The first thing I feel when the war council doors open is power.
Not the sharp, snapping kind—the one that makes your pulse race and your claws slide free. No, this is deeper. Heavier. A slow, unshakable certainty that coils around my ribs like a serpent, whispering that some truths don’t need to be spoken to be known. The chamber is vast—walls of black obsidian etched with ancient runes, a high vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, the air thick with the scent of iron and old magic. The Supernatural Council sits in a semicircle of thrones, each one carved from a different stone: vampire onyx, werewolf basalt, witch quartz, Fae amber. But it’s not the same as before.
They’re not watching me with suspicion.
Not with fear.
Not with hate.
They’re watching me with recognition.
And beside me—
Kael.
He stands tall, his storm-gray eyes endless, his back straight, his fangs just visible as he exhales. He’s dressed in ceremonial black—tight leather, high collar, the D’Arenthe crest etched into his belt buckle. His coat flares behind him like a shadow, and the scent of him—storm and iron and something ancient—fills the air. The mark on my shoulder burns beneath my shirt, a dark crescent moon pierced by a fang, his mark. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond. And now—
I wear the Moonstone Amulet.
It rests against my chest, its silver disc catching the torchlight, the moonstone pulsing with a soft, internal glow. The moment I stepped into the chamber, the runes on the walls flared—not in warning, but in acknowledgment. The witches lowered their daggers. The werewolves dipped their heads. Even the Fae leaned forward, their eyes gleaming with something like awe.
I’m not just the heir.
I’m the queen.
And he’s not just my king.
He’s my father.
“You summoned us,” I say, voice low, commanding. “Speak.”
The Oracle lifts a hand, and the runes on the walls flare—blue, then red, then black. The chamber hums with magic, the air thickening, the shadows peeling away from the walls like living things. And then—
She speaks.
“Malrik is gone,” she says, voice echoing as if from a thousand throats. “Exiled. His name stripped. His power broken. And yet—” Her head tilts. “—the Tribunal stirs. The Veil trembles. And you—” Her blindfold turns toward Kael. “—stand accused.”
My breath stops.
Kael doesn’t flinch. Just watches her, his expression unreadable. “Of what?”
“Of weakness,” says Elder Voss, a vampire noble with cold, calculating eyes. “Of letting a hybrid rule. Of bowing to a child. And you—” He turns to me. “—think you can lead? You, who spent twenty years hunting the wrong man? Who came here to destroy the only family you have left?”
The chamber erupts.
Snarls. Whispers. The witches shift, their sigils flaring. The werewolves growl, their claws sliding free. Even the Fae lean in, their eyes gleaming with amusement. They don’t believe me. Don’t trust me. Don’t want me.
And I see it—the flicker in Kael’s eyes. Not just anger. Not just betrayal.
Doubt.
And that’s what breaks me.
Because I can’t let this stand.
Can’t let him wonder. Can’t let him question. Can’t let him believe, even for a second, that I’m not enough.
So I do the only thing I can.
I step forward.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With possession.
My hand closes around his wrist, my fangs grazing his skin, and I draw blood—just a drop, but it’s enough. The bond screams, fire surging through us, bright and blinding, alive. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“This,” I say, voice low, rough, “is my blood. My strength. My fire. And I give it to him.”
I press his hand to my chest, over my heart.
“This,” I say, “is my loyalty. My rage. My soul. And I give it to him.”
I cup his face, my thumbs brushing his cheeks.
“And this,” I say, “is my love. Not because of duty. Not because of politics. Not because of the bond. But because he is mine. And I am his.”
The chamber roars.
Not with outrage. Not with scandal.
With acceptance.
The witches lower their daggers. The werewolves retract their claws. The vampires sheathe their fangs. Even the elders, their pale eyes narrowed, their lips curled in disdain, give a slow, reluctant nod.
It’s done.
The bond is sealed. The claim is made. The alliance is unbreakable.
And the Oracle?
She smiles—just a ghost of one—but it’s enough.
“The heir is proven,” she says. “The bond is true. And the war—” Her head tilts. “—has found its queen.”
The chamber falls silent.
Not a breath. Not a whisper.
Just the weight of it—crushing, inescapable.
And then—
“You think this changes anything?”
Rhys.
He 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.
“You’re alive,” I say, stepping toward him.
“Barely,” he says, stepping inside. “Thanks to him.”
He doesn’t look at Kael.
Just watches me, his chest rising and falling, his breath unsteady.
“You let him save you,” I say.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he says. “The venom was killing me. I was dying.”
“And now?” I ask, stepping closer. “Now that you’re alive? Now that you know the truth?”
“Now I don’t know what to believe,” he says. “I spent twenty years hating the wrong man. Twenty years sharpening my claws on a lie. And now—” He presses a hand to his side, where the wound still aches. “Now I don’t know if I even want to believe it.”
“Then believe this,” I say, stepping forward. “The sigil doesn’t lie. The bond doesn’t lie. And your body?” I gesture at the wound. “It knows the truth. Even if your mind won’t accept it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his golden eyes endless.
And then—
“You’re not just my sister,” he says, voice breaking. “You’re the heir. The queen. And I—” He exhales, sharp and broken. “I don’t know if I can follow you.”
My breath hitches.
“Then don’t,” I say, stepping closer. “Don’t follow me. Stand beside me. Fight with me. Rule with me.”
“And if I fail?” he whispers.
“Then we fail together,” I say. “But you won’t. Because you’re stronger than this. You always were. You just forgot.”
He doesn’t pull away.
Just presses his forehead to mine, his hands fisting in my shirt.
And for the first time in twenty years—
He lets himself cry.
I hold him. Not as a queen. Not as a warrior.
As a sister.
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 war chamber, we don’t speak.
Just stand around the strategy table, our hands on the map, our breaths shallow. The air is thick with the scent of ink and parchment, of old magic and newer blood. The map is spread before us—carved into the stone, its lines glowing with silver runes. It shows the fortress, the tunnels, the Veil Between Worlds, the Fae courts, the vampire strongholds, the werewolf dens. Every inch of territory. Every hidden path. Every weakness.
And in the center—
Malrik’s last known location.
But he’s not there.
He’s gone. Ash. Dust. Nothing.
And yet—
Something stirs.
“He’s not dead,” Kael says, voice low. “Not truly. He’s too old. Too powerful. He’s hiding. Waiting. Biding his time.”
“Then we find him,” Rhys says, stepping forward. “We burn every tunnel. We scour every shadow. We don’t stop until he’s gone.”
“And if he’s not alone?” I ask, tracing the rune that marks the Veil. “What if he’s not working with the Tribunal? What if he’s working with the Fae?”
“They don’t deal in war,” Kael says. “Only bargains.”
“And what if he’s bargaining for power?” I ask. “What if he’s offering them something we don’t know about?”
“Then we stop him,” Rhys says. “Before he can strike.”
“And how?” I ask, turning to Kael. “You said he’s too strong. That he’s hiding. That he’s waiting. So what do we do? Wait for him to come to us?”
“No,” Kael says, stepping closer. “We go to him.”
“How?” I ask. “We don’t even know where he is.”
“But I do,” a voice says.
We turn.
Torin stands in the archway, his dark eyes fixed on us, his coat flaring behind him. He’s holding a scroll, its wax still warm, the ink shimmering with suppressed magic. He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look afraid.
He looks… resigned.
“Where?” I ask, stepping forward.
“The Veil Between Worlds,” he says. “He’s made a pact with the Fae King. A blood bargain. In exchange for sanctuary, he’s offering them the Moonstone Amulet.”
My hand flies to my chest.
“And if they take it?” Rhys asks.
“Then they control the coven,” Kael says. “They control the magic. They control her.”
“Then we stop them,” I say, stepping forward. “We go to the Veil. We break the bargain. We take it back.”
“And if it’s a trap?” Torin asks.
“Then we walk into it together,” I say, looking at Kael. “You and me. Side by side. No more secrets. No more lies. No more hiding.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, his hand closing around mine, his fangs grazing my wrist. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and molten, alive. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and I feel it—the connection, the strength, the truth of it.
“You’re not just my heir,” he says, voice rough. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
“Then what am I?” I ask, lifting my chin.
“You’re my heart,” he says. “And I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
And I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
Because of the way his voice breaks on the last word. Because of the way his hand trembles as it lifts to my face. Because of the way his eyes—endless, storm-gray, mine—hold mine, unflinching, unafraid.
And then—
I do something I’ve never done before.
I choose.
Not out of rage.
Not out of duty.
Not because the bond demands it.
But because I want to.
I step forward.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve.
And I kiss him.
Not like before.
Not in the storm, desperate and furious, our bodies grinding together like we were trying to destroy each other.
Not in the library, where I pressed my forehead to his chest and let myself cry.
Not in the Council chamber, where we claimed each other in front of the world.
No—this is different.
Slow. Deep. Full of something I can’t name. Not hunger. Not fever. Not the bond.
Truth.
His breath hitches. His body arches. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, molten, alive—and the bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. But I don’t pull away. Can’t. My hands slide up his chest, fisting in his coat, pulling him closer. His arms close around me, strong and sure, pressing me against him, his fangs grazing my lip—just a whisper of pressure, but I moan, the sound low and raw in my throat.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just an inch. Just enough to look at me.
“Jasmine,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “But I want to. I’ve wanted to since I was a child. Since you kissed me in the forest. Since you promised to wait for me.”
“And if I don’t believe you?” he asks, voice breaking.
“Then feel it,” I say, lifting my hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart. “Feel the bond. Feel the mark. Feel the way your body knows me before your mind does.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just closes his eyes, his breath unsteady, his body trembling.
And then—
He kisses me.
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.
—
Hours pass.
The fire burns low. The candles flicker. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. We don’t speak. Don’t move. Just sit there, tangled together on the floor, my head on his chest, his arms around me, his breath warm against my hair. The amulet glows faintly against my skin, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession, but with something older. Something like recognition.
“I don’t want to go back,” I say, voice muffled against his shirt.
“Back where?” he asks, brushing a hand through my hair.
“To the Council. To the throne. To the war.”
“It’s not a war,” he says. “It’s a reckoning. And you’re ready for it.”
“Am I?” I ask, lifting my head. “I spent twenty years hating the wrong man. Twenty years sharpening my claws on a lie. And now—” I press a hand to the mark. “Now I don’t know how to be anything but broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he says, cupping my face. “You’re not a weapon. You’re not a ghost. You’re not a lie.”
“Then what am I?” I whisper.
“You’re Jasmine Vale,” he says. “Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. And the only woman who can fix what’s broken.”
“And you?” I ask. “What are you?”
“Your father,” he says. “In every way that matters.”
“And the bond?”
“Is 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?”
“Then you were never the heir,” he says. “Just a weapon. A ghost. A lie.”
“And if I do?”
“Then you’re a queen,” he says. “And I’ll be waiting.”
I press a hand to the amulet—still warm, still pulsing, still alive. “And if I’m not ready?”
“You are,” he says. “You’ve always been. You just forgot.”
“And if I fail?” I whisper.
“Then we fail together,” he says. “But you won’t. Because you’re stronger than this. You always were. You just forgot.”
I don’t answer.
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.
She betrayed him.
And now—
Now she’s made it right.