The first thing I notice when I wake is the silence.
Not true silence—no, the fortress breathes. The ancient stones hum with residual magic, the wind whispers through the high mountain passes, and far below, in the lower corridors, the night guards shift on their rounds. But the silence between us—the heavy, aching absence of her presence—cuts deeper than any sound.
Jasmine is gone.
Not far. I can still feel the bond, a low, steady thrum beneath my ribs, like a second heartbeat. But she’s not in the chambers. Not in the study. Not in the bathing hall. She’s somewhere beyond the inner wards, moving through the Court with purpose, and every step she takes without me sends a fresh wave of fever through my blood.
I should have expected it.
She’s not the kind of woman to kneel. Not the kind to accept chains, even gilded ones. Last night, in the Council chamber, she stood tall while the world tried to break her. She met Malrik’s gaze without flinching. She let her blood mix with mine like it meant nothing—like the fire between us wasn’t screaming through her veins the same way it was mine.
She lied.
She *always* lies.
But her body doesn’t. Her pulse quickens when I’m near. Her scent shifts—storm and jasmine and something darker, sweeter—when she’s aroused. And her sigil… gods, her sigil *burns* for me.
I saw it last night, just before she slammed the bedroom door. A flicker beneath her sleeve, a pulse of red so bright it lit the shadows. And in the pattern—hidden, sacred, *mine*—my name.
Kael.
Etched into her skin like a vow.
I press a hand to my chest, where the matching mark lies beneath my shirt—a crescent moon wrapped in thorned vines, the symbol of the lost heir. It’s warm. Alive. And it aches for her.
Thirty days.
That’s what Malrik gave us. Thirty days of proximity, of forced alliance, of blood and breath shared under the Council’s watchful eyes. If we survive, the treaty stands. If we fail… the bond is severed.
And we die.
Not just me. Not just her.
*Us.*
I’ve lived for two centuries, ruled an empire, walked through war and blood and silence. I’ve faced death a hundred times. But this—this slow, inevitable pull toward her, this hunger that isn’t just for her body but for her *soul*—this is the first thing that terrifies me.
Because I don’t know if I can survive her.
I rise, dressing quickly in dark charcoal—close enough to black, but not quite. A concession. A warning. Today, I won’t wear the full regalia of the Midnight King. Today, I’ll be just a man. Just a man chasing a woman who wants to kill him.
I find her in the Archives.
Of course I do.
The Chamber of Records is buried deep beneath the fortress, a labyrinth of stone corridors and enchanted shelves that hum with forbidden knowledge. The air is thick with dust and old magic, the scent of vellum and ink and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe, from the rituals that once sealed these texts. Torin stands guard at the entrance, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“She’s been here an hour,” he says, voice low. “Hasn’t spoken. Just… reading.”
I nod. “Did she ask for anything?”
“No. But she touched the Shadow Coven vault. The wards didn’t reject her.”
My breath catches.
The vault only opens for blood heirs. For *true* heirs.
She’s not just the lost heir.
She’s the *only* heir.
I step inside.
The chamber is dim, lit only by floating orbs of silver light that drift like fireflies above the shelves. Jasmine stands at a long oak table, her back to me, a stack of scrolls spread before her. Her hair is loose, falling in dark waves down her back, and she’s rolled up her sleeves—exposing the sigil on her left wrist.
It’s glowing.
Not faintly. Not subtly.
*Burning.*
Deep crimson, pulsing like a heartbeat, the lines shifting, alive. And in the center—my name. *Kael.* Clear as a vow. As a curse.
She hasn’t seen me. Not yet. Her focus is on the scroll in her hands—a land deed, the same one she found in our chambers. The one transferring her mother’s territories to my bloodline. Her fingers tremble as she traces the seal, her breath shallow.
I don’t speak. I don’t move. I just watch.
Because for the first time, I see her not as a weapon, not as a threat, but as a woman carrying a grief so old it’s carved into her bones.
And I know—*I know*—that I put it there.
Not with a blade.
But with silence.
“You took everything,” she says suddenly, voice raw. She doesn’t turn. “Her throne. Her lands. Her name.”
“I protected them,” I say, stepping forward. “And you.”
She laughs—sharp, broken. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to pretend you did it for *me*.”
“Then why did I do it?” I ask, stopping just behind her. Close enough to feel the heat of her. Close enough to smell the salt of unshed tears. “If not for you, then for what? Power? Greed? I already had an empire.”
“Because you wanted control,” she says, finally turning. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her gaze is fire. “Because you wanted the bond. Because you *engineered* this.”
I don’t flinch. “And how, exactly, would I have done that? Twenty years ago, I was a king, not a god. I couldn’t weave fate. I couldn’t force the magic to choose you.”
“But you could have manipulated it,” she says. “You could have buried the truth. You could have let them believe you were the betrayer—”
“So they wouldn’t kill you,” I finish. “Yes. I did.”
She freezes.
“The Tribunal was coming,” I say, voice low. “They knew about the bond. They knew the prophecy—that the union of Moonborn and Shadow Coven would break the Veil, bring balance, end the war. But they didn’t want balance. They wanted *purity*. And they would have killed you to stop it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say. “Because Malrik told me. The night your mother died, he came to me. Said the Tribunal had ordered her execution. Said you were next. And he gave me a choice—let you die, or take the blame.”
Her breath hitches.
“So I took it,” I say. “I claimed the lands. I declared her a traitor. I let the world believe I was the monster—so you could live.”
“Liar,” she whispers, but her voice wavers.
“Check the sigil,” I say. “It knows when I lie.”
She looks down at her wrist.
The sigil burns brighter.
No flicker. No hesitation.
It believes me.
She slams the scroll down. “Even if it’s true—*even if*—you had no right. You had no right to decide for me. To erase me. To make me a ghost in my own life.”
“And what would you have done?” I ask. “At twelve? Alone? With the Tribunal hunting hybrids? Would you have fought? Would you have died screaming?”
“I would have *known*,” she says. “I would have known the truth. I wouldn’t have spent twenty years hating the wrong man.”
“And what good would that have done?” I snap. “Would it have brought her back? Would it have stopped the purge? You think vengeance is justice? It’s *weakness*. It’s what Malrik wants. He’s *using* you.”
“You don’t get to tell me what I feel,” she hisses.
“I don’t,” I say. “But your body does.”
I reach out.
Not to grab. Not to force.
Just to touch.
My thumb brushes the edge of the sigil.
And the world *shatters*.
Fire surges between us—bright, molten, *alive*. Her breath catches. Her knees weaken. I feel it—her pulse, her hunger, her *need*—flooding into me like a tide. The bond roars to life, a living thing, pulling us together, demanding more.
She doesn’t pull away.
Not immediately.
Her eyes close. Her lips part. And for one terrible, beautiful second, she *leans* into my touch.
Then—
She shoves me back.
“Don’t,” she gasps. “Don’t you *dare* use this against me.”
“I’m not,” I say, voice rough. “I’m not using anything. I’m *showing* you. This—this fire, this ache, this *truth*—it’s not manipulation. It’s *us*. It’s what was taken from us. What we lost.”
“You don’t get to say ‘us,’” she says, backing away. “You don’t get to act like we’re some tragic love story. You let her die. You let them call her a traitor. You let me believe—”
“I let you *live*,” I say, stepping forward. “And if I had to do it again, I would. A thousand times. A million. I would carry every lie, every curse, every drop of blood on my hands, if it meant you were still breathing.”
She stares at me.
And for the first time, I see it—doubt.
Not in the bond.
Not in the sigil.
But in *me*.
“Why?” she whispers. “Why would you do that? Why would you sacrifice everything—for *me*?”
I don’t answer.
Not with words.
Because some truths are too deep for speech.
Some loves are written in blood before they’re ever spoken.
Instead, I roll up my sleeve.
And show her the scar.
On my left forearm, just above the wrist, a thin, silver line—old, faded, but unmissable. A wound from a child’s dagger. From a night twenty years ago, in a forest bathed in moonlight.
“You gave me this,” I say. “The night your mother died. You were running. I told you to hide. You didn’t want to go alone. So you cut me. A blood pact. *‘If I die, you die too,’* you said.”
Her breath stops.
“I never broke it,” I say. “And I never will.”
She looks at the scar. At my face. At the sigil burning between us.
And then—
She turns and walks away.
Not running.
Not fleeing.
Just… leaving.
But the bond hums.
And I know—
She can’t stay gone.
Not forever.
Not from me.
Not from *us*.
I watch her go, the fever already rising in my blood, the mark on my chest burning like a brand.
Thirty days.
That’s all we have.
But if I have to spend every one of them proving I’m not the monster she thinks I am…
Then so be it.
Because the truth—sharp and terrible—is this:
I didn’t save her life twenty years ago.
I just delayed the inevitable.
Because the woman I love?
She’s already trying to kill me.
And this time…
I don’t know if I’ll survive it.