The first thing I feel when the scent hits me is rage.
Not the quiet kind—the one that simmers beneath the skin, waiting. No, this is raw. Animal. A guttural snarl rising in my throat before my brain even registers the danger. The air in the corridor is thick with it—iron and venom and something older, darker. Malrik. Not dead. Not exiled. Just hiding. Biding his time. And now he’s back.
And he’s coming for her.
I don’t run. Don’t shout. Don’t call for guards. I move—silent, fast, a shadow in the dark. My boots strike the stone without sound, my claws sliding free, my fangs pressing against my lips. The bond hums beneath my skin, not mine—hers. Jasmine. My sister. My blood. The only thing left of the family I thought was gone forever. And if Malrik thinks he can touch her—
He’s already dead.
The fortress is too quiet. No torches. No whispers. No footsteps. Just the low hum of magic beneath my feet and the distant echo of her laughter—soft, rare, alive—from the chambers she now shares with Kael. I don’t go there. Don’t even look. If I see her now, safe and whole and finally starting to heal, I might lose it. Might shift right here in the hall and tear the walls apart.
But I can’t.
Because she needs me.
I follow the scent—sharp, metallic, laced with decay—down the eastern wing, where the old tunnels snake beneath the mountain. The walls here are cracked, the runes faded, the air thick with dust and memory. This is where they used to keep prisoners. Where Malrik tortured dissenters. Where my mother died screaming.
And now?
Now it’s where he’s waiting.
I smell them before I see them—five of them. Vampire enforcers, all wearing the black sigil of the Tribunal. They’re fanned out in the tunnel, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the shadows. Waiting. For me. For her. For the moment one of us walks into the trap.
Good.
I step into the light.
They don’t hesitate. No warnings. No taunts. Just the flash of steel and the snarl of fangs as they lunge.
I meet them head-on.
The first goes down with my claws in his throat, my fangs tearing into his neck before he can scream. The second swings a silver blade—cursed, meant to burn through hybrid flesh—but I twist, the edge grazing my ribs, and drive my elbow into his spine. He collapses, and I don’t stop. I’m already moving, already shifting, my body contorting as bone cracks and fur sprouts, my wolf form surging forward with a roar that shakes the stone.
The third tries to run.
Bad move.
I’m on him in seconds, my jaws closing around his leg, dragging him back, my teeth sinking deep. He screams. I don’t care. I shake, once, hard, and his leg tears free. He collapses, bleeding out, and I turn to the fourth—
—just as the fifth drives a dagger into my side.
Not silver. Not blessed. But coated in something worse—witch venom. It burns like acid, spreading through my veins, slowing my shift, weakening my limbs. I growl, turning, but he’s fast. Faster than the others. And he knows where to hit.
Another slash across my shoulder. Another in my thigh. I stumble, my vision blurring, my breath ragged. The bond screams—her bond, not mine—flaring in my chest, pulsing with her panic, her fear. She knows. She can feel it.
And she’s coming.
No.
I can’t let her see this.
I can’t let her walk into this.
So I do the only thing I can.
I howl.
Not a warning.
A distraction.
The sound rips from my throat, raw and primal, echoing through the tunnels, shaking the stone, drawing every eye. The enforcers hesitate. Look around. And in that split second—
I lunge.
My claws tear into the fifth’s chest, my fangs sinking into his throat, and I don’t stop until he’s limp, until his blood soaks my fur, until the last gurgle fades from his lips.
Then I collapse.
Not from the wounds—though there are five of them, deep and bleeding. Not from the venom—though it’s spreading, burning, slowing my heart. No.
I collapse because I hear her.
Her footsteps. Fast. Hard. Like if she stops, she’ll break.
And I can’t let her see me like this.
Can’t let her see her brother—her only family—broken and bleeding on the stone.
But I don’t have a choice.
Because she’s already here.
“Rhys!”
Her voice is raw. Shattered. The sound of it cuts deeper than any blade. I try to move. Try to stand. Try to tell her to run. But my body won’t obey. The venom’s in my blood, my limbs heavy, my vision blurring.
And then—
She’s beside me.
On her knees. Hands on my fur. Tears in her eyes. Her scent—storm and iron and something sweeter—filling the air, mixing with the blood, the venom, the death.
“No,” she whispers, her fingers trembling as they trace the wound in my side. “No, no, no—”
I try to speak. Try to tell her I’m fine. Try to tell her to go. But all that comes out is a low, broken whine.
“They ambushed you,” she says, voice shaking. “They knew. They knew you’d come. They set a trap—”
And then—
She smells it.
Not just the blood.
Not just the venom.
But him.
Malrik.
Her head snaps up, her storm-gray eyes blazing, her fangs fully extended, her claws sliding free. The bond flares—her bond, his bond—surging between her and Kael, bright and molten, alive. She doesn’t call for him. Doesn’t need to.
He’s already coming.
But she doesn’t wait.
She shifts—fast, seamless, her body contorting as fur recedes and bone reshapes—and in seconds, she’s on her feet, naked, bloodied, feral. The Moonstone Amulet glows against her chest, its light pulsing with her rage, and the mark on her shoulder—Kael’s mark—burns like a brand.
“Where is he?” she snarls, her voice low, dangerous. “Where’s Malrik?”
I try to answer. Try to warn her. But all I can do is lift a trembling hand, pointing deeper into the tunnel.
And she goes.
Not running.
Not charging.
But hunting.
I watch her go—my sister, my blood, my queen—her body moving like a blade through shadow, her scent sharp with fury, with grief, with something deeper. Something like love.
And I know—
She’ll kill him.
Or die trying.
—
I don’t know how long I lie there.
Minutes? Hours? Time doesn’t matter. Only the burn. Only the dark creeping in at the edges of my vision. Only the bond—her bond, his bond—pulsing like a second heartbeat, growing fainter, weaker.
And then—
I hear him.
Not footsteps. Not voice.
Presence.
Like a storm rolling in.
Kael.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t call her name. Just steps into the tunnel, his coat flaring behind him, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look angry.
He looks… weary.
“You’re alive,” he says, kneeling beside me.
I try to growl. Try to tell him to go. Try to tell him she’s in danger. But all that comes out is a weak, broken sound.
He doesn’t flinch. Just presses two fingers to my neck, checking my pulse. His touch is cold, clinical, but there’s something beneath it—something like care.
“Venom,” he mutters, lifting my torn shirt, examining the wound. “Witch-made. Slows healing. Weakens the shift.”
I try to push him away. Try to tell him to go after her. But he’s already moving—pulling a vial from his coat, uncorking it with his teeth, tilting my head back.
“Drink,” he says.
I don’t. Can’t. My jaw’s locked, my body rejecting it.
“Rhys,” he says, voice low, commanding. “Drink. Or you’ll die.”
I stare at him. At the man I’ve hated for twenty years. The man I thought killed my mother. The man who took her from me—only to protect her.
And I see it—truth.
Not just in his eyes.
In his scent. In his breath. In the way his hands tremble as he holds the vial.
He loves her.
Not as a mate.
Not as a king.
As a father.
And if she dies—
He dies with her.
So I drink.
The liquid is bitter. Metallic. But as it slides down my throat, fire erupts—bright, molten, alive. My vision clears. My breath steadies. The venom burns away, the wounds begin to close, and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“She went after him,” I rasp, sitting up. “Malrik. He’s here. He’s—”
“I know,” Kael says, helping me to my feet. “And she’s not alone.”
“You let her go?” I snarl, shoving him. “You let her walk into a trap?”
“No,” he says, not moving. “I trusted her.”
“She’s not ready!”
“She’s been ready since the moment she walked into this fortress,” he says, his voice low, rough. “She’s not your little sister anymore, Rhys. She’s a queen. And she doesn’t need you to protect her.”
“She needs someone,” I growl. “She needs—”
“Me,” he says. “And I’m not letting her die.”
And then—
We move.
Together.
Not as enemies.
Not as rivals.
But as brothers.
—
We find them in the Chamber of Echoes.
The same chamber where she claimed the amulet. Where she remembered the truth. Where she became who she was meant to be.
And now—
Now it’s where she fights for her life.
Malrik has her pinned against the pedestal, his hand around her throat, his fangs at her neck. She’s bleeding—deep cuts across her arms, her side, her thigh—but she’s still fighting. Still snarling. Still clawing at his face, her fangs tearing into his shoulder.
And he’s laughing.
“You think you’re strong?” he sneers, pressing harder. “You think you’re worthy? You’re a half-blood. A mistake. A weapon. And now—” His fangs graze her skin. “—I’ll make you scream like your mother did.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just spits blood in his face.
And that’s when we strike.
Kael moves first—fast, silent, a blur of black coat and fangs. He rams into Malrik, knocking him back, his claws slicing across his chest, his fangs tearing into his neck. Malrik snarls, shifting, his body contorting as he becomes something older, darker—part vampire, part shadow, all rage.
And then—
He turns on me.
I don’t hesitate.
I shift—full wolf—and lunge, my jaws closing around his leg, my teeth sinking deep. He screams, kicking, but I hold on, shaking, tearing, until bone cracks and he collapses.
But he’s not done.
He rolls, drawing a dagger—black obsidian, etched with cursed runes—and drives it toward my heart—
—and Kael takes the blade.
It sinks into his side, just below the ribs. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry out. Just grabs Malrik by the throat and slams him into the wall, his fangs bared, his eyes black with fury.
“You don’t get to touch her,” he growls. “Not after what you did to her mother. Not after what you did to me.”
Malrik laughs, blood dripping from his lips. “You think this changes anything? You think saving her makes you a hero? You’re still the traitor. Still the monster. Still the man who let her believe—”
And then—
Jasmine moves.
Fast. Silent. Like death.
She grabs the amulet from the pedestal—still glowing, still alive—and drives it into his chest.
Not the stone.
The chain.
It slices through his flesh, through his heart, and the moment it does—
—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. Malrik screams—raw, guttural, final—and then he’s gone. Ash. Dust. Nothing.
And then—
Silence.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
Kael collapses.
Not from the wound—though it’s deep, bleeding, mortal. But from the bond. From the pain. From the weight of twenty years of lies, of sacrifice, of love.
And Jasmine—
She’s already beside him.
On her knees. Hands on his chest. Tears in her eyes. Her voice—soft, broken—filling the air.
“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no—”
“It’s okay,” he says, voice weak. “I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her forehead to his chest, her hands fisting in his shirt.
And then—
She looks at me.
And I see it—gratitude.
Not just in her eyes.
In her scent. In her breath. In the way her body leans toward mine.
“You saved me,” she says.
“We saved you,” I say, kneeling beside her. “Both of us.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her hand to the wound, her magic flaring, the sigil on her wrist glowing, the amulet pulsing with power.
And then—
He breathes.
Slow. Steady. Alive.
And she sobs.
Not in silence. Not in shame.
But loud. Raw. Unfiltered.
And I hold her.
Not as a warrior. Not as a Beta.
As a brother. As family. As the only other person who remembers what we lost, who survived the fire, who carried the weight of silence.
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.