The first thing I feel when the Fae appear is recognition.
Not fear. Not awe. Not even the instinctive snarl that rises in my throat whenever magic older than blood draws near. No, this is deeper. A quiet, steady pull beneath my ribs, like a thread woven into my bones has finally been tugged. They don’t come with fanfare. No shimmering portals, no melodic calls. One moment, the corridor is empty—stone and shadow, the distant echo of Council debates fading behind me. The next, they’re simply there.
Two of them.
One male, one female. Tall, impossibly slender, their skin the color of moonlight on snow, their eyes large and black as obsidian, reflecting nothing and everything at once. Their hair spills like liquid silver down their backs, and their gowns—hers a gown of woven mist, his a coat of shadow and starlight—don’t move with the air. They move with intent.
“Jasmine Vale,” the woman says. Her voice isn’t spoken. It’s felt, like a whisper against the inside of my skull. “Daughter of the fallen queen. Heir to the forgotten line. You’ve remembered the truth.”
“I have,” I say, voice raw. My hand presses to the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark, dark and perfect, still pulsing faintly. “But it’s not enough.”
“No,” the male Fae agrees, tilting his head. “It never is. Truth is a blade. It cuts both ways.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask, stepping back. My claws slide free, just a fraction. The sigil on my wrist flares, reacting to their presence, to the raw, untamed magic that hums around them. “Malrik’s gone. The Council knows. Kael—” I pause. Can’t say his name without my breath catching. “He’s not the monster I thought he was.”
“And yet,” the woman says, stepping forward, “you grieve. You rage. You doubt. Because knowing the truth is not the same as believing it.”
My breath hitches.
She’s right.
Of course she’s right.
I’ve spent twenty years hating the wrong man. Twenty years sharpening my claws on the lie that Kael killed my mother. Twenty years believing the only way to honor her memory was to burn his empire to the ground.
And now?
Now I know he tried to save her.
Now I know he took the blame so I could live.
Now I know he’s been protecting me—loving me—since I was a child.
And the worst part?
I don’t know how to stop hating myself.
“You came to us once,” the male Fae says, his voice a low thrum in my chest. “Years ago. After the fire. After the blade. You were twelve. You asked for one thing.”
“What?” I whisper.
“To forget,” the woman says. “To forget the man who saved your life. To forget the boy who promised to keep you safe. To forget the first time you kissed him.”
My breath stops.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” she says. “And we gave it to you. One touch. One truth. One memory, taken in exchange for peace.”
“And now,” the male says, “you’re ready to have it back.”
“I don’t know if I am,” I admit, my voice breaking. “What if it’s worse? What if it makes me hate him more? What if—”
“What if it makes you love him?” the woman interrupts. “What if it proves, beyond all doubt, that you’ve been in love with him since you were a child?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because she’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“Then take it,” I say, lifting my chin. “Give it back. I want to remember.”
The Fae exchange a glance—silent, ancient, knowing. Then the woman steps forward, her hand outstretched.
“One touch,” she says. “One truth. One memory returned.”
I don’t hesitate.
I reach out.
And the moment her fingers brush mine—
—the world shatters.
—
I’m twelve.
But not running. Not screaming. Not covered in blood.
I’m in the forest.
The same forest where my mother died. But it’s not night. It’s dawn. The air is thick with the scent of crushed moonflower and dew, the sky painted in soft pinks and golds. I’m not alone.
Kael is with me.
But not as the Midnight King. Not as the monster I thought he was.
As a boy.
He’s older—maybe seventeen—but still young, his storm-gray eyes bright, his fangs just visible when he smiles. He’s dressed in simple black, no coat, no crest, no armor. Just a boy. A boy who looks at me like I’m the only light in the world.
“You’re safe,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ll always keep you safe.”
I don’t answer.
Just press my hand into his. Small. Warm. Trusting.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says. “Not of me. Not of the bond. Not of what you are.”
“But I am afraid,” I whisper. “I’m afraid of losing you.”
He smiles—slow, gentle—and lifts my hand to his lips. Not a kiss. Not a claim. Just a promise.
“Then don’t lose me,” he says. “Stay with me. Always.”
And then—
He leans down.
And kisses me.
Soft. Sweet. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive. The mark on my shoulder—not yet there—burns with the promise of it.
And then—
He pulls back.
“I’ll wait for you,” he says, voice rough. “No matter how long it takes. No matter what you believe. I’ll wait.”
And I believe him.
—
The vision fades.
I gasp, stumbling back, my hand flying to my lips as if I can still feel the ghost of his kiss, still taste the warmth of his breath, still hear the raw, aching promise in his voice.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “I kissed him.”
“And he kissed you back,” the woman says, her voice gentle. “Before the fire. Before the blade. Before the lies.”
“And I asked to forget,” I say, my voice breaking. “I asked you to take it.”
“Because you were a child,” the male says. “And grief makes children do foolish things.”
“And now?” the woman asks. “Now that you remember? Now that you know the truth?”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—his mark, dark and perfect, still glowing faintly. “Now I don’t know what to do.”
“You know,” she says. “You’ve always known.”
“And if I don’t want to?” I whisper.
“Then you’re lying,” the male says. “And your body knows it.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
“You should’ve stayed dead,” a voice sneers.
I freeze.
Slowly, deliberately, I turn.
Lysandra stands in the archway, her gown the color of dried blood, her lips curled in a smirk. She doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
She looks amused.
“Still chasing ghosts?” she asks, stepping inside. “Still trying to believe the man who saved you is worth loving? You’re pathetic, Jasmine. You always were.”
“You’re not fooling anyone,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “That shirt means nothing. That scar is fake. And if he’d really been with you, the bond would’ve—”
“Burned you?” she interrupts, stepping closer. “Oh, it did. Didn’t you feel it? The way it pulsed in the night? The way it burned?”
My breath stops.
Because I did.
Last night. In my sleep. A sharp, sudden flare of heat, a wave of sensation so intense it woke me—his breath on my neck, his hands on my hips, his fangs at my throat—only to find myself alone, the sheets cold, the bond humming with something I couldn’t name.
And now—
Now she’s saying it was her.
“You’re lying,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“Am I?” she asks, stepping even closer, her breath warm against my ear. “Or are you just afraid to believe it? Afraid that the man who saved you, who protected you, who claimed you—might want someone else?”
I want to hit her.
Want to shift and tear her apart.
Want to sink my teeth into her throat and taste the lie on her tongue.
But I don’t.
Because the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I’m not sure I’d win.
Not against her.
Not against the doubt.
Not against the part of me that wonders—what if she’s right?
She turns to leave, her heels clicking against the stone, her hips swaying, his shirt fluttering behind her like a flag of victory. And I don’t stop her.
Just stand there, my claws still extended, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my body trembling with the need to run, to fight, to destroy.
But not here.
Not like this.
So I turn.
And I walk.
Fast. Hard. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
The corridors blur around me—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. The guards—vampire, werewolf, witch—step aside, their eyes down, their instincts screaming at them to run. They know what’s coming. They’ve seen it before. The Moonborn heat cycle is rare, but when it strikes, it’s chaos. Blood. Violence. Claiming.
And I?
I’m not just Moonborn.
I’m hybrid. Heir. Fated mate. And the most powerful bloodline in two centuries.
If I’m unclaimed during heat—
There will be war.
I don’t go to the training yard. Don’t go to the forest. Don’t go anywhere I might run into Lysandra or Malrik or anyone who’ll see the mark and know what it means.
I go to the Library of Whispers.
Hidden beneath the fortress, the library is a cavern of ancient tomes, their spines etched with forgotten magic, their pages humming with suppressed power. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and ink, of dust and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. The only light comes from floating orbs of blue flame, their glow flickering over the shelves, casting long, shifting shadows. This is where I come to think. To plan. To remember.
And today—
Today I come to burn.
I pace the central aisle, my boots striking the stone, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. My skin is burning. My blood is singing. The mark on my shoulder pulses with every heartbeat, a constant, insistent reminder of what I’ve lost. Not just my choice. Not just my revenge.
My innocence.
And now—
Now I’ve lost him.
Or maybe I never had him at all.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I freeze.
Slowly, deliberately, I turn.
Kael stands in the archway, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me, his coat flaring behind him, his presence a wall between me and the rest of the world. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
He looks… weary.
“Neither are you,” I say, voice low.
“This is my library,” he says, stepping inside. “I can go wherever I want.”
“And Lysandra?” I ask, stepping closer. “Can she go wherever she wants too? Into your chambers? Into your bed? Into your mouth?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. “You saw her.”
“I saw her wearing your shirt,” I snap. “I saw your scent on her skin. I saw the way she smiled, like she’d won.”
“And what did you feel?” he asks, stepping closer. “Anger? Betrayal? Or—” His voice drops. “—jealousy?”
My breath hitches.
“I don’t care who you sleep with,” I lie. “You’re not mine to claim. You’re not mine to—”
“Liar,” he says, cutting me off. “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 shelves. “I don’t want you. I hate you.”
“Liar,” he says, stepping closer. “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.
“You think I don’t know what she’s doing?” he asks, voice low. “You think I don’t see how she uses you? How she twists the truth to make you doubt? To make you hurt?”
“Then why does she have your shirt?” I demand. “Why does she have your scent? Why does she have—” My voice breaks. “—your attention?”
“Because I let her,” he says. “To protect you.”
I freeze.
“What?”
“She’s working with Malrik,” he says. “Feeding him information. Spreading lies. And if I cut her off, if I banish her, if I expose her—” He steps closer. “—he’ll come for you. He’ll know you’re a threat. And he’ll kill you.”
My breath stops.
“So you let her wear your shirt?” I ask, voice breaking. “Let her claim you? Let her lie about us?”
“To keep you alive,” he says. “To keep you safe. To keep you from walking into a trap.”
“And what about my heart?” I whisper. “Do you care about that? Or is it just another thing you’re willing to sacrifice?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps closer, his hand cupping my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I care,” he says, voice rough. “More than you know. More than I should.”
“Then let me go,” I say, my voice breaking. “If you care, let me go.”
“I can’t,” he says. “Because if I do, you’ll die. And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
I want to argue. Want to scream that he doesn’t get to decide, that I’m not his to protect, that I don’t need him.
But the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I do.
So I don’t fight.
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 worst part?
I don’t want him to stop.
But then—
A whisper.
Low. Familiar.
“I remember,” I say, lifting my head. “I remember our first kiss.”
His breath stops.
“You do?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“In the forest,” I say. “At dawn. Before the fire. Before the blade. Before I asked the Fae to take it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his storm-gray eyes endless, his hand still cupping my face.
“And I remember what you said,” I say. “‘I’ll wait for you. No matter how long it takes. No matter what you believe. I’ll wait.’”
A tear slips down his cheek.
“I did,” he says. “And I have.”
“And I,” I say, my voice breaking, “I’ve been in love with you since I was a child.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just pulls me into his arms, his body pressing mine against him, his fangs grazing my neck—just a whisper of pressure, but my breath hitches, my body arching into him.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not like before.
Not like in the storm.
Not like in the library.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Love.
And the worst part?
I don’t want it to end.