The first thing I feel when the sun dips below the Carpathian peaks is relief.
Not triumph. Not fury. Not the sharp, electric hum of victory after battle.
Relief.
It settles in my bones like warm ash, soft and deep, the kind that comes not from winning, but from surviving. The fortress—carved into the mountain’s heart, veiled by ancient wards and lunar enchantments—breathes around me, its obsidian walls glowing faintly with residual magic, its torches flickering in uneven rhythm. The war is over. The throne is claimed. The Council of Equals has been convened. Lysandra is exiled. Malrik is ash. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But stillness.
Like the world has paused, just for a breath, waiting to see if we’ll break or bloom.
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 last streaks of daylight, the stone humming with quiet power. 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 quiet,” Kael says from the doorway.
I don’t turn.
Just breathe.
“Not quiet,” I say. “Present.”
He steps into the chambers we now share—no longer just allies, no longer just bound by duty, but by something deeper. He’s not in armor. Not in ceremonial black. Just a simple tunic, dark as shadow, 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.
“And if I don’t believe you?” he asks, voice low.
“Then feel it,” I say, lifting my hand to my chest, pressing it over my heart. “Feel the bond. Feel the mark. Feel the way your body knows me before your mind does.”
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 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.
But then—
A knock.
Not loud. Not urgent.
But impossible to ignore.
We freeze.
Still tangled together, still breathless, still burning.
“Ignore it,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his neck.
“Can’t,” he says, voice rough. “It’s Rhys.”
I pull back, frowning. “How do you know?”
“I can smell him,” he says, pressing a hand to my hip. “Golden wolf. Iron. Family.”
I exhale—sharp, broken—and roll off him, grabbing the sheet to cover myself. Kael sits up, his coat flaring behind him like a living thing, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the door. 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.
“Enter,” Kael says, voice commanding.
The door opens.
Rhys steps in—shirtless, scarred, his golden wolf-eyes blazing. In his hand—a tray. On it—steaming tea, fresh bread, blood-red fruit. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at Kael.
Just sets it on the table by the hearth.
And then—
He turns.
And he smiles.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
But slow. Warm. Real.
“Dinner’s ready,” he says, voice rough. “If you two are done… celebrating.”
I glare at him. “We weren’t—”
“The whole fortress heard,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “And smelled. And probably felt the magic surging through the walls.”
My face burns.
Kael doesn’t flinch. Just leans back against the headboard, his coat flaring, his fangs just visible as he exhales. “And you’re serving us?”
“Someone has to,” Rhys says. “You’re too busy being king. She’s too busy being queen. And Torin’s watching the gates.” He crosses his arms. “So unless you want cold tea and stale bread, you’ll come downstairs. Together.”
I press a hand to the mark on my shoulder. “And if I don’t want to go?”
“Then you’re not the woman I remember,” he says. “You’re not the sister I fought to protect. You’re not the heir.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re stronger than this,” he says. “You always were. You just forgot.”
I don’t answer.
Just step out of bed, the sheet pooling at my feet. I’m bare, unashamed, my skin glowing in the firelight. The mark on my shoulder burns—bright, hot, alive—and the sigil on my wrist pulses in time with my heartbeat.
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I say.
Rhys nods. “Good.”
And then—
He turns to Kael.
“And you,” he says. “If you hurt her—”
“I won’t,” Kael says.
“If you lie to her—”
“I won’t.”
“If you let her down—”
“I’d rather burn with her than live without her.”
Rhys studies him—his golden eyes seeing too much. Then, slowly, he nods. “Then you have my loyalty.”
And he’s gone.
Not with a slam. Not with a threat.
But with a quiet certainty that settles over the room like dust.
—
The dining hall is small—intimate, not grand. A single table of blackened oak, its surface scarred with centuries of use, sits in the center, lit by a single chandelier of fused moonstone that casts soft, silver light across the stone floor. The air smells of rosemary and roasted meat, of warm bread and old wine. No guards. No courtiers. No whispers. Just us.
Rhys is already seated, tearing into a loaf of bread with his fingers, his golden eyes scanning the room. Kael sits at the head, coat flaring behind him, his storm-gray eyes fixed on me as I enter. I take the seat beside him, my fingers brushing his under the table. 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.
“You’re late,” Rhys says, mouth full.
“We were busy,” I say, pouring myself wine.
“Celebrating,” Kael adds, lifting his glass.
“Or drowning in guilt,” Rhys mutters.
I freeze. “What?”
He looks at me—really looks at me. “You think it’s over. You think you’ve made it right.”
“I have,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You’ve buried the past. But it’s not gone. It’s still in you. In him.” He jerks his chin at Kael. “In the way you still flinch when someone mentions your mother. In the way he still watches you like you might vanish.”
My breath hitches.
“The betrayal wasn’t his,” Rhys says, voice low. “It was yours.”
The words hang in the air like a blade.
I press a hand to the amulet—still warm, still pulsing, still alive. “And if I don’t want to hear this?”
“Then you’re not ready to rule,” he says. “You’re not ready to lead. You’re not ready to be my sister.”
Kael’s hand tightens around mine. “She doesn’t have to—”
“Yes, she does,” Rhys says. “Because the truth isn’t just about the past. It’s about the future. And if you don’t face it—” He leans forward. “—then the Veil will break. And everything you’ve built will be unmade.”
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Real.
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 reach for the bread.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With claiming.
My fingers tear into the loaf, warm and soft, the scent of rosemary filling the air. I take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
And then—
I laugh.
Not bitter. Not broken.
But full. Real. Alive.
“You’re an asshole,” I say, tossing a crust at him.
He catches it, grinning. “And you’re still my sister.”
Kael exhales—slow, controlled—and lifts his glass. “To family,” he says.
Rhys raises his. “To survival.”
I lift mine. “To truth.”
We drink.
And for the first time in twenty years—
I feel whole.
—
The food is simple. The wine is strong. The conversation—slow at first, then easy, then real. We talk of nothing and everything. Of the fortress repairs. Of the new hybrid guards. Of the Fae envoy waiting at dawn. Of the way the moon looked last night, hanging low and full over the mountains.
And then—
Rhys leans back, arms crossed. “Remember that time you set the training yard on fire?”
I choke on my wine. “I was twelve!”
“And you blamed it on a stray spark,” Kael says, smirking. “I knew it was you.”
“Because you were watching me,” I say, kicking him under the table.
“Always,” he says, catching my foot, holding it. “Even when you didn’t know I was there.”
Rhys snorts. “And that time you tried to steal Malrik’s dagger?”
“I didn’t try,” I say. “I succeeded.”
“And then dropped it in the fountain,” Kael adds.
“Because you startled me!”
“Because you were trespassing in the royal gardens.”
“Because I was looking for you,” I say, voice soft.
He stills.
Just for a second.
And then—
He squeezes my foot. “I know.”
We don’t speak for a while. Just eat. Drink. Breathe.
And then—
Rhys reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, leather-bound book. He slides it across the table to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“The Veil’s Lament,” he says. “A Fae chronicle. A prophecy.”
I open it—yellowed pages, faded ink. And there it is:
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.
“And you think I’m the Balance?” I ask.
“No,” Rhys says. “I think I am.”
I look at him—really look at him. My brother. My protector. The man who let me believe he was dead.
And I know.
He’s not lying.
He’s not hiding.
He’s choosing.
And so am I.
“Then choose,” I say, closing the book. “But choose knowing this—” I press a hand to the mark. “—I’d rather burn with the truth than live in the lie.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just nods.
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.