The fortress feels different in the daylight.
Not safer. Not calmer. But… charged. Like the air before a storm, thick with unspoken threats and hidden movements. After last night—the public appearance, the torn gown, the blood, the whispers—everything has shifted. The façade of unity is cracking, and beneath it, the real war is beginning.
I stand at the balcony, the morning sun painting the stone in pale gold, the wind tugging at my hair. My shoulder still aches where Mira’s glass grazed me, but the wound is already scabbing over—Kaelen’s blood, my moonfire, the bond’s relentless healing. I press a hand to the scar, feeling the faint pulse beneath. Not pain. Not weakness.
Power.
He left at dawn—silent, controlled, his storm-silver eyes dark with purpose. He didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t need to. I saw it in the way his fingers lingered on the hilt of his war-knife, in the way his jaw clenched when he told me about Varn, the guard who let Mira into his chambers. He’s hunting. Not just for answers. For blood.
And I let him go.
Not because I trust him.
Because I *believe* him.
And that terrifies me more than any lie.
The bond hums beneath my skin, low and steady, a constant reminder of his absence. Not painful. Not yet. But there. A thread, thin but unbreakable, stretching between us. Seventy days. That’s all we have. And every moment feels like a step closer to something I can’t name—something that isn’t vengeance, isn’t politics, isn’t survival.
Something that feels like *love*.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering the way he kissed me last night—soft, slow, *real*—before he walked out the door. Not a claim. Not a threat. A promise.
I’ll be back.
And I’ll make sure he screams.
A smile tugs at my lips. Then fades.
Because I know what comes next.
Malrik won’t let this go. Mira won’t back down. And someone inside the Fang is feeding them information. Watching. Waiting. Biding their time.
And I’m not just a target.
I’m bait.
The summons comes at midday—a formal note delivered by a young werewolf page, sealed with the Council’s sigil. A banquet. This evening. In the Moonlit Hall. To “reaffirm unity” after the “unfortunate incident” of last night.
Translation: they want to see me break.
They want to watch me falter. To stumble. To prove I’m not strong enough, not worthy, not *real*.
And I will go.
Not because I have to.
Because I want to.
Because if they think they can break me with whispers and glances, they’ve forgotten one thing:
I’m not just a Moonblood.
I’m a weapon.
And tonight, I’ll remind them.
Elowen arrives as I’m dressing—her silver eyes sharp, her hands deft as she fastens the clasps of my gown. This one is black silk, high-necked, long-sleeved, but cut so tightly it hugs every curve. Power. Control. Not seduction. Authority.
“They’ll be watching,” she murmurs, adjusting the drape of the fabric over my shoulder. “Every move. Every breath. Every flicker of emotion.”
“Let them.” I meet her gaze in the mirror. “I’m not hiding anymore.”
She studies me. Then nods. “Good. Because the truth is coming. And when it does, you’ll need to be ready.”
“The Blood Codex.”
“Yes.” She steps back, pulling a silver comb from her sleeve—etched with moonfire sigils. “The hidden chamber beneath the Archives. Only Moonblood magic can open it. And only a true heir can survive the trial.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then you die.”
I don’t flinch. “And if I succeed?”
“Then you burn the Council to the ground.”
I smile. “Then I’d say it’s worth the risk.”
She doesn’t return the smile. Just presses the comb into my hand. “Wear it. It’ll protect you. From glamour. From poison. From lies.”
I slide it into my hair. “And from love?”
She stills. Then, softly: “No. Nothing can protect you from that.”
And just like that, the truth lands.
Because I’m not afraid of the banquet.
Not of the whispers.
Not of the lies.
I’m afraid of *him*.
Of the way my body betrays me when he’s near. Of the way my breath hitches when he touches me. Of the way my heart *aches* when he looks at me like I’m something precious instead of a prisoner.
I’m afraid of wanting him.
Of needing him.
Of *loving* him.
And I don’t know if I can stop it.
The Moonlit Hall is already full when we arrive—candles flickering in silver sconces, the air thick with perfume and magic, the low murmur of conversation rising like smoke. Fae glide in gossamer veils, their glamours shifting with every step. Vampires stand in clusters, their stillness more menacing than any movement. Werewolves fill the corners, their eyes gold, their postures tense, their loyalty still uncertain.
And at the center of it all—Kaelen.
He stands beside the dais, dressed in black leather, his storm-silver eyes scanning the room, his jaw tight, his body coiled like a predator. The moment I step inside, his gaze snaps to me. Locks on. Doesn’t waver.
And just like that, the bond *sings*.
Not with fire. Not with lust.
With *recognition*.
He moves toward me—slow, deliberate, every step echoing in the sudden hush—and when he reaches me, he doesn’t speak. Just takes my hand, lifts it to his lips, and presses a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is formal. Respectful.
But the look in his eyes is anything but.
“You’re late,” he murmurs, voice low, rough.
“You’re overdressed,” I counter.
His lips twitch. “You’re stunning.”
My breath hitches. Not from the compliment. From the truth in his voice. From the way his thumb brushes my pulse, from the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Not here.”
“Why not?” He steps closer, caging me in, his breath warm against my ear. “Let them see. Let them know you’re mine.”
“They already do.”
“Not like this.”
And then—
A servant approaches—vampire, young, eyes downcast—holding a silver tray with two goblets of blood wine, deep red and swirling with faint silver threads. “For the Alpha and his mate,” she murmurs, bowing.
Kaelen takes one. I reach for the other.
And then—
Elowen’s voice in my mind, sharp, urgent: Wait.
I freeze.
The servant doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just holds the tray, waiting.
But something’s wrong.
The wine. The color. The way the silver threads spiral—not like magic, but like *poison*. Like something designed to mimic the bond’s energy, to amplify it, to *control* it.
My fingers hover over the goblet.
And then—
Kaelen’s hand closes over mine, stopping me.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just takes the goblet from the tray, sniffs it once, and then—
He throws it.
It shatters against the stone, the wine splattering like blood, the silver threads dissolving into smoke.
The hall goes silent.
The servant pales. “I—I didn’t—”
“You were paid,” Kaelen says, voice quiet. Deadly. “By Mira. By Malrik. By someone who wants my mate *broken*.”
She doesn’t deny it. Just turns and runs.
He doesn’t stop her.
Just turns to me, his storm-silver eyes dark with fury. “You felt it.”
“The poison.”
“Enchanted wine. Meant to trigger the bond’s heat. To make you lose control. To make you *beg* for me in front of them all.”
My breath stills. “And if I had?”
“Then they’d have claimed the bond was failing. That you were weak. That you needed to be contained.”
“And you?”
“I’d have killed every one of them.”
And just like that, the air shifts.
Not with fear.
With *danger*.
Because they’re not just trying to break me.
They’re trying to break *us*.
And they’ve already lost.
The rest of the banquet passes in a blur—speeches, toasts, alliances reaffirmed—but I barely hear them. My skin still burns where his hand stopped me. My blood still hums with the memory of the poison, of the trap, of the way he *knew*. And the bond—gods, the bond—is louder than ever, a constant pull, a need so deep it aches.
And then—
It happens.
Not a second attempt. Not a new trap.
The poison was already *in* me.
From the first goblet. From the moment I reached for it. A trace, invisible, undetectable—until now.
Heat.
It starts low in my gut, a slow, insistent burn, then spreads—up my spine, through my chest, into my limbs. My breath hitches. My skin flushes. My pulse hammers, not with fear, but with *need*.
The bond’s heat.
But not natural.
Forced. Amplified. *Controlled*.
I clutch the edge of the table, my fingers digging into the stone, my vision narrowing. The hall blurs. The voices fade. The only thing I see is *him*.
Kaelen.
His storm-silver eyes lock onto mine, wide with realization. “Brielle—”
“It’s in me,” I gasp. “The poison—it’s triggering the heat—”
He’s at my side in an instant, his arm around my waist, holding me up. “Fight it,” he growls. “Don’t let it take you.”
“I can’t—” My voice is ragged. “It’s too strong—”
And then—
I *feel* him.
Not just his body. His magic. His heat. His *need*. The bond roars between us, not with fire, not with lust, but with *hunger*. Raw. Blinding. *Feral*.
And I want him.
Not for the mission. Not for the truth. Not for the revenge.
For *me*.
“Don’t let me fall,” I whisper, my hands flying to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “Please—”
He doesn’t answer.
Just lifts me, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, and carries me through the hall, past the stunned faces, past the whispers, past the lies.
And then—
The door slams shut behind us.
We’re in his study—dark stone, flickering torches, the scent of pine and iron thick in the air. He lays me on the desk, his body caging mine, his hands braced on either side of my head.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do.
His storm-silver eyes are gold now, feral, *hunting*. But beneath the fury, I see it—fear. Not for himself. For *me*.
“The heat will pass,” he says, voice rough. “But it’ll get worse before it does. You’ll want me. You’ll *need* me. And if we don’t control it—”
“Then what?”
“Then they win.”
My breath hitches. “And if we don’t stop?”
“Then we burn.”
And just like that, the world tilts.
Because he’s not just protecting me.
He’s *testing* me.
And I don’t hate it.
I *want* it.
“Then let me burn,” I whisper.
And then—
I kiss him.
Not soft. Not slow.
Desperate.
Hard. Deep. *Feral*. My hands fly to his hair, pulling him closer, my mouth opening under his, my tongue sliding against his with a hunger that matches his own. He groans—low, rough, guttural—and his arms lock around me, lifting me off the desk, pressing me back against the wall as he takes more, deeper, *harder*, until we’re both breathless, trembling, lost in the heat of it.
And then—
The door bursts open.
Soren stands in the threshold, his dark eyes wide, his chest heaving, his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
“They’re coming,” he says, voice sharp. “Malrik’s enforcers. A full assault. And they know—”
He stops. Looks at us. At me, pressed against the wall, my gown torn at the shoulder, my lips swollen, my skin flushed. At Kaelen, his tunic half-unbuttoned, his hands still cradling my face, his body caged over mine.
“They know who you really are,” he finishes, voice low. “And they’re coming to kill you both.”
The moment shatters.
Kaelen is on his feet in an instant, pulling me up with him, his body moving between me and the door, his claws extending, his fangs bared. The bond *screams*—not with heat, not with lust, but with *danger*.
“How?” I ask, my voice steady despite the fear clawing its way up my throat. “How do they know?”
“Mira,” Soren says. “She’s not just a spy. She’s a blood-tracker. She stole a drop of your blood from the Archives—when you were wounded. Used it to trace your lineage. To confirm you’re Moonblood.”
My breath stills. “And the attack?”
“Malrik’s moving fast. He’s using the fake bite mark as justification—claiming Kaelen broke the bond, that you’re an unmarked traitor. He’s rallying the Fang loyalists. The Southern Claw is already en route. The Blood Tribunal is mobilizing.”
Kaelen’s jaw clenches. “He’s starting a war.”
“To silence you,” Soren says. “To keep the Codex buried. To maintain control.”
I look at Kaelen. His storm-silver eyes are gold now, feral, *hunting*. But beneath the fury, I see it—fear. Not for himself. For *me*.
“We can’t stay here,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “We fight. Or we run.”
“And if we run?”
“We lose everything. The Codex. The truth. Your mother’s name.”
“And if we fight?”
“We might die.”
I step forward, pressing my palm to his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath my fingers. “Then we die together.”
He stares at me. And then, slowly, he smiles. Not cold. Not predatory.
Dangerous.
“I like the way you think, *wife*.”
Soren tosses us weapons—daggers, throwing stars, a short blade for me, a heavy war-knife for Kaelen. We dress fast, silent, efficient, the urgency of the moment stripping away everything but survival. The bond hums between us, not with heat, not with hunger, but with *purpose*.
“The Archives,” I say, strapping the dagger to my thigh. “The scroll I took—*Fated Bond Protocol*. It mentioned a hidden chamber. One only Moonblood magic can open.”
Kaelen nods. “If the Codex is hidden, that’s where it’ll be.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then we burn the Archives down and take the ashes with us.”
Soren moves to the door, peering into the hall. “Guards are already in position. They’ll be here in minutes.”
Kaelen turns to me. “Ready?”
I meet his gaze. Not with fear. Not with doubt.
With fire.
“Always.”
He grabs my hand—firm, unrelenting—and pulls me into the hall.
The fortress is alive with chaos—shouts, footsteps, the clash of steel, the flare of magic. Werewolves in full shift race through the corridors, fangs bared, eyes gold. Vampires move like shadows, daggers in hand, fangs extended. Fae glide through the air, glamours shifting, weapons glowing with ancient power.
And in the center of it all—Malrik.
Standing at the head of the main hall, dressed in blood-red silk, his black eyes scanning the chaos, his lips curled in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He sees us. Of course he does. And his smile widens.
“There they are,” he says, voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “The traitor and her puppet. The Moonblood whore and the weakling who let her bind him.”
Kaelen growls—low, involuntary—and his claws extend, embedding in the stone as he fights the urge to charge.
“Don’t,” I whisper, gripping his hand. “He wants you to lose control. He wants you to prove he’s right.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on his father, his body coiled, *ready*.
And then—
Mira steps out from behind him.
Dressed in full fae battle regalia, her hair bound tight, her eyes sharp with triumph. In her hand—a vial of dark liquid. Blood.
My blood.
“She’s mine,” Malrik says, holding up the vial. “Traced by blood. Confirmed by magic. The last Moonblood heir. And she will die by dawn.”
Kaelen’s hand tightens around mine. “Run,” he murmurs. “I’ll hold them.”
“No.” I step forward, my voice loud, clear, cutting through the chaos. “You want me? Then come and take me. But know this—” I turn to the assembled enforcers, to the Fang, to the Claw, to the Tribunal. “The Blood Codex is real. And it names the *real* traitor. Not my mother. Not me.”
I point at Malrik.
“*Him*.”
The hall erupts.
Shouts. Gasps. The scrape of steel.
Malrik’s smile doesn’t waver. “Lies,” he says. “All lies. The Codex is sealed. Buried. Lost. And you—” He steps forward, his voice dropping to a whisper only we can hear. “You’re a dead woman walking.”
Kaelen steps in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Touch her,” he growls, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”
“You’d kill your own father?” Malrik asks, voice dripping with mockery.
“For her?” Kaelen says, turning his head just enough to look at me. “In a heartbeat.”
And just like that, the line is drawn.
Father against son.
Legacy against love.
And me—Brielle Moonblood—at the center of it all.
Not a pawn.
Not a weapon.
Not a prisoner.
A queen.
And as the first enforcer lunges, as the battle erupts around us, as the fortress shakes with the clash of steel and the roar of magic, I do something I haven’t done in twelve years.
I smile.
Because I’m not alone.
And I’m not afraid.
And if this is the end?
Then let it burn.