The first thing I feel when the battle begins is silence.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
The air in the Veil Between Worlds is thick with it—charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. No wind. No torchlight. No voices. Just the shimmering rift in reality, a tear between realms, its edges pulsing with raw magic, its depths shifting like liquid silver. Around us, the Moonborn shift into their hybrid forms—half-man, half-wolf, claws extended, fangs bared, their golden eyes reflecting the eerie glow. The vampires move like shadows, silent and swift, their fangs glinting, their coats flaring behind them. The witches chant low, their sigils flaring, their hands weaving spells into the air. And the Fae—watching from the edges, their silver hair spilling like moonlight, their obsidian eyes unreadable.
And beside me—
Kael.
He stands tall, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the rift, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike. He’s in full armor now—black steel etched with ancient runes, the D’Arenthe crest blazing across his chest. His coat flares behind him like a living shadow, and the scent of him—storm and iron and something older—wraps around me, grounding me, anchoring me. The mark on my shoulder burns, not with pain, not with possession, but with something deeper. Something like truth.
Twenty years.
Twenty years I’ve spent sharpening my claws on vengeance, on the belief that he 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 hate myself for it anymore.
“Stay behind me,” he says, voice low, rough.
“No,” I say, stepping beside him. “I fight with you. Not behind you. Not beneath you. With you.”
He doesn’t argue. Just glances at me, his storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady. And for the first time, I see it—pride.
Not just in his gaze.
In his scent. In his breath. In the way his body leans toward mine.
And then—
The rift tears open.
Not slowly. Not with warning.
With a scream.
Like metal ripping through flesh. Like bones breaking. Like a thousand voices crying out at once. The ground trembles. The sky darkens. And from the depths—
They come.
Malrik’s army.
Not just vampires. Not just Tribunal enforcers. But something older. Something darker. Shadow-walkers—half-vampire, half-demon, their eyes black, their mouths filled with fangs, their bodies shifting like smoke. Witch-born abominations—twisted by forbidden magic, their limbs elongated, their skin cracked with glowing sigils. And werewolf mutts—feral, mindless, their howls echoing through the Veil like death knells.
And at the center—
Malrik.
He steps through the rift like a king returning to his throne, his black coat flaring behind him, his eyes glowing with ancient power. In his hand—
The cursed blade.
Forged from black obsidian and vampire bone, its edge shimmering with poisoned runes. The same blade that killed my mother. The same blade that whispered, “For the peace of all realms.”
And now—
He raises it.
“You think you’ve won?” he sneers, his voice echoing like thunder. “You think your bond, your lies, your love—can stop me? I am the blood of the first vampire. The shadow of the fallen moon. And I will tear this world apart—starting with her.”
He points the blade at me.
And the moment he does—
Fire erupts.
Not from the sky.
Not from magic.
From me.
The Moonstone Amulet blazes against my chest, its glow flooding the battlefield, the runes on my skin flaring, the mark on my shoulder burning like a brand. My blood sings. My claws slide free. My fangs press against my lips. And the bond—
The bond screams.
Kael moves first.
Fast. Silent. A blur of black steel and fangs. He lunges at Malrik, his claws slashing, his fangs tearing into flesh. Malrik parries, the cursed blade ringing against Kael’s dagger, sparks flying, the air humming with power. They clash—once, twice, three times—each strike shaking the ground, each movement a blur of speed and strength.
And then—
Malrik kicks him back.
Kael stumbles, but doesn’t fall. Just rises, his coat flaring, his fangs bared, his storm-gray eyes blazing. “You don’t get to touch her,” he growls. “Not after what you did to her mother. Not after what you did to me.”
“And you?” Malrik sneers. “The so-called king who let her believe you were a monster? Who let her hate you for twenty years? You’re not a savior. You’re a coward.”
Kael doesn’t answer.
Just attacks.
But Malrik is faster.
Stronger.
And he’s not fighting fair.
With a flick of his wrist, he sends a wave of shadow-walkers at the Moonborn. They descend like a plague, their claws slashing, their fangs tearing into flesh. I hear Rhys snarl—
“Jasmine—left!”
I spin, my claws slicing through the first shadow-walker’s throat, my fangs tearing into the second’s chest. Blood sprays. The scent of iron fills the air. Another lunges—
And I shift.
Fast. Seamless. My body contorts as fur recedes and bone reshapes, and in seconds, I’m on my feet, naked, bloodied, feral. The Moonstone Amulet glows against my chest, its light pulsing with my rage, and the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark—burns like a brand.
I don’t fight like a warrior.
I fight like a queen.
Like a woman who’s spent twenty years sharpening her claws on a lie—only to find the truth in the man she thought was her enemy.
I move—fast, silent, a shadow in the dark. My claws tear through flesh. My fangs sink into throats. I don’t hesitate. Don’t flinch. Don’t stop. I am not just Moonborn.
I am not just a witch.
I am not just a hybrid.
I am the heir.
And I will not fall.
But Malrik sees me.
And he laughs.
“You think you’re strong?” he sneers, dodging Kael’s strike. “You think you’re worthy? You’re a half-blood. A mistake. A weapon. And now—” He raises the cursed blade. “—I’ll make you scream like your mother did.”
Kael roars.
And lunges.
But Malrik is ready.
With a flick of his wrist, he sends a wave of dark magic—black tendrils lashing out, wrapping around Kael’s arms, his legs, his throat. Kael struggles, but the magic tightens, crushing, burning, choking. He falls to his knees, his coat flaring, his fangs bared, his storm-gray eyes blazing with fury.
“No!” I scream.
And I run.
Not toward the shadow-walkers.
Not toward the mutts.
Toward him.
Malrik sees me coming. Smirks. “Come, little queen. Let me show you how your mother died.”
He raises the cursed blade.
And I don’t stop.
I leap.
Not to attack.
Not to kill.
But to shield.
I throw myself in front of Kael, my body taking the full force of the cursed blade as it plunges into my side.
Pain explodes.
Not just in my flesh.
Not just in my bones.
But in my soul.
The blade is poisoned—witch venom, vampire curse, ancient magic. It burns like acid, spreading through my veins, weakening my limbs, slowing my shift. I collapse, gasping, blood pouring from the wound, the Moonstone Amulet glowing faintly against my skin.
“Jasmine!” Kael roars.
And the bond—
The bond shatters.
Not breaks.
Shatters.
Like glass. Like bone. Like a thousand voices screaming at once. The magic that binds us—our blood, our fate, our love—cracks, fractures, bleeds. I feel it—his pain, his rage, his grief—flooding into me, bright and molten, alive. And I know—
If I die—
He dies with me.
“Foolish girl,” Malrik sneers, yanking the blade free. “You think your death means something? You think your love changes anything? You’re nothing. A ghost. A lie.”
I don’t answer.
Just press a hand to the wound, my breath ragged, my vision blurring. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—reacting to the venom, to the magic, to the truth.
And then—
Kael moves.
Not with strength.
Not with speed.
With rage.
The dark magic binding him shatters—ripped apart by sheer will, by centuries of love, by the promise he made to a twelve-year-old girl in a forest. He rises—tall, furious, unstoppable—and in one fluid motion, he drives his dagger into Malrik’s heart.
Malrik gasps.
Staggers.
But doesn’t fall.
Just laughs.
“You think this kills me?” he chokes, blood dripping from his lips. “I am older than your bloodline. Older than your magic. Older than your love. You can’t kill me. You can only delay the inevitable.”
And then—
He raises the cursed blade.
Not at Kael.
At me.
“Then I’ll kill her first,” he says, stepping forward. “And you’ll watch. Just like I made you watch her mother die.”
Kael doesn’t hesitate.
He throws himself in front of me.
The cursed blade sinks into his chest—just below the heart.
He gasps.
Collapses.
And the bond—
The bond screams.
Not in pain.
Not in rage.
But in love.
I crawl to him—bloodied, broken, my breath ragged. My hands press to the wound, but the blood won’t stop. The Moonstone Amulet glows faintly against my chest, its light pulsing with my heartbeat. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, molten, alive—and I know—
If he dies—
I die with him.
“No,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. “No, no, no—”
“It’s okay,” he says, voice weak. “I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
“Don’t you dare,” I choke. “Don’t you dare leave me. Not after everything. Not after the truth. Not after—” My voice breaks. “Not after I finally found you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just lifts a trembling hand, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You were always mine,” he whispers. “Even when you hated me. Even when you tried to destroy me. You were always mine.”
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 press my forehead to his.
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.
Love.
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.
But then—
A roar.
Not from Malrik.
Not from the shadow-walkers.
From Rhys.
He’s here—shirtless, scarred, his golden wolf-eyes blazing. In his hand—
The Moonstone Amulet.
Not mine.
The other one.
The one Malrik stole.
He raises it—its silver disc catching the pale moonlight, the stone pulsing with a soft, internal glow—and drives it into Malrik’s chest.
Not the stone.
The chain.
It slices through his flesh, through his heart, and the moment it does—
—the Veil explodes with light.
Not fire. Not magic. But power.
The moonstone blazes, its glow flooding the battlefield, the runes on the ground 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.
Rhys 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 I—
I’m already beside him.
On my knees. Hands on his chest. Tears in my eyes. My voice—soft, broken—filling the air.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”
“It’s okay,” he says, voice weak. “I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”
I don’t answer.
Just press my forehead to his chest, my hands fisting in his shirt.
And then—
I look at Kael.
And I see it—gratitude.
Not just in his eyes.
In his scent. In his breath. In the way his body leans toward mine.
“You saved him,” I say.
“We saved each other,” he says, pressing a hand to my wound. “Now heal.”
I don’t hesitate.
Just press my hand to his chest, my magic flaring, the sigil on my wrist glowing, the amulet pulsing with power.
And then—
He breathes.
Slow. Steady. Alive.
And I sob.
Not in silence. Not in shame.
But loud. Raw. Unfiltered.
And he holds me.
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.