The first thing I feel when the Grand Hall of Echoes opens at dawn 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. Torchlight flickers along the obsidian walls, casting long, wavering shadows 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 today—
It changes.
Not because of war.
Not because of betrayal.
But because of peace.
The Council of Equals convenes at sunrise. No more hierarchy. No more bloodline supremacy. No more whispers of “pure” and “impure.” Just balance. Justice. A new beginning. The Supernatural Council—vampires, werewolves, witches, Fae—will sit together, not as factions, but as allies. And for the first time in two centuries, hybrids will have a voice.
My voice.
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder—Kael’s mark, dark and perfect, a crescent moon pierced by a fang. It still burns, not with pain, not with possession, but with something older. Something like recognition. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, pulsing in time with the bond, and the Moonstone Amulet rests against my chest, its silver disc catching the light, the stone pulsing with a soft, internal glow. I am not just the heir.
I am the queen.
And he—
He’s not just my king.
He’s not just my father.
He’s not just the man who saved me.
He’s the one I’ve loved since I was twelve.
The worst part?
I don’t hate myself for it anymore.
“You’re burning,” Kael says from the doorway.
I don’t turn.
Just breathe.
“Not with fever,” I say. “With certainty.”
He steps into the chambers we now share—no longer just allies, no longer just bound by duty, but by something deeper. He’s in ceremonial black again, the D’Arenthe crest etched into his belt buckle, his coat flaring behind him like a living thing. His storm-gray eyes are endless, fixed on me, 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 low.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his expression unreadable.
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—the one I healed, the one that nearly killed him—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 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.
—
We walk to the Grand Hall of Echoes together.
Not ahead. Not behind.
Side by side.
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 today.
Not like this.
The doors to the Hall open before us.
And 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 stands at the center, her blindfold turned toward us, her voice echoing as if from a thousand throats. “The Council of Equals is convened,” she says. “By order of the queen and king, all seats are open. All voices will be heard. And all bloodlines—pure, hybrid, ancient, new—will be represented.”
The chamber roars.
Not with outrage. Not with scandal.
With acceptance.
And then—
We step forward.
Not as king and queen.
Not as father and daughter.
Not as heirs or mates or rulers.
As the only two who’ve ever loved each other without lies.
We take our seats—twin thrones, side by side, the runes beneath our names glowing faintly. Rhys stands behind me, his golden eyes scanning the shadows. Torin stands behind Kael, his dark eyes unreadable. The elders—cold, calculating, power-hungry—sit in the front row, their pale eyes narrowed, their lips curled in disdain. But they don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch.
And then—
The Oracle lifts her hand.
“First order,” she says. “The Hybrid Tribunal is dissolved. By decree of the queen and king, all cases involving mixed-blood disputes will now be heard by a council of five—two witches, two werewolves, one vampire—appointed by the Midnight Court.”
Murmurs ripple through the chamber.
Some angry. Some relieved. Some stunned.
But no one challenges it.
Not yet.
“Second order,” the Oracle continues. “The Veil War reparations are to be paid in full—land, blood, and magic—to all surviving witches and hybrids. The Tribunal’s seized artifacts will be returned. The lost names will be restored.”
Gasps.
Whispers.
A vampire elder rises—Lord Varn, ancient, pureblood, his eyes like ice. “This is madness,” he hisses. “We cannot reward treason. We cannot bow to half-bloods and traitors.”
I don’t flinch.
Just lift my hand.
And the sigil on my wrist flares—bright, molten, alive.
“You call it treason,” I say, voice low, commanding. “I call it survival. You call it madness. I call it justice. And you—” I stand, slow, deliberate. “—you are not the law. You are not the truth. You are not the future.”
He glares at me. “You are a child. A mistake. You don’t belong on that throne.”
“And you do?” I ask, stepping down from the dais. “You, who stood by while my mother was framed? Who watched as her coven was slaughtered? Who let Malrik twist the truth and bury the past?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just clenches his fists.
“I am not a child,” I say, stepping closer. “I am not a mistake. I am the heir. The queen. And I will not let fear, not pride, not centuries of lies—stand in the way of what’s right.”
He snarls. “You’ll burn for this.”
“Maybe,” I say, pressing a hand to the mark on my shoulder. “But I’ll burn with the truth. And I’ll take you with me.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at me, his eyes wide, his breath shallow.
And then—
He sits.
Not in surrender.
But in silence.
The Oracle nods. “The third order,” she says. “All future Council votes will require a hybrid representative. No law, no treaty, no decree will pass without the approval of at least one mixed-blood voice.”
The chamber erupts.
Not in protest.
Not in outrage.
But in cheers.
Witches. Werewolves. Even some younger vampires. They rise, clapping, shouting, their eyes bright with hope. The elders remain seated, their faces like stone. But they don’t speak. Don’t move. Just watch.
And then—
Kael stands.
Not as a king.
Not as a ruler.
As a man.
“This is not the end,” he says, voice rough, commanding. “This is the beginning. The Veil War is over. Malrik is gone. Lysandra is exiled. But the shadows remain. The fear remains. The lies remain.” He turns to me, his storm-gray eyes endless. “And we will not rest until every truth is spoken. Every wound is healed. Every soul is free.”
The chamber roars.
Not with war.
Not with vengeance.
With peace.
And then—
I stand.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve.
“I came here to destroy him,” I say, voice clear, strong. “To burn his empire to the ground. To avenge my mother. And I did. Not with fire. Not with blood. But with truth.” I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder. “I found the man I thought was my enemy. And I found the love I thought was a lie. And now—” I look at the Oracle, at Rhys, at Torin, at the elders. “—I stand not as a weapon. Not as a ghost. Not as a lie.”
I lift my chin.
“I stand as Jasmine Vale. Daughter of a queen. Heir to a coven. Mate to a king. And the woman who will not let the past bury the future.”
The chamber falls silent.
Not empty. Not still.
But listening.
And then—
Kael reaches for me.
Not with dominance. Not with control.
With love.
His hand finds mine, warm, strong, unyielding. The bond hums beneath our skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on my wrist flares—bright, hot, alive—and the mark on my shoulder burns—not with pain, not with possession—but with something older. Something like recognition.
And then—
I wink at him.
Just a flicker. Just a ghost of a smile.
But it’s enough.
His fang catches his lip. Just a whisper of pressure. But I see it. Feel it. Know it.
And I whisper—
“You’re trouble.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just squeezes my hand.
And the Oracle smiles—just a ghost of one—but it’s enough.
“The Council of Equals is adjourned,” she says. “Until next moon.”
And as we walk back through the corridors, tangled together, breath mingling, hearts beating as one—
I know.
This isn’t the end.
It’s just the beginning.
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.