The first thing I feel when Malrik’s ashes scatter to the wind is silence.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
The Veil Between Worlds shudders—its silver rift pulsing like a wounded thing, the air thick with the scent of burnt magic and old blood. Around us, the battlefield lies in ruins. Shadow-walkers crumble to dust. Witch-born abominations collapse, their glowing sigils fading. Werewolf mutts whimper, broken, before dissolving into mist. The Moonborn stand panting, their golden eyes scanning the dark. The vampires kneel, their fangs retracted, their coats dusted with ash. The witches chant low, their hands weaving closing spells into the air. And the Fae—still watching, still silent, their obsidian eyes unreadable.
And beside me—
Kael.
He’s on his knees, his black armor cracked, his coat torn, blood soaking through the fabric just below his ribs. The cursed blade is still embedded in his chest, its poisoned edge pulsing with dark runes. His breath comes in shallow gasps, his storm-gray eyes dimming, his fangs barely visible as he exhales. The bond—once a roaring fire between us—now flickers like a dying flame, weak, fractured, bleeding.
And Rhys.
He’s beside me, his golden wolf-eyes glazed, his body trembling, the stolen Moonstone Amulet clutched in his hand. The wound in his side—where Malrik’s dagger found him—gapes open, dark with venom. He’s fading. Fast.
And me?
I’m not whole.
The cursed blade tore through my side before I shielded Kael. The venom burns in my veins, slowing my shift, weakening my magic. My vision blurs. My limbs tremble. The Moonstone Amulet against my chest pulses faintly, its light dimming with every heartbeat. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—but even it can’t stop the cold creeping into my bones.
But I don’t fall.
Can’t.
Because if I do—
They die with me.
And I’ve already lost too much.
“Jasmine,” Kael whispers, his voice raw. “Let go.”
“No,” I say, crawling to him, my hands pressing against the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, warm and thick. “I’m not letting you die. Not after everything. Not after the truth.”
“It’s too late,” he says, lifting a trembling hand to my face. “The blade is cursed. The venom—”
“Then I’ll burn with you,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “The bond won’t let us live apart.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just closes his eyes, his breath shallow, his body sagging.
And then—
Rhys moves.
Not fast. Not strong. But with a quiet, desperate determination. He drags himself forward, his golden eyes fixed on me, his hand tightening around the stolen amulet. “Use it,” he rasps. “The amulet. It’s not just power. It’s memory. It’s truth. It’s the past and the future, bound in one.”
“I can’t,” I say, my voice breaking. “It’s not mine. It’s—”
“It’s yours,” he says, pressing it into my hand. “Malrik stole it. But it never stopped belonging to you. Just like he never stopped loving you.”
I look down at the amulet—its silver disc catching the pale moonlight, the moonstone pulsing with a soft, internal glow. The moment my fingers close around it, 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, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my fingers tightening around the amulet. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—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 Rhys’s hand, 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. 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, collapsing back, his golden eyes endless. “It’s always been yours.”
“And now?” I ask, my voice raw.
“Now you heal,” he says. “Now you become what you were meant to be.”
I don’t answer.
Just press the amulet to Kael’s wound.
The moment it touches the cursed blade, fire erupts—bright, molten, alive. The dark runes crack. The poison burns away. The blade itself begins to dissolve, crumbling to ash before my eyes. Kael gasps—his body arching, his storm-gray eyes flying open, his fangs fully extended. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. My breath hitches. My body trembles. The sigil flares. The mark burns. And then—
—he breathes.
Slow. Steady. Alive.
“Jasmine,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “I did.”
He doesn’t pull away.
Just cups my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks, his storm-gray eyes endless. “You’re not just my heir,” he says. “You’re not just my mate. You’re not just my daughter.”
“Then what am I?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“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 press the amulet to Rhys’s wound.
The same fire erupts—bright, molten, alive. The venom burns away. The flesh knits. The sigil on his arm glows faintly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He gasps—his golden eyes flying open, his body arching. “You didn’t have to,” he says, voice rough.
“Yes,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “I did.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his chest, his arms closing around me, strong and sure. “You’re not just my sister,” he says. “You’re the heir. The queen. And I—” He exhales, sharp and broken. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”
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 arms tremble as they hold me. Because of the way his scent—golden wolf, iron, family—wraps around me, grounding me, anchoring me.
And then—
The Veil begins to close.
Not slowly. Not gently.
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 the rift—
—collapses.
Not into nothing.
But into light.
Not fire. Not magic. But truth.
And from the light—
She steps forward.
My mother.
Not a ghost. Not a memory. But real. Solid. alive. She’s dressed in silver robes, her dark hair loose, her eyes glowing with power. In her hands—
The original Moonstone Amulet.
It rests against her chest, its silver disc catching the light, the stone pulsing with a soft, internal glow. The moment she steps into the Veil, the runes on the ground flare—not in warning, but in acknowledgment. The witches lower their daggers. The werewolves dip their heads. Even the Fae lean forward, their eyes gleaming with something like awe.
She’s not just the queen.
She’s the coven.
And she’s not dead.
“Mother,” I whisper, my breath catching.
She doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, her eyes fixed on me, her presence a wall between me and the rest of the world. The bond hums beneath my skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. And the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark, dark and perfect—still burns.
“You were never supposed to see me like this,” she says, voice soft. “Not until you were ready.”
“And now?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Now you are,” she says. “You’ve faced the truth. You’ve forgiven. You’ve healed. And now—” She steps closer, her hands framing my face. “Now you rule.”
“But how?” I ask. “You were—”
“Not dead,” she says. “Hidden. Protected. By Kael. By the Fae. By the bond itself. The Tribunal would have killed us both. So he took the blame. So I could live. So you could live.”
My breath hitches.
“And the blade?” I ask. “The whisper—”
“Was a lie,” she says. “A story to protect you. To make you strong. To make you hate—so you wouldn’t come looking for me. So you wouldn’t die with me.”
“And now?” I ask, tears streaming down my face.
“Now the truth is known,” she says. “The betrayal wasn’t his. It was yours.”
And I know.
Because I betrayed the truth.
I betrayed him.
And now—
Now I’ve made it right.
She turns to Kael.
“You kept your promise,” she says.
“I had to,” he says, rising. “She was yours. But she was always mine.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just watches him, her expression unreadable. “And now?”
“Now I let her go,” he says. “To you. To her throne. To her truth.”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. “You don’t let her go. You stand beside her. As her king. As her father. As the man who loved her when she hated you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just presses his forehead to mine, his storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady.
And then—
She turns to Rhys.
“And you?” she asks.
“I protect her,” he says. “Always.”
“Good,” she says. “Because she’ll need you. They both will.”
And then—
She steps back.
Not fading.
Not vanishing.
But receding.
Back into the light. Back into the Veil. Back into the truth.
“Wait,” I say, reaching for her. “Don’t go.”
She smiles—slow, gentle—and lifts my chin. “I’m not going. I’m returning. To the coven. To the magic. To the future we see.”
And then—
She’s gone.
Not dead.
Not lost.
But home.
And the Veil closes.
Not with a scream.
But with a sigh.
Like a door closing. Like a promise kept. Like a truth finally spoken.
And then—
Silence.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
Kael doesn’t speak.
Just pulls me into his arms, his coat flaring around us, his storm-gray eyes endless. Rhys rises, his golden eyes watching us, his presence a wall between me and the rest of the world.
And I—
I don’t cry.
Not in silence. Not in shame.
But loud. Raw. Unfiltered.
And they hold me.
Not as a king. Not as a father.
Not as a warrior. Not as a Beta.
As the man and the brother who’ve 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.