The first thing I feel when the Veil Between Worlds opens is silence.
Not empty. Not still. But waiting.
The rift lies hidden deep within the Carpathian foothills, a jagged tear in reality veiled by ancient Fae glamours—shimmering like heat haze over stone, humming with a frequency only Moonborn and Fae can hear. The air smells of ozone and crushed violets, thick with magic so old it tastes like copper on the tongue. My wolf senses stretch taut, every muscle coiled, every instinct screaming at me to run. But I don’t. I stand at the edge, boots planted in the moss-covered stone, golden eyes scanning the shimmer. Behind me—nothing. No fortress. No guards. No sister.
Just me.
And the Fae.
She steps through like she’s always been there—tall, slender, her skin the color of moonlit bark, her hair a cascade of silver vines threaded with tiny, glowing blossoms. Her eyes—two pools of liquid obsidian—lock onto mine, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. There’s no glamour on her face. No illusion. Just raw, unfiltered truth. And it hurts to look at.
“You came alone,” she says, voice like wind through dead leaves. “Brave. Or foolish.”
“I came because you asked,” I say, voice low, controlled. “And because Jasmine doesn’t need to know.”
She smiles—slow, knowing. “She trusts you.”
“I know.”
“And you’d die for her.”
“I have.”
She tilts her head. “And yet you’re here. Not at her side. Not guarding her throne. Not basking in the warmth of her victory.” Her gaze sharpens. “You’re afraid.”
I don’t flinch. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re afraid of what you feel. Of what you might feel. Of the way your pulse stutters when I speak. Of the way your wolf stills when I look at you.” She lifts a hand, fingers brushing the air just shy of my chest. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull. The knowing.”
I take a step back. “I don’t make bargains with Fae.”
“No,” she says. “But you’ll make one with me.”
And then—
She names herself.
“I am Nyx,” she says. “Daughter of the First Thorn. Keeper of the Veil’s Edge. And I did not call you here to bargain.”
My breath catches. Nyx. The name is legend—whispered in Moonborn lullabies, carved into the oldest runes. A Fae who walks the border between loyalty and betrayal, truth and temptation. A being who once saved a werewolf king from extinction… and then vanished, leaving only a single black rose on his grave.
“Then why?” I ask. “Why call me here?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just reaches into the folds of her gown—and pulls out a mirror.
Not glass. Not silver. But living wood, carved into the shape of a crescent moon, its surface swirling with smoke and shadow. The moment I see it, my wolf snarls, pressing against my ribs, begging to run, to fight, to shift. But I don’t. I stand still, fists clenched, breath steady.
“Look,” she says, holding it out.
I don’t want to.
But I do.
The surface clears—
—and I see Jasmine.
Not as she is now—radiant, powerful, queen of the Midnight Court.
No.
This is before.
She’s twelve. Small. Terrified. Crouched in the forest, blood on her hands, her mother’s body at her feet. The blade still in Kael’s hand. His face twisted in grief. And then—
—she looks up.
And sees me.
Not as her brother.
Not as her protector.
As a liar.
Because I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t hiding in the trees.
I wasn’t watching.
I was gone.
“You left her,” Nyx says, voice soft. “You ran. You hid. You let her believe you were dead.”
“I was captured,” I growl. “Malrik’s men took me. I didn’t—”
“And yet,” she interrupts, “you could have broken free. You could have returned. You could have fought. But you didn’t.” Her obsidian eyes bore into mine. “You chose survival over her.”
My breath hitches.
Because she’s right.
And the worst part?
I don’t hate her for saying it.
I hate myself.
“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, voice rough.
“Because the past isn’t dead,” she says. “It’s a wound. And wounds fester when they’re ignored.” She lowers the mirror. “You think the war is over. You think the throne is safe. You think Jasmine is free.”
“She is,” I say.
“No,” Nyx says. “She’s bound. Not just by the bond with Kael. Not just by the mark. But by the lie she still carries. The belief that she betrayed her mother. That she failed her.”
“And you know the truth?”
“I know many truths,” she says. “But only one matters now.”
“Which is?”
She steps closer. So close I can feel the heat of her skin, the faint pulse of her magic. “The Veil is breaking. Not from outside. Not from war. But from within. The balance is unraveling. The old magics are fading. And when the Veil collapses—” Her voice drops to a whisper. “—everything will be unmade. Witches. Werewolves. Vampires. Even the Fae.”
My blood runs cold. “And you’re telling me this why?”
“Because you’re not just her brother,” she says. “You’re her shadow. Her protector. Her balance. And if she falls, you’ll be the one to catch her.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll be the one to break her.”
I don’t answer.
Just stare at her, my golden eyes unflinching, my wolf pressing against my ribs, growling, snarling, begging to be let loose.
And then—
She does something I don’t expect.
She reaches out.
Not to touch me.
Not to mark me.
But to offer.
Her hand hovers in the air, palm up, fingers spread. On her skin—a sigil. Not carved. Not painted. But grown. Twisting vines, thorns, and a single silver moon. It glows faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The same rhythm as the bond. The same rhythm as Jasmine’s magic.
“Take it,” she says. “Not as a bargain. Not as a debt. But as a warning.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the Veil will break,” she says. “And your sister will die in the dark, alone, believing she failed everyone she loved.”
My breath hitches.
Because I can’t let that happen.
Not again.
So I reach out.
Slow. Deliberate. Like if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve.
And I press my palm to hers.
The moment our skin touches—
—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 the warrens beneath the fortress—damp, dark, the air thick with the scent of iron and old magic. I’m chained to the wall, my wrists raw, my ribs broken, my wolf howling in my chest. And in the corner—
A Fae.
Not Nyx. Not yet. But one of her kind. Her eyes are closed. Her hands are pressed to the stone. And she’s singing.
Not words. Not language. But magic.
The chains grow hot. The stone cracks. The air shimmers. And then—
She opens her eyes.
And they’re black.
“You will live,” she says. “But not for her. For you.”
“I have to go back,” I say, voice broken. “She needs me.”
“She will survive,” the Fae says. “But only if you do not return.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because the truth will destroy her,” she says. “And you—” She steps closer. “—you are the only one who can protect her from it.”
And then—
She touches me.
Not with her hand.
But with her voice.
And I forget.
Not everything.
Just the part that matters.
Just the truth.
—
The vision fades.
I gasp, stumbling back, my hand burning, my breath ragged. The sigil on my palm glows—bright, molten, alive—pulsing in time with the bond, with Jasmine’s heartbeat, with the rhythm of the world itself.
“What did you do?” I growl, clutching my hand.
“I reminded you,” Nyx says. “Of what you forgot. Of what you buried. Of what you are.”
“And what am I?” I ask, voice breaking.
“Not just her brother,” she says. “Not just a Beta. Not just a protector.” Her obsidian eyes lock onto mine. “You are the Balance. The one who stands between truth and survival. And if you do not choose—” She steps back, the rift shimmering behind her. “—then the Veil will break. And everything you’ve fought for will be unmade.”
And then—
She’s gone.
Not with a whisper. Not with a flicker.
But with a silence so deep it feels like the world has exhaled.
And I’m left standing at the edge, hand burning, heart pounding, the sigil glowing like a brand.
—
The fortress is quiet when I return.
Too quiet.
No torches flicker. No whispers echo down the corridors. No guards pace. Just shadow and stone and the faint, steady thrum of power beneath my feet. The war is over. The throne is claimed. Lysandra is gone. Malrik is ash. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But warning.
I don’t go to my chambers. Don’t seek out Jasmine. Don’t report to Kael. I go to the Library of Whispers—the oldest archive in the Midnight Court, its shelves lined with tomes bound in skin, its air thick with the scent of dust and forgotten magic. The runes on the walls pulse faintly, reacting to the sigil on my palm, to the truth it carries.
I find it in the back—
A book.
Not large. Not ornate. Just leather-bound, its cover cracked, its pages yellowed with age. The title is gone. The author unknown. But I know what it is.
The Veil’s Lament.
A forbidden text. A Fae chronicle. A record of the first rift, the first war, the first betrayal.
And in it—
—a prophecy.
When the bond is forged in fire and blood,
When the queen claims the throne,
When the lie is spoken as truth,
The Veil shall tremble.
And the Balance shall choose.
One path: survival.
One path: truth.
And the world will break upon the choice.
My breath hitches.
Because I know what it means.
Jasmine.
She’s the queen.
The bond is forged.
The lie—her belief that she betrayed her mother—is spoken as truth.
And I—
I’m the Balance.
And I have to choose.
Do I protect her?
Or do I give her the truth?
—
I’m still sitting there when the door opens.
Not with a creak. Not with a slam.
But with silence.
And then—
She steps in.
Jasmine.
Her hair is loose, wild, catching the torchlight like spun silver. Her eyes—storm-gray, just like Kael’s—lock onto mine. She’s not in robes. Not in armor. Just a simple tunic, dark as shadow, the hem brushing her thighs. The Moonstone Amulet rests against her chest, its silver disc pulsing with a soft, internal glow. The mark on her shoulder burns—dark, perfect, a crescent moon pierced by a fang.
“You’ve been gone all day,” she says, voice low. “No one knew where you were.”
“I needed to think,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
Just walks forward, bare feet silent on the stone. Her gaze drops to the book in my hands. To the sigil on my palm.
“What is that?” she asks.
“A warning,” I say.
“From who?”
“The Fae.”
She stills. “Nyx?”
I don’t flinch. “You know her.”
“I’ve heard the name,” she says. “But not from you.”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t tell you. Because some truths—” I press a hand to the sigil. “—are too dangerous to speak.”
She doesn’t back down. Just steps closer. “And now?”
“Now the Veil is breaking,” I say. “And if we don’t act, everything we’ve built will be unmade.”
Her breath hitches. “And you know how to stop it?”
“I know what it will cost,” I say.
“And?”
I look at her—really look at her. My sister. My queen. The woman I’ve protected since she was a child. The woman I let believe I was dead. The woman I failed.
And I make my choice.
“The truth,” I say. “Will destroy you.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Then let it.”
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.