it as a king.
He says it as a father.
And gods, it destroys me.
“It was Malrik,” I say, changing the subject. “Wasn’t it?”
He nods, jaw tight. “One of his hunters. Disguised as a Council messenger. Torin found traces of Fae glamour on the blade—enough to bypass the wards.”
“Then he’s moving faster than we thought.”
“Yes,” he says. “And now he knows you’re a threat. That you’ve seen the truth.”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark, dark and perfect, still glowing faintly. “He’ll come for me again.”
“And I’ll be ready,” he says. “But not like this. Not with you throwing yourself in front of blades meant for me.”
“And what if I do?” I challenge, sitting up. My side protests, but I ignore it. “What if I’d rather die than live knowing you were killed because I was too slow?”
“Then you’re lying,” he says, stepping closer. “Because your body doesn’t lie. Your sigil doesn’t lie. And the bond?” He reaches out, his thumb brushing the edge of the mark. “It knows the truth.”
Fire surges through me—bright, molten, *alive*. I gasp, stumbling back, but the wave of sensation follows me—his touch, his warmth, his *need* flooding into me like a tide. My knees weaken. My breath hitches. And the sigil beneath my sleeve—glowing so brightly it burns—proves I’m lying to myself.
“Don’t touch me,” I choke.
“Then stop reacting,” he says, not unkindly. “Stop pretending you don’t want this. Stop pretending you don’t *need* me.”
“I don’t need you,” I say, backing toward the door. “I don’t want you. I *hate* you.”
“Liar,” he says. “Your body doesn’t lie. Your sigil doesn’t lie. And the bond?” He steps closer, his presence a wall between me and the door. “It knows the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Urgent.
He doesn’t move.
Another knock. Louder.
Then the door opens.
It’s not Torin.
It’s Rhys.
He stands in the doorway, golden wolf-eyes fixed on me, his body tense, his scent sharp with anger. Behind him, two vampire guards flank the entrance, their expressions blank, their hands on their weapons.
“She shouldn’t be awake,” he says, voice low. “The wound was deep. The blood loss—”
“She’s strong,” Kael says. “Like her mother.”
Rhys doesn’t flinch. Just steps forward, crouching beside the bed, his hand brushing my forehead. “You’re burning.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, wincing as I shift.
“No,” he says. “You’re not. The blade was laced with venom. Not enough to kill, but enough to weaken. To slow healing.”
My breath catches.
“Then why am I awake?”
“Because he fed you his blood,” Rhys says, turning to Kael. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“And let her die?” Kael snaps. “I’d rather break every rule than lose her.”
Rhys doesn’t argue. Just looks at me, his eyes full of something I can’t name. “You took a blade for him.”
“It wasn’t meant for me,” I say.
“No,” he says. “But you didn’t hesitate. You just… moved.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And I don’t know why.
“The venom’s still in her system,” Rhys says, standing. “She needs rest. Real rest. Not this—” He gestures at Kael. “—this constant proximity. The bond’s too strong. It’s interfering with her recovery.”
“And if I leave?” Kael asks. “What if she takes another blade? What if she dies because I wasn’t there?”
“Then you’ll die with her,” Rhys says. “But not before she hates you for making her weak.”
My breath stops.
“I’m not weak,” I say, voice breaking.
“You are,” Rhys says. “When you let him decide for you. When you let the bond control you. When you forget who you are.”
“And who am I?” I whisper.
“The woman who came here to destroy him,” he says. “The woman who cut him with a child’s dagger and said, *‘If I die, you die too.’* The woman who’s been running from the truth for twenty years.”
“And now?”
“Now you have to choose,” he says. “Do you want to be the heir? The queen? The daughter? Or do you want to be the weapon?”
I don’t answer.
Just press a hand to the mark on my shoulder, to the sigil on my wrist, to the wound in my side.
And I know—
I can’t be all of them.
Not at once.
“I need to think,” I say, voice tight.
“Then do it alone,” Rhys says. “No bond. No magic. No *him*.”
Kael doesn’t argue. Just steps back, his storm-gray eyes endless, his jaw tight. “I’ll be outside,” he says. “If you need me.”
I don’t answer.
Just watch as he leaves, the door closing behind him like a tomb sealing shut.
Rhys waits until he’s gone, then turns to me. “You love him.”
“No,” I snap. “I *hate* him.”
“Liar,” he says, echoing Kael. “Your scent says otherwise. You’re aroused. Grieving. Confused. But not hate. Never hate.”
“Then what is it?” I whisper. “What am I feeling?”
“The truth,” he says. “The truth you’ve been running from since you were a child. That the man you thought was your enemy… is the only one who ever tried to save you.”
“He let them call her a traitor,” I say, my voice breaking. “He let me believe he killed her.”
“And if he hadn’t,” Rhys says, “they would have killed you. The Tribunal was coming. They knew about the bond. They knew you were the heir. Kael took the blame so you could live.”
“You knew?” I ask, turning to him. “All this time—you knew?”
“I suspected,” he says. “But I couldn’t prove it. Not until now.”
“And you’re just telling me *now*?”
“Because you weren’t ready,” he says. “You needed to see it for yourself. To feel it. To *know* it.”
I press a hand to my forehead. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Then believe this,” he says. “The sigil doesn’t lie. The bond doesn’t lie. And your body?” He gestures at the mark. “It knows the truth. Even if your mind won’t accept it.”
I don’t answer.
Just sit there, my brother’s words echoing in the silence.
And then—
A memory.
Not from the storm.
Not from last night.
From *before*.
A forest bathed in moonlight. A boy with storm-gray eyes, reaching for me. *“You’re safe,”* he whispers. *“I’ll always keep you safe.”*
A hand in mine, small and warm. Laughter. A promise.
Then—blood. So much blood. My mother, falling. Kael’s face twisted in grief, not triumph. His voice, raw: *“I tried to stop it. I tried—”*
The blade. The whisper. *“For the peace of all realms.”*
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*.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “He wasn’t the monster. I was.”
Rhys doesn’t flinch. “You were a child.”
“No,” I say. “I accused him. I hated him. I came here to destroy him. And all this time—” My voice breaks. “All this time, he was the one who saved me.”
“And now?” Rhys asks.
I look down at the mark on my shoulder. At the sigil on my wrist, glowing faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
And I know—
There’s no going back.
Not from this.
Not from *him*.
“Now,” I say, standing, “I have to face him.”
“And say what?” Rhys asks.
“The truth,” I say. “That I was wrong. That I’ve been wrong for twenty years. That I came here to destroy him—” I press a hand to the mark “—and instead, he destroyed me.”
Rhys stands, his golden eyes watching me. “And what if he doesn’t forgive you?”
“Then I’ll spend every day proving I’m worthy of him,” I say. “Because the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I didn’t come here to burn his empire to the ground.
I came here to find the man who saved my life.
And I think… I think I’ve been in love with him since I was a child.
I turn and walk back toward the chambers, my brother’s words echoing behind me.
And the worst part?
I liked it.