The first thing I feel when the Council doors open at dawn is silence.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
The Grand Hall of Echoes—still humming with the resonance of my coronation, the air thick with the scent of moonstone and old magic—lies in shadow. Torchlight flickers along the obsidian walls, casting long, wavering shapes that twist like living things. The throne I now share with Kael sits at the center, twin crescent moons cradling twin fangs, the runes beneath our names glowing faintly: Jasmine Vale. Kael D’Arenthe. Co-rulers. Equals. Bound by blood, by truth, by a love that refused to die.
And yet—
Something stirs.
Not war.
Not betrayal.
But defiance.
She steps into the hall like she owns it—Lysandra Voss, vampire noble, false lover, liar. Her gown is black silk edged with silver thorns, her hair coiled like a crown of venom, her lips painted the color of dried blood. In her hand—a dagger. Not ceremonial. Not ornamental. But real. Cold. Sharp. The same kind used to slit throats in the dark.
And she’s not alone.
Behind her—three Tribunal enforcers. Vampires. Purebloods. Their eyes are cold, their fangs extended, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. They don’t look at the throne. Don’t look at me.
They look at Kael.
“You’ve overstayed your welcome,” I say, voice low, commanding. I don’t rise. Don’t flinch. Just let my fangs press against my lips, let the mark on my shoulder burn, let the sigil on my wrist pulse in time with the bond.
Lysandra smiles—slow, cruel. “And you’ve overstepped your place. A hybrid queen? A half-blood heir? You’re a mistake. A lie. And I’m here to correct it.”
The enforcers fan out.
One to the left.
One to the right.
One behind.
And Lysandra—she walks forward, slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring the moment before the kill.
“You think you’ve won?” she says, stopping just before the dais. “You think claiming him makes you his equal? That wearing his mark gives you power?” She lifts the dagger, turning it in the light. “I’ve had him in my bed. In my mouth. In my veins. He came to me when you were nothing but a child’s ghost.”
I don’t answer.
Just watch her.
And then—
I laugh.
Not loud. Not mocking.
But quiet. Cold. Knowing.
“You’re lying,” I say.
Her smile falters.
“He never touched you,” I say, rising. “Not like that. Not with desire. Not with need. You wore his ring, but he never gave it to you. You claimed his bed, but he never entered it. And if he did—” I step down from the dais, my bare feet silent on the stone. “—it was to feed. To drain. To punish.”
Her eyes widen.
“You were a tool,” I say, stepping closer. “A pawn. A political decoy. And now that the war is over, you’re obsolete.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hisses, lifting the dagger.
“I know everything,” I say. “I know you spread rumors we slept together. I know you whispered in the shadows, poisoned the Council’s ears, tried to make me doubt him. But you failed.” I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder. “Because the bond doesn’t lie. And neither does my body.”
“Then why did he let you believe it?” she snarls. “Why did he let you think he was the monster?”
“Because he was protecting me,” I say, voice breaking. “From you. From the Tribunal. From the truth. And you—” I step forward, my fangs fully extended, my claws sliding free. “You were never part of that truth. You were just noise. A distraction. A lie.”
She lunges.
Fast. Desperate. The dagger arcs toward my throat—
—and I catch her wrist.
Not with magic.
Not with force.
With truth.
The moment my fingers close around her skin, the sigil on my wrist flares—bright, molten, alive. Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen. And then—
She sees it.
Not a vision.
Not a memory.
But a knowing.
I feel it—the bond. The fire. The way Kael’s body knows mine before his mind does. The way his breath hitches when I touch him. The way his fangs graze my neck when he thinks I’m not looking. The way he holds me—not as a king, not as a lover—but as a man who’s loved me since I was twelve.
And she sees it.
And she knows—
She’s never had him.
Not really.
Not like this.
She screams—raw, guttural, final—and tries to pull away, but I don’t let go. My grip tightens, my claws pressing into her skin, drawing blood. The enforcers move—
—and Rhys appears.
Not from the shadows.
Not from the corridors.
But from above.
He drops like a blade from the rafters, landing between me and the enforcers, his golden wolf-eyes blazing, his claws extended, his fangs bared. “Touch her,” he growls, “and I’ll tear your hearts out.”
They hesitate.
But only for a second.
Then they attack.
Rhys meets them head-on—fast, silent, a blur of golden fur and silver claws. The first goes down with a snarl, his throat torn open. The second swings a silver blade—cursed, meant to burn through hybrid flesh—but Rhys twists, the edge grazing his ribs, and drives his elbow into the vampire’s spine. He collapses, and Rhys doesn’t stop. He’s already moving, already shifting, his wolf form surging forward with a roar that shakes the stone.
The third tries to run.
Bad move.
Rhys is on him in seconds, his jaws closing around his leg, dragging him back, his teeth sinking deep. He screams. Rhys doesn’t care. He shakes, once, hard, and the leg tears free. He collapses, bleeding out, and Rhys turns to me—
“You’ve got this?” he asks, panting.
I nod.
He doesn’t wait. Just shifts back, naked, bloodied, feral, and steps aside, his golden eyes watching me, his presence a wall between me and the rest of the world.
And then—
I turn back to Lysandra.
She’s on her knees, her dagger gone, her wrist bleeding, her breath ragged. Her eyes are wide—not with fear. Not with rage.
With grief.
“You think you’re better than me?” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You think you’re pure? That you’re righteous? You came here to destroy him. To burn his empire to the ground. You hated him. You wanted him dead.”
“And now?” I ask, kneeling in front of her. “Now that I know the truth?”
“Now you’ve forgiven him,” she says. “Now you’ve chosen him. Now you’ve let him mark you, claim you, rule you.”
“No,” I say, pressing a hand to her chest, over her heart. “I didn’t let him. I took it. I claimed him back. I chose him—not because of the bond, not because of duty, not because of politics—but because I love him.”
She flinches.
“And you?” I ask. “Did you ever love him? Or did you just want his power?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks down at her bleeding wrist, at the sigil still glowing on mine.
And then—
She laughs.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
But broken. Hollow. Empty.
“You think this changes anything?” she says. “You think justice will save you? That love will protect you? The Tribunal still hates hybrids. The elders still fear change. And you—” She lifts her head, her eyes blazing. “—you’re still just a child playing at being a queen.”
“Maybe,” I say, standing. “But I’m not alone.”
I turn.
Kael stands in the archway, his storm-gray eyes endless, his coat flaring behind him, his fangs just visible as he exhales. The scent of him—storm and iron and something ancient—fills the air, wrapping around me like a second skin. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. The mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession—but with something older. Something like recognition.
And behind him—
Torin.
And the High Oracle.
And the entire Supernatural Council.
They’ve seen it all.
And they’re not here to stop it.
They’re here to witness it.
“Lysandra Voss,” the Oracle says, her voice echoing as if from a thousand throats. “You have conspired against the throne. You have spread lies. You have drawn blood in the Hall of Echoes. By the laws of the Midnight Court—” Her blindfold turns toward me. “—you are sentenced to exile.”
Lysandra doesn’t move.
Just kneels there, her head bowed, her breath shallow.
“You will leave at dawn,” the Oracle continues. “You will never return. You will speak no word of this court. You will claim no title. And if you break this oath—” Her voice drops to a whisper. “—the bond will find you. And it will burn you alive.”
And then—
She’s gone.
Not dead.
Not executed.
But banished.
The enforcers’ bodies dissolve into ash. The dagger vanishes. And Lysandra—
She’s lifted by an invisible force, her body rising, floating toward the door, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream.
And then—
She’s gone.
Not dead.
Not lost.
But erased.
And silence returns.
Not empty. Not still. But listening.
“You didn’t kill her,” Kael says, stepping forward.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t.”
“And if she returns?”
“Then I’ll face her again,” I say. “But not with hate. Not with vengeance. With truth.”
He doesn’t answer.
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 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.
—
Later, in the chambers, we don’t speak.
Don’t need to.
The silence between us is full—thick with memory, with truth, with the weight of everything we’ve lost and everything we’ve found. The corridors blur around us—stone and shadow and flickering torchlight. The guards—vampire, werewolf, witch—step aside, their eyes down, their instincts screaming at them to run. They know what’s coming. They’ve seen it before. The Moonborn heat cycle is rare, but when it strikes, it’s chaos. Blood. Violence. Claiming.
And I?
I’m not just Moonborn.
I’m hybrid. Heir. Fated mate. And the most powerful bloodline in two centuries.
If I’m unclaimed during heat—
There will be war.
But not tonight.
Not like this.
We reach the chambers. The door is closed—finally. A small victory. I push it open, stepping inside.
The hearth burns low, embers glowing, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and ink, of dust and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. The Library of Whispers is just down the hall, but I don’t go there. Not tonight. Not for answers. Not for fire.
For peace.
Kael moves to the hearth, kneeling to stoke the flames. I watch him—the way his shoulders shift, the way his fangs catch the light, the way his hands tremble as he adds wood. He’s not afraid. Not of death. Not of war.
He’s afraid of losing me.
So I do the only thing I can.
I step behind him.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
My hands slide over his shoulders, down his arms, my fingers interlacing with his as I press my body against his back. My breath warms his neck. My fangs graze his skin—just a whisper of pressure, but his breath hitches, his body arching into me.
“You don’t have to protect me,” I say, voice low.
“I know,” he says. “But I will. Always.”
“And if I don’t want to be protected?” I ask, nipping his ear. “If I want to fight? To lead? To rule?”
“Then I’ll fight beside you,” he says. “Lead with you. Rule with you.”
“And if I die?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll die with you,” he says. “The bond won’t let us live apart.”
“And if I live?” I ask, pressing my lips to his neck. “What then?”
He turns, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “Then we live. Together. As queen and king. As daughter and father. As the only two who’ve ever loved each other without lies.”
“And if I don’t want to be your daughter?” I ask, lifting my chin. “If I want to be your mate? Your lover? Your wife?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just cups my face, his storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady.
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’ve made it right.