The first thing I feel when the sun rises over the Midnight Court is silence.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
The fortress—carved into the heart of the Carpathian Mountains, hidden beneath layers of ancient wards and lunar enchantments—lies quiet beneath the pale morning light. No torches flicker. No whispers echo down the corridors. No guards patrol. Just shadow and stone and the faint hum of magic beneath my feet. We’ve returned. Kael, Rhys, and I—bloodied, broken, but alive. The Veil Between Worlds has sealed itself. Malrik is gone. Ash. Dust. Nothing. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But truth.
I press a hand to the wound in my side—sealed now, thanks to the stolen Moonstone Amulet’s power, but still tender, still aching with the memory of the cursed blade. My skin burns. My blood sings. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond. And the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark, dark and perfect—still burns, not with possession, but with something older. Something like recognition.
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.
“You’re burning,” Kael says, voice low, rough.
I don’t turn.
Don’t flinch.
Just breathe.
“Not with fever,” I say. “With certainty.”
He steps beside me, his coat flaring behind him, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the corridor ahead. He’s not in armor anymore. Not in blood. Just a simple tunic, dark as shadow, his fangs just visible as he exhales. The scent of him—storm and iron and something ancient—wraps around me, grounding me, anchoring me. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—reacting to him, to the truth, to the way my heart stutters in my chest.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice quiet.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
“The wound is closed,” he says. “The venom burned away. You’re healed.”
“And you’re not,” I say, turning to him. “The blade pierced your chest. The curse—”
“Is gone,” he says. “Thanks to you.”
“And if it’s not?” I ask, stepping closer. “And if the darkness lingers? And if the pain returns? And if—” My voice breaks. “And if I lose you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady.
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 collapse.
And I press my hand to his chest.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
The moment my fingers touch the torn fabric over his wound, fire erupts—not pain. Not magic. But memory.
—
I’m twelve.
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 over the wound. 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 my other hand.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
My palm presses flat against his chest, over his heart. My fingers splay, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath the skin. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. My breath hitches. My body arches. The sigil flares. The mark burns. And then—
—I push.
Not magic.
Not force.
But will.
My power—Moonborn strength, witch sigil magic, fated bond sensitivity—flows through me, down my arm, into my palm, into his chest. It’s not a spell. Not a ritual. Not a command.
It’s a plea.
Stay.
Live.
Be mine.
Kael gasps—his body arching, his storm-gray eyes flying open, his fangs fully extended. The bond flares brighter, hotter, alive. My breath hitches. My body trembles. 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.
“Jasmine,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “I do.”
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 my lips to his.
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 tunic, 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.
I betrayed him.
And now—
Now I have to make it right.
—
The coronation is set for noon.
Not in the war chamber. Not in the Veil. Not in the training yard.
In the Grand Hall of Echoes—the same chamber where I claimed the amulet, where I remembered the truth, where I became who I was meant to be.
The High Oracle herself has decreed it.
“The throne chooses its queen,” she said last night, her blindfold turned toward me, her voice echoing as if from a thousand throats. “And it has chosen you.”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t question. Just nodded, my hand on the amulet, my body still humming with power.
Now, as the sun climbs higher, casting long shadows across the fortress, I stand before the mirror in the chambers Kael and I now share.
The dress is not ceremonial black, not warrior leathers, not silver mask and stolen sigils.
It’s white.
Not pure. Not innocent. But reclaimed.
Hand-stitched from Moonborn silk and witch-spun thread, the fabric shimmers with every movement, catching the light like liquid silver. The bodice is tight, laced with moonstone beads, the sleeves long and flowing, the hem sweeping the floor. Around my neck—
The Moonstone Amulet.
Not just the one I claimed. Not just the one Rhys stole back.
Both.
One resting against my chest. The other—smaller, older—woven into the fabric at my shoulder, its silver chain glinting like a promise.
And on my wrist—
The sigil.
Still glowing. Still pulsing. Still alive.
“You’re beautiful,” Kael says from the doorway.
I don’t turn.
Just watch him in the mirror—his storm-gray eyes endless, his coat flaring behind him, his fangs just visible as he exhales. He’s in ceremonial black again, the D’Arenthe crest etched into his belt buckle, the same armor he wore in battle. But there’s something different in his stance. Not dominance. Not control.
Yield.
“You don’t have to stand beside me,” I say. “You’re the Midnight King. You rule alone.”
“I did,” he says, stepping closer. “Until you came back.”
“And now?”
“Now I rule with you,” he says. “As your father. As your king. As the man who’s loved you since you were a child.”
My breath hitches.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing the amulet at my shoulder. “This was hers,” he says. “Your mother’s. She wore it the night she died. The night I failed her.”
“You didn’t fail her,” I say, turning to him. “You saved me. You saved us.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just cups my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “And if I fail you?”
“Then I’ll save you,” I say. “Like you saved me.”
And I mean it.
Not as a queen.
Not as a heir.
As a woman who’s finally stopped running.
—
The Grand Hall of Echoes is packed.
Every seat filled. Every shadow occupied. The Supernatural Council sits in their thrones—vampires in onyx, werewolves in basalt, witches in quartz, Fae in amber. Even the elders—cold, calculating, power-hungry—are present, their pale eyes narrowed, their lips curled in disdain. But they don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch.
And then—
The doors open.
I step forward.
Not alone.
Kael at my side. Rhys behind me. Torin at the rear, his dark eyes scanning the shadows.
The air hums.
The runes on the walls flare—blue, then silver, then gold.
And the Oracle rises.
“Jasmine Vale,” she says, her voice echoing. “Daughter of the Shadow Coven Queen. Heir to the Moonborn throne. Fated mate of the Midnight King. You have faced the truth. You have forgiven. You have healed. And now—” Her blindfold turns toward me. “—you are ready.”
She lifts a hand.
And from the shadows—
It comes.
The throne.
Not carved from obsidian. Not etched with runes of blood and shadow.
From moonlight and memory.
White stone, veined with silver, shaped like a crescent moon cradling a single fang. The moment it appears, the sigil on my wrist flares—bright, molten, alive—and the bond screams to life, fire surging between me and Kael, bright and blinding.
“Sit,” the Oracle says.
I don’t hesitate.
I step forward. Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve.
And I sit.
The moment my body touches the throne, fire erupts—not pain. Not magic. But recognition.
The runes on the walls blaze. The air hums. The ground trembles.
And then—
The Oracle steps forward.
In her hands—
A crown.
Not gold. Not silver. But woven from moonlight and shadow, its points shaped like fangs, its center a single glowing moonstone.
She lifts it.
And places it on my head.
The moment it settles, the chamber explodes with light.
Not fire. Not magic. But truth.
The witches lower their daggers. The werewolves dip their heads. The vampires kneel. Even the Fae lean forward, their eyes gleaming with something like awe.
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 queen—” Her head tilts. “—has claimed her throne.”
The chamber roars.
Not with outrage. Not with scandal.
With acceptance.
And then—
Kael steps forward.
Not as a king.
Not as a ruler.
As a man.
He kneels before me.
His storm-gray eyes endless. His fangs just visible. His coat flaring behind him.
And he offers me his fang.
“My blood,” he says, voice rough. “My throne. My life.”
And I know what it means.
Not submission.
Not surrender.
Claiming.
So I do the only thing I can.
I lean down.
And I bite.
Not hard. Not cruel.
With love.
His breath hitches. His body arches. The bond roars to life, fire surging between us, bright and blinding. But I don’t pull away. Can’t. My hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer. His arms close around me, strong and sure, pressing me against him.
And when I finally lift my head—
There’s blood on my lips.
And a smile on mine.
“Mine,” I say.
And he answers—
“Yours.”