The first thing I feel when the fortress stirs at dawn is absence.
Not emptiness. Not silence. Not even grief.
Absence.
It coils low in my chest like smoke, thick and quiet, pressing against the ribs of a heart that no longer has a war to fight. The Midnight Court—carved into the living stone of the Carpathians, veiled by lunar wards and ancient blood magic—breathes around me, its obsidian halls humming with residual power, 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 betrayal.
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 hilt of my dagger—cold iron, etched with the D’Arenthe crest, its edge still sharp from the last kill. I don’t need it now. Not in this peace. Not in this new world where the king kneels before his queen and the queen bites back. Where the Oracle speaks truth without prophecy and the Fae bargain without lies. Where the hybrid girl who once came to destroy us now rules beside him, her mark burning bright, her power unchallenged.
And where I—
Where I no longer have a purpose.
Not as enforcer. Not as lieutenant. Not as the shadow who stood behind the throne and never flinched.
I was made for war.
For blood. For silence. For the cold precision of a blade between the ribs before the target even knows they’re dead.
But this?
This softness. This warmth. This love?
It doesn’t need me.
And that’s the worst part.
Not that I’m no longer needed.
But that I don’t hate it.
That I watch them—Kael and Jasmine—standing side by side in the Grand Hall, her hand on his thigh, his fang catching his lip as she whispers something only he can hear—and I don’t feel rage.
I don’t feel jealousy.
I don’t even feel loss.
I feel… relief.
Like a man who’s carried a boulder for two hundred years and finally sets it down, only to realize his hands still tremble from the weight, even though it’s gone.
“You’re brooding,” Rhys says from the doorway.
I don’t turn.
Just keep my gaze on the courtyard below—where Jasmine and Kael walk together, tangled at the fingers, heads close, voices low. The moon has set. The stars are fading. Dawn bleeds across the peaks, pale and quiet. The garden is still—thorn trees motionless, silver veins in the stone glowing faintly. They stop beneath the oldest tree, its branches twisted like claws, its blossoms closed. He says something. She laughs—low, rich, real—and leans into him. His arm slides around her waist, pulling her close. The bond hums between them, visible only to those who know how to look: a faint silver thread, pulsing with every beat of their hearts.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“Same thing,” Rhys mutters, stepping inside. He’s shirtless, scarred, golden eyes scanning me like I’m a threat. He doesn’t trust me. Never has. And I don’t blame him. I’ve stood too close to the king for too long. I’ve killed too many on his orders. I’ve watched too much in silence.
But I’ve never lied.
And I’ve never wanted what was his.
“You’re leaving,” he says.
It’s not a question.
I exhale—slow, controlled. “You can smell it.”
“Not you,” he says. “Her. The forest. The wind. You’ve been standing here all night, haven’t you? Watching them.”
I don’t answer.
Just let the silence settle.
And then—
“I’ve served Kael for 183 years,” I say. “Since he pulled me from the blood pits of Varn’s estate. Since he looked down at a half-dead vampire boy with nothing but fangs and fury and said, *‘You’re mine now.’*”
Rhys doesn’t flinch. “And now?”
“Now he has her,” I say. “And she has him. And they don’t need me to stand between them and the world anymore.”
“You think he’ll let you go?”
“I think,” I say, turning to face him, “that he’ll understand.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll walk anyway.”
Rhys studies me—golden eyes sharp, wolf instincts coiled. He sees too much. Too fast. “You’re not running,” he says. “You’re choosing.”
“Finally,” I say.
He nods, slow, once. “Then go see him. Before she does.”
—
Kael is in the war room.
Not for war.
For peace.
The map table glows faintly, runes shifting—territories realigned, blood oaths renewed, Fae envoys scheduled. 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 fixed on the Veil’s Edge, where the rift pulses with unstable energy. The scent of him—storm and iron and something ancient—wraps around the room, grounding it, anchoring it. The bond hums beneath his skin, steady, unrelenting. The sigil on his palm—Jasmine’s mark—glows faintly, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
He doesn’t look up as I enter.
Just says, “You’re here.”
“You knew,” I say.
“I felt it,” he replies. “The shift. The stillness. Like a sword being sheathed.”
I stop a few paces away. “I’ve served you for 183 years.”
“And you’ll serve me for 183 more,” he says, turning. His eyes are endless, storm-gray, unreadable. “Unless you’re here to resign.”
“I am.”
He doesn’t react. Just watches me. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll walk anyway,” I say. “But I’d rather leave with your blessing than your blade at my back.”
He exhales—slow, controlled—and leans back in his chair. “You’ve never asked for anything.”
“I’ve never needed to.”
“And now?”
“Now I need to be more than your shadow.”
He studies me—really studies me. Like he’s seeing me for the first time. “You think I don’t know what you’ve given up?” he asks, voice low. “The women you didn’t love. The lives you didn’t live. The freedom you buried beneath duty?”
“I don’t want pity,” I say.
“It’s not pity,” he says. “It’s gratitude. And guilt.”
I don’t answer.
Just stand there, hands at my sides, heart steady.
And then—
He rises.
Not with dominance. Not with control.
With respect.
He steps forward, slow, deliberate, and does something I never expected.
He bows.
Not deep. Not ceremonial.
But real.
“Torin of the Dusk,” he says, voice rough. “Lieutenant of the Midnight Court. My brother in blood and silence. You have served me without question, without fail, without fear. And I release you—not as a subject, but as a man.”
My breath hitches.
Because I’ve waited 183 years to hear those words.
And now that they’re here, I don’t know what to do with them.
“I don’t know who I am without the title,” I say, voice breaking.
“Then find out,” he says. “Not as my lieutenant. Not as a vampire of the D’Arenthe line. But as Torin. As the man who stood in the dark and never flinched.”
I press a hand to my chest—over my heart, where the weight used to be.
And then—
I nod.
Just once.
And I turn.
Not running.
Not fleeing.
Walking.
—
The fortress gates open before me.
Not with ceremony. Not with fanfare.
With silence.
The guards—vampire, werewolf, witch—step aside, their eyes down, their instincts screaming at them to run. They know what I am. What I’ve done. What I’ve been.
But they don’t fear me now.
Not like they used to.
Because the world has changed.
And so have I.
I don’t look back.
Not at the fortress. Not at the throne. Not at the man who was my king.
I walk.
Down the stone steps. Through the valley. Into the forest.
The trees close behind me like a door.
And then—
Stillness.
Not the kind that follows death.
But the kind that precedes life.
The air smells of pine and damp earth, of old magic and something deeper—memory, knowledge, secrets. No torches flicker. No whispers echo. 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 choice.
And for the first time in 183 years—
I make one.
I stop.
Close my eyes.
Breathe.
And I listen.
Not to orders.
Not to duty.
Not to the silent commands of a master who no longer needs me.
I listen to the wind.
To the rustle of leaves.
To the distant call of a wolf.
To the slow, steady beat of my own heart.
And then—
I feel it.
Not the bond.
Not the mark.
Not the weight of centuries.
But hunger.
Not for blood. Not for power. Not for vengeance.
Hunger for more.
For a life I’ve never lived.
For a name that’s mine alone.
For a fire that isn’t borrowed.
And then—
A whisper.
Not loud. Not urgent.
But impossible to ignore.
I turn.
And there—
She stands.
Not in the forest. Not in the shadows.
But in the light.
A Fae.
Not Nyx. Not one I know.
But one who knows me.
Her skin is the color of twilight, her hair a cascade of silver vines threaded with tiny, glowing blossoms. Her eyes—two pools of liquid amber—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 left,” she says, voice like wind through dry leaves.
“I was released,” I say.
“Same thing,” she replies. “You chose to go.”
“I did.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m listening.”
She smiles—slow, knowing. “And what do you hear?”
“Silence,” I say. “But not the kind that kills. The kind that speaks.”
She tilts her head. “And what does it say?”
“That I’m not just a weapon.”
“And what are you?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “But I’d like to find out.”
She steps closer. So close I can feel the heat of her skin, the faint pulse of her magic. “Then come with me,” she says. “Not as a servant. Not as a soldier. But as a man who’s ready to burn.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what you missed.”
I don’t answer.
Just look at her—really look at her.
And then—
I do something I’ve never done before.
I choose.
Not out of duty.
Not because I’m ordered.
Not because the bond demands it.
But because I want to.
I reach for her hand.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With certainty.
Her fingers close around mine—cool, strong, unyielding. The moment our skin touches—
—fire erupts.
Not pain. Not magic. But memory.
—
I’m twelve.
Not in the fortress. Not in the war room. Not in the blood.
I’m in the pits.
Dark. Wet. Cold. The air thick with the scent of iron and old magic. I’m chained to the wall, my wrists raw, my ribs broken, my fangs useless. And in the corner—
A Fae.
Not her. 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 amber.
“You will live,” she says. “But not for him. For you.”
“I have to serve,” I say, voice broken. “He saved me.”
“He gave you a life,” she says. “But only you can give it meaning.”
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,” she says. “Of what you forgot. Of what you buried. Of what you are.”
“And what am I?” I ask, voice breaking.
“Not just his shadow,” she says. “Not just a lieutenant. Not just a weapon.” Her amber eyes lock onto mine. “You are the Fire. The one who stands between silence and song. And if you do not choose—” She steps back, the forest shimmering behind her. “—then the world will never know what you could have been.”
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.
—
I don’t go back.
Don’t return to the fortress. Don’t seek out Kael. Don’t report to Rhys.
I walk.
Not toward anything.
But toward myself.
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.