The first thing I feel when I step into the Chamber of Echoes is silence.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
The chamber is carved from the living heart of the mountain, its walls veined with silver and moonstone, their glow pulsing in time with the lunar cycle above. The air is thick with the scent of crushed herbs and old magic, of dust and something deeper—memory, power, legacy. No torches. No lamps. Just the soft, shifting light of the stones, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor. At the center, on a pedestal of black basalt, rests a single object.
The Moonstone Amulet.
It’s smaller than I imagined. No larger than my palm, the amulet is a disc of polished silver, etched with runes that shimmer like starlight. At its center, a flawless moonstone glows with a soft, internal light, pulsing faintly, as if it has a heartbeat. Around it, the air hums—low, resonant, like a song half-remembered.
This is it.
The last piece of my mother.
The final key to who I am.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stand there, my boots on the cold stone, my breath shallow, my claws sliding free without thought. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—reacting to the amulet, to the magic, to the truth it holds. The mark on my shoulder burns, not with pain, but with something older. Something like recognition.
Twenty years.
Twenty years I’ve spent believing I was a weapon. A ghost. A lie.
Twenty years I’ve spent sharpening my claws on vengeance, on the belief that Kael killed my mother, that he stole her throne, that he deserved to burn.
And now?
Now I know the truth.
He tried to save her.
He took the blame so I could live.
He’s been protecting me—loving me—since I was a child.
And I?
I’ve been in love with him since I was twelve.
The worst part?
I don’t know how to stop hating myself.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I don’t flinch.
Just turn.
Rhys stands in the archway, his golden wolf-eyes fixed on me, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He’s dressed in training leathers, his scars visible, his scent laced with sweat and iron. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
He looks… afraid.
“Neither are you,” I say, voice low.
“This is a sacred chamber,” he says, stepping inside. “Only the heir may enter. Only the heir may claim the amulet.”
“And if I’m not the heir?” I ask, stepping closer. “If I’m just a half-blood? A mistake? A weapon?”
“You’re not,” he says, stopping just a breath away. “You’re Jasmine Vale. Daughter of a queen. Sister to a Beta. And the only woman who can fix what’s broken.”
My breath hitches.
“And the amulet?” I ask. “What if it rejects me? What if it knows I’m not worthy?”
“It won’t,” he says. “Because it’s not about worth. It’s about blood. About memory. About the truth.”
“And if I’m not ready?” I whisper.
“You are,” he says. “You’ve always been. You just forgot.”
I don’t answer.
Just turn back to the pedestal.
The amulet glows brighter.
As if it knows I’m here.
As if it’s been waiting.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Rhys says, stepping beside me. “I’m here. Kael’s here. The bond’s here. You’re not the girl you were. You’re not the weapon. You’re not the ghost. You’re the heir.”
“And if I fail?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Then we fail together,” he says. “But you won’t. Because you’re stronger than this. You always were. You just forgot.”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark, dark and perfect, still glowing faintly. “And him? What if he sees me as weak? What if he regrets—”
“He doesn’t,” Rhys says, cutting me off. “He loves you. Not because of the bond. Not because of the throne. But because you’re you. And if he ever makes you doubt that—” He steps closer, his voice low. “—I’ll rip his throat out.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
But the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I don’t know how to be anything but broken.
So I don’t speak.
Just step forward.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll collapse.
The sigil on my wrist flares—brighter, hotter, alive—as I reach for the amulet. The air hums, the runes on the pedestal glowing, the moonstone pulsing faster, brighter. My fingers brush the silver.
And fire erupts.
Not pain.
Not magic.
But memory.
—
I’m six.
Not in the forest. Not in the throne room. Not in the blood.
I’m in my mother’s chambers.
The air is thick with the scent of lavender and old magic, the walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes, the floor covered in soft furs. She’s sitting by the hearth, her dark hair loose, her eyes glowing with power. In her hands—
The amulet.
She’s holding it, turning it in the light, her fingers tracing the runes. I sit beside her, small, trusting, my head on her lap.
“This is yours,” she says, voice soft. “Not because you’re my daughter. But because you’re you.”
“What does it do?” I ask, reaching for it.
She lets me take it.
And the moment my fingers close around it—
—the world shimmers.
Not a vision. Not a dream. But a knowing.
I see it—our coven, whole. Our people, free. Our magic, unchained. I see myself—older, stronger, radiant—standing beside a man with storm-gray eyes, his hand in mine, his fangs just visible when he smiles.
And I know—
This is my future.
“It’s not just power,” she says. “It’s memory. It’s truth. It’s the past and the future, bound in one. And one day, when you’re ready, it will choose you.”
“And if I’m not ready?” I ask, my voice small.
She smiles—slow, gentle—and lifts my chin. “Then it will wait. Because the amulet doesn’t choose the heir. The heir chooses the amulet.”
And I believe her.
—
The vision fades.
I gasp, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest as if I can still feel the weight of the amulet, still taste the warmth of my mother’s voice, still see the future she showed me.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “It remembers me.”
Rhys doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his golden eyes endless. “Of course it does. You’re her daughter. You’re the heir.”
“And if I’m not ready?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“You are,” he says. “You’ve always been. You just forgot.”
I press a hand to the amulet—still warm, still pulsing, still alive. The sigil on my wrist flares, reacting to it, to the truth it holds. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with possession, not with pain, but with something older. Something like recognition.
And then—
I lift it.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
The moment it leaves the pedestal, the chamber explodes with light.
Not fire. Not magic. But power.
The moonstone blazes, its glow flooding the chamber, the runes on the walls flaring, the air humming with energy. My skin burns. My blood sings. The sigil on my wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone. The mark on my shoulder pulses—bright, molten, alive—and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
I am not just Moonborn.
I am not just a witch.
I am not just a hybrid.
I am the heir.
And the amulet knows it.
“It’s yours,” Rhys says, stepping closer. “It’s always been yours.”
“And now?” I ask, my voice raw.
“Now you wear it,” he says. “Now you become what you were meant to be.”
I don’t answer.
Just lift the chain over my head.
The moment it settles against my chest, fire erupts—bright, molten, alive. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil flares. The mark burns. And then—
—I see it.
Not through my eyes.
Through hers.
My mother.
Standing in the clearing, the forest bathed in silver light. The air thick with magic, with the scent of crushed moonflower and old blood. She’s holding the dagger—not to kill, but to seal. A blood oath. A binding.
And beside her—
Kael.
Younger. Not a king. Not a monster. Just a boy who loved her too much.
They press their palms together, blood mingling, and the air thrums with magic—ancient, sacred, fated. “I bind you,” she says, voice steady. “Not by force. Not by duty. But by choice. By love. By the future we see.”
“I accept,” he 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.”
She 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.
She collapses. He 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 gasp, collapsing to my knees, my hand fisted in the amulet, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears stream down my face. The sigil on my wrist glows so bright it casts shadows on the stone. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession, but with something deeper. Something like truth.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “He didn’t kill her.”
Rhys doesn’t flinch. Just kneels beside me, his hand on my back, steady, sure. “No. He tried to save her. He failed. But he kept you alive.”
“And the throne?” I ask, my voice trembling. “The coven? The war?”
“Malrik used her death to seize power,” he says. “He called her a traitor, framed Kael for the murder, and used the chaos to rally the Tribunal. The Veil War wasn’t about purity. It was about control. And Kael let it happen—because if he fought, they would’ve killed you.”
I press a hand to the amulet—still warm, still pulsing, still alive. “And now? 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?”
“Now you fix it,” Rhys says.
“How?” I ask, my voice breaking. “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 him.
I want to understand him.
“You’re not the only one who’s afraid,” Rhys says, cupping my face. “I’m terrified of you knowing. Of you hating me more. Of losing you again.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my voice raw.
“Because you weren’t ready,” he says. “You came here with fire in your eyes, with a dagger in your heart, with vengeance written in your bones. If I’d told you the truth then, you would’ve shattered. And I couldn’t lose you. Not again.”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—his mark, dark and perfect, still glowing faintly. “And this? Is it still a mating mark? Or is it something else? A father’s protection? A king’s seal? Or just another lie I’ve been too afraid to see?”
“It’s real,” he says. “Not just magic. Not just fate. But truth. You were meant to find me. Meant to remember. Meant to rule.”
“And if I don’t want to?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll let you go,” he says. “But I’ll never stop loving you. Never stop protecting you. Never stop being your father.”
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.
—
Later, in the chambers, he doesn’t speak.
Just sits by the hearth, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes fixed on the flames. The bond hums beneath his skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on his wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. And the mark on his shoulder—my mark, dark and perfect—still burns.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, voice quiet.
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
“You could’ve just denied it. Called her a liar. Protected your reputation—”
“And lost you?” I ask, stepping closer. “Never.”
He doesn’t look at me. “You didn’t have to claim me in front of them. You didn’t have to—”
“But I wanted to,” I say, kneeling beside him. “I wanted the world to know. I wanted them to see. I wanted you to know.”
He finally looks at me.
And for the first time, I see it—hope.
Not just in his eyes.
In his scent. In his breath. In the way his body leans toward mine.
“Why?” I ask, voice breaking. “Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep choosing me?”
“Because you’re not just my heir,” he says, brushing a hand through my hair. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
I don’t answer.
Just waits.
“You’re my heart,” I say. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
He doesn’t pull away.
Just presses his forehead to my chest, his hands fisting in my shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
He lets himself cry.
I hold him.
Not as a king.
Not as a father.
As the man who’s loved her since she was a child.
And the Oracle’s final words echo in the silence:
“The betrayal wasn’t his. It was yours.”
And she knows.
Because she betrayed the truth.
She betrayed him.
And now—
Now she’s made it right.