The first lie I tell today is with my silence.
I sit at the Council table, back straight, hands folded in my lap, face a mask of calm. The chamber hums with tension—low murmurs from the vampire elders, the restless shift of the werewolf envoys, the faint crackle of witch sigils flaring to life as Matron Niamh reviews the latest intelligence report. My skin still burns from the scalding bath, from the memory of Kael’s voice in the dark, from the way my body *ached* when I walked away from him.
And now, here I am.
At the same table as Lysandra Voss.
She’s seated across from me, draped in a new gown—deep crimson, cut low, clinging to every curve. Her hair is coiled like a serpent, her lips painted the same shade as the fabric. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. The message is clear: *I’m still here. I’m still winning.*
Kael sits at the head of the table, unreadable as ever. His storm-gray eyes flick over the assembled councilors, his fingers tapping once, twice against the arm of his throne. He hasn’t looked at me since I entered. Not directly. But I feel him—his presence, his pulse, the low thrum of the bond—like a second heartbeat beneath my ribs.
Thirty days.
That’s how long we have to prove the alliance. To prevent war. To survive each other.
And I’m already failing.
“The northern border is unstable,” Alaric, the Moonborn Alpha, growls, slamming a fist on the table. “Three patrols have gone missing in the last week. No bodies. No scent. Just… gone.”
“Rogue Fae?” asks Torin, Kael’s lieutenant, voice neutral.
“Possibly,” Alaric says. “But the patterns suggest something more organized. A coordinated strike. Not random abductions.”
“Then it’s Malrik,” I say, sharper than I intend.
All eyes turn to me.
Malrik, seated in the shadows at the far end of the table, lifts an eyebrow. “And what would you know of my movements, *half-breed*?”
I don’t flinch. “I know you’ve been pushing for war since the Veil War ended. I know you see hybrids as abominations. And I know you’ve been feeding Lysandra information—” I flick my gaze to her “—to destabilize the alliance.”
Lysandra smirks. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, darling.”
“No,” I say. “But truth does. And the truth is, you’re not just a distraction. You’re a weapon. And he’s using you to break us apart.”
“Enough,” Kael says, voice low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “We’re here to discuss security, not personal vendettas.”
“This *is* security,” I snap. “When one of your own is leaking intelligence to an enemy faction, that’s a threat to every species in this room.”
“Prove it,” Malrik says, leaning forward. “Show us the evidence. Or are you just grasping at shadows to justify your existence here?”
I open my mouth—
And stop.
Because I *don’t* have proof. Not yet. The records in the Archives confirmed Kael’s story about my mother, but they didn’t mention Malrik’s conspiracy. Not directly. Just hints. Whispers. A name here, a sealed decree there. Nothing concrete.
But I *know*.
And I *will* find it.
“The hybrid speaks out of turn,” Matron Niamh says, her voice like cracked ice. “She has no authority here. No standing. She is bound to the king by magic, not merit.”
“She speaks as my equal,” Kael says, and the room goes still. “Until the thirty days are complete, her voice carries the same weight as mine. You will treat her as such.”
Niamh’s lips thin, but she doesn’t argue.
Good.
But it doesn’t matter. Not really. Because I can feel the bond tightening, the fever creeping back into my blood. Every second I spend away from him, it grows worse. My vision blurs at the edges. My hands tremble. My breath comes in shallow gasps.
I won’t break.
I *can’t*.
“We need joint patrols,” Alaric says. “Vampire scouts with werewolf trackers. Witch seers to monitor the Veil. If this is an organized threat, we need to respond as one.”
“Agreed,” Torin says. “But we need reliable data. Last week’s patrol reports were incomplete. Missing key coordinates. Deliberate omissions.”
“Then someone’s sabotaging our intelligence,” I say, seizing the opening. “Someone inside the Court.”
Malrik smiles. “And again, the hybrid points fingers without proof.”
“Then let’s *get* proof,” I say, standing. “Let me review the full archive. Every patrol log, every intelligence report from the last month. If there’s a pattern, I’ll find it.”
“You?” Niamh scoffs. “A half-blood with no training? You’d miss a sigil in plain sight.”
“She has the sigil of the lost heir,” Kael says. “And the bond. That’s more than enough.”
“Or a reason to distrust her,” Malrik says. “How do we know she’s not the one manipulating the records? That she’s not feeding information to her *real* allies?”
My wolf snarls beneath my skin.
“Check the sigil,” I say, rolling up my sleeve. “It flares when I lie. Go on. Test me.”
They don’t. They can’t. The sigil glows faintly, steady, unbroken. I’m telling the truth.
“Fine,” Alaric says. “Let her review the logs. But under supervision. And if she alters a single line—”
“She won’t,” Kael says. “I’ll oversee it myself.”
Another beat of silence.
Then—
“Agreed,” Malrik says, too quickly. “Let the hybrid play detective. Maybe she’ll find something useful before the fever takes her.”
I don’t react. Just nod and sit.
But inside, I’m already planning.
Because if I can’t prove Malrik’s guilt… I’ll *make* it.
The Archives are colder today, the silver orbs dimmer, as if the magic itself senses my intent. I stand at the long oak table, surrounded by scrolls, vellum, and enchanted tablets that hum with stored data. Kael is beside me, arms crossed, watching. Not helping. Just *observing*.
“You don’t trust me,” I say, not looking up.
“I trust the bond,” he says. “And right now, it’s screaming that you’re about to do something reckless.”
I smirk. “And what if I am?”
“Then I’ll stop you.”
“You can’t stop me from reading.”
“No,” he says. “But I can stop you from *lying*.”
I glance at him. “You think I’ll falsify evidence?”
“I think you’re desperate,” he says. “And desperation makes even the strongest people do stupid things.”
“Like faking a betrayal to save a child?”
He flinches—just slightly. But I see it.
“That wasn’t fake,” he says. “It was survival.”
“And this is justice,” I say, turning back to the scrolls. “If Malrik’s behind the disappearances, I’ll prove it. Even if I have to bend the truth to do it.”
“Then you’re no better than him,” Kael says. “And the bond will know.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But at least I’ll have results.”
I work quickly, methodically. Cross-referencing patrol logs, mapping missing coordinates, comparing sigil signatures on the reports. Most are clean. But three—three have been altered. Subtly. A shift in ink density. A smudge where a rune should be. A missing timestamp.
And each one was approved by… Lysandra.
Not Malrik. Not directly. But *her*.
My breath catches.
This is it. This is the crack in the armor.
I grab a blank scroll, dip my quill in ink, and begin to forge.
Not the data.
Not the logs.
But a *report*. A summary. One that links the altered documents to Malrik’s private cipher, one that shows a pattern of strategic sabotage, one that implicates him directly.
It’s not real.
Not yet.
But it’s *plausible*.
And if I can make the Council believe it…
“Stop.”
Kael’s hand closes over mine, stilling the quill.
I look up. His eyes are black with fury.
“You’re lying,” he says. “The bond is burning. Your sigil is *screaming*.”
I don’t pull away. “Then stop me.”
“You want justice?” he growls. “Then *earn* it. Don’t cheapen it with lies.”
“And what if the truth isn’t enough?” I snap. “What if they ignore it? What if they protect him because he’s pureblood and I’m not?”
“Then fight harder,” he says. “Not dirtier.”
I glare at him. “You don’t get to lecture me on honor. You let them call my mother a traitor. You let me believe you killed her. You—”
“And I’ll carry that guilt until I die,” he says, voice raw. “But I won’t let you become what you hate. I won’t let you destroy yourself to destroy him.”
I yank my hand free. “Then what do you suggest? That I wait? That I *trust* the system that erased me?”
“No,” he says. “I suggest you use your *strength*. Your magic. Your mind. Not deception. Not revenge. *Truth*.”
I want to scream. I want to throw the quill at his face. But the sigil burns. The bond aches. And for the first time, I wonder—
Is he right?
“Give me one real piece of evidence,” he says. “One. And I’ll stand beside you when you present it. I’ll make them *listen*.”
I stare at the forged report.
Then, slowly, I tear it in half.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t gloat. Just watches as I return to the scrolls, my hands trembling, my vision blurred with unshed tears.
And then—
I see it.
Not in the logs.
Not in the maps.
But in the *margins*.
A tiny sigil, nearly invisible, etched into the edge of a patrol report. A Fae mark. One that signifies a *bargain*. A trade. A *truth for a memory*.
And it’s signed with Malrik’s blood.
My breath stops.
This is it.
Not just sabotage.
Collaboration.
With the Fae.
“You found it,” Kael says, voice low.
I nod, unable to speak.
He steps closer, his hand brushing mine—just a graze, but fire erupts beneath my skin. “Then use it. Not to destroy. To *reveal*.”
I look up at him. “And if they still don’t believe me?”
“Then I’ll make them,” he says. “Because this isn’t just your fight anymore.”
The Council chamber is silent when I enter, the forged report gone, the real one in my hand. Kael follows, his presence a wall at my back.
“I have something to show you,” I say, voice steady.
Malrik doesn’t look concerned. Lysandra smirks.
But when I present the sigil, when I explain the Fae bargain, when I reveal that Malrik has been trading secrets for power, the room *shifts*.
Niamh leans forward. Alaric growls. Torin’s eyes narrow.
And Malrik?
He smiles.
“Clever girl,” he says. “But do you know what the Fae took in return? What truth did you *lose* to get this?”
I freeze.
Because I don’t know.
The sigil only shows the bargain. Not the cost.
“She doesn’t,” Malrik says, rising. “And she never will. Because some truths are too dangerous to remember.”
Kael steps forward. “The evidence is real. The sigil is undeniable. And if you won’t act, *I* will.”
Malrik’s smile fades.
“You have until dawn,” Kael says. “To surrender your authority. To face trial. Or I will strip it from you myself.”
The room holds its breath.
And then—
Malrik laughs.
“You think this changes anything?” he says. “You think a half-blood’s evidence and a king’s threat will stop what’s coming? The Tribunal is already moving. The purge will begin. And when it does—” He looks at me. “—you’ll be the first to burn.”
He turns and walks out.
Silence.
Then—
“He’s right,” Niamh says. “The Tribunal won’t wait for trial. If they see this as rebellion—”
“Then we move first,” Alaric says. “We expose him. We rally the covens. We fight.”
“No,” Kael says. “We do it smarter. Jasmine—” He turns to me. “You’ve proven you can find the truth. I’m appointing you as my liaison to the Council. You’ll have full access to intelligence. Full authority to investigate.”
I stare at him. “You’re giving me power?”
“I’m giving you a *chance*,” he says. “To prove you’re more than revenge. More than rage. More than the bond.”
My breath catches.
He’s not just trusting me.
He’s *betting* on me.
And for the first time, I wonder—
What if I don’t hate him?
What if, beneath the fire and fury, there’s something else?
Something I’m too afraid to name?
Later, back in our chambers, I stand at the window, the city of shadows spread below. The bond hums, quieter now, soothed by proximity. By *him*.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “Give me that role.”
“Yes, I did,” he says, stepping behind me. “Because if we’re going to survive the next thirty days… I need to know I can trust you.”
I turn. “And can you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans in, his fangs grazing my neck—just a whisper of pressure, but my breath hitches, my body arching into him.
“You tell me,” he murmurs.
And I don’t pull away.