The first thing I feel when the alarm bell tolls is fire.
Not literal. Not magic. Not even the fevered pulse of the bond.
No—this is different.
This is instinct.
It claws up my spine, sharp and primal, pulsing in time with the sigil on my wrist, with the mark on my shoulder, with the slow, steady beat of my heart. The fortress—carved into the living stone of the Carpathians, veiled by lunar wards and ancient blood magic—shudders beneath my feet, its obsidian veins thrumming with warning. Torches flicker in uneven rhythm. The air smells of ozone and old iron, of something burning just beyond the veil. The war is over. The throne is claimed. The Council of Equals has been reborn. Lysandra is exiled. Malrik is ash. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not peace.
Not joy.
But danger.
And I’m not afraid.
I’m ready.
Kael is already moving—his storm-gray eyes locked on the corridor ahead, his coat flaring behind him like a living thing, his fangs fully extended. He’s not in armor. Not in ceremonial black. Just a simple tunic, dark as shadow, the hem brushing his thighs. 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.
“Stay behind me,” he says, voice low.
I don’t answer.
Just step forward, my Moonstone Amulet pulsing against my chest, its silver disc catching the torchlight, the stone humming with quiet power. My gown is black silk, the hem lined with silver fangs, the bodice embroidered with moonstone beads. The mark on my shoulder—his mark—burns warm, not with possession, not with pain, but with something older. Something like recognition. I am not just the heir.
I am the queen.
And I don’t need protection.
I need a partner.
“I said stay,” he growls, turning to me.
“And I said no,” I reply, stepping past him. “We walk together. Or not at all.”
He stills.
Not with anger. Not with command.
With recognition.
And then—
He falls into step beside me.
Not in front.
Not behind.
But beside.
We move through the fortress like fire and storm—silent, swift, unstoppable. The corridors are empty. No guards. No whispers. No torches. Just shadow and silence and the faint, steady thrum of power beneath our feet. The alarm bell tolls again—deep, resonant, a warning that shakes the stone. Somewhere in the east wing, a ward has been breached. A scent rises—wolf, but not Rhys. Vampire, but not one of Kael’s. And something else—bitter, metallic, wrong.
“Fae poison,” I whisper.
Kael nods. “They’ve been corrupted. Used as a weapon.”
“By who?”
“Someone who knows how to break the veil,” he says. “Someone who knows our weaknesses.”
“Malrik’s allies?”
“Or someone new.”
And then—
We turn the corner.
And see him.
A figure in black, hooded, his face hidden beneath a silver mask—just like mine was when I first came here, twenty years ago, a weapon in the dark. But this one isn’t a child. Isn’t a spy. Isn’t here to reclaim a throne.
This one is here to end it.
He moves like smoke—fast, silent, deadly. A blade in each hand, one silver, one obsidian, both etched with runes that pulse with dark magic. The air around him shimmers—veil magic, Fae enchantment, blood ritual. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. Just lunges.
At me.
Kael moves first.
Not with speed. Not with power.
With certainty.
He steps in front of me—just an inch, just enough—and the obsidian blade slams into his chest. Not deep. Not fatal. But enough to draw blood. Enough to make the bond scream.
And then—
I move.
Not with rage.
Not with vengeance.
With purpose.
My hand flashes—Moonstone Amulet glowing, sigil flaring—and a pulse of lunar energy erupts, slamming into the assassin. He stumbles, his hood falling back, revealing a face I don’t recognize—pale, sharp, eyes black with stolen magic. But I don’t stop. Can’t. The bond is singing, fire surging, soft and deep. My body knows what to do before my mind does.
I lunge.
Not to kill.
Not to maim.
But to stop.
My hand closes around his wrist—the one holding the silver blade—and twist. Bone cracks. He screams—high, guttural, unnatural—and the blade clatters to the stone. I don’t hesitate. Just drive my knee into his gut, then slam my forehead into his nose. Blood sprays. He staggers. But he’s not done.
With his free hand, he reaches for me—fingers clawed, magic sparking—and I feel it—something dark, something old, something meant to unmake.
And then—
Kael is there.
Not with a blade.
Not with a spell.
With his fangs.
He sinks them into the assassin’s neck—deep, hard, final—and drains him in seconds. No mercy. No hesitation. Just death. The body collapses, twitching, then still. The air clears. The magic fades. The ward holds.
And then—
He turns to me.
His mouth is smeared with blood. His eyes are black with fury. His chest heaves. But his hand—steady, sure—reaches for me.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
I look down.
A thin line of red runs down my forearm—where the silver blade grazed me. Not deep. Not dangerous. But enough.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
“It’s not nothing,” he growls, pulling me close. “It’s you.”
And then—
He kisses me.
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 rustle.
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 scroll, sealed with red wax. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at Kael.
Just holds it out.
“From the Fae,” he says. “They say it can’t wait.”
I take it, my fingers trembling. “Then let’s see what they want.”
—
The body is gone by morning.
Not vanished. Not hidden.
Just… removed.
No blood. No trace. No sign of the fight. Just clean stone and flickering torches and the faint, steady thrum of power beneath my feet. The fortress breathes around me, calm, quiet, unbroken. The war is over. The throne is claimed. The Council of Equals has been reborn. Lysandra is exiled. Malrik is ash. And yet—
Something lingers.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But truth.
I stand in the war chamber, the scroll in my hand, the Moonstone Amulet pulsing against my chest. The sigil on my wrist glows faintly, reacting to the Fae magic woven into the parchment. Rhys leans against the far wall, arms crossed, golden eyes blazing. Kael stands beside me, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the map, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.
“They knew,” I say.
“Who?” Rhys asks.
“The Fae,” I say. “They knew someone would come. That the veil would be tested. That we’d be attacked.”
“And they didn’t warn us?” Kael asks, voice low.
“They did,” I say, holding up the scroll. “This isn’t a request. It’s a confirmation. They sent the assassin as a test.”
Rhys snorts. “A test? Of what?”
“Of our unity,” I say. “Of our strength. Of whether we’ve truly earned our peace.”
“And have we?” Kael asks.
I look at him—really look at him. His storm-gray eyes endless, his breath steady, his body scarred but unbroken. The man who saved me. Who fought for me. Who loves me without lies.
“Yes,” I say. “We have.”
And then—
He turns to me.
Not with command. Not with dominance.
With pride.
“Then let them know,” he says. “Let the Fae know. Let the world know. We are not weak. We are not divided. We are not afraid.”
“And if they send another?” Rhys asks.
“Then we burn them together,” I say. “Because the bond won’t let us live apart.”
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.