The Frost Call still echoes through the fortress—sharp, ancient, a warning carved into the wind—but the attack never comes.
Not yet.
Malrik’s enforcers are out there. I can feel them. Smell them. Taste the iron of their blood on the air. But they’re waiting. Watching. Testing. And I know why.
They want us afraid.
They want us scattered. Divided. Weak.
And they’ll get none of that.
I stand at the edge of the training grounds, my war-knife in hand, the cold bite of steel grounding me. The sky is pale with dawn, the stone slick with frost, the scent of pine and blood thick in the air. Around me, the Fang train—werewolves in human form, their eyes gold, their movements sharp, their loyalty still uncertain. They watch me. Wait for me to falter. To break. To prove I’m not worthy of the Alpha mark.
And I let them.
Because when they see her, they’ll understand.
She walks into the courtyard like a storm—Brielle, her dark hair bound tight, her body wrapped in black leather that hugs every curve, her winter-sky eyes sharp with purpose. No gown. No silk. No illusion of diplomacy. Just strength. Power. *Truth*.
And the moment she steps onto the frost-covered stone, the bond *sings*.
Not with heat. Not with lust.
With *recognition*.
She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just strides to the center of the yard, where the training dummies stand—wooden figures carved to mimic enemy forms, their heads marked with sigils of the Southern Claw, the Blood Tribunal, the Moonspire.
And then—
She draws her dagger.
Not mine. Not a gift. Hers. The blade she carried into this fortress, hidden in her bodice, forged from Moonblood steel, its edge etched with runes that pulse faintly in the dawn light.
The Fang fall silent.
Even the most seasoned warriors pause, their weapons lowering, their breaths catching. They’ve seen her—torn gown, blood on her skin, the way I tasted her in front of them all—but they haven’t *seen* her.
Not like this.
Not as a fighter.
Not as a threat.
She circles the dummies—slow, deliberate, her boots silent on the frost. And then—
She moves.
Not fast. Not reckless.
Perfect.
Her dagger flashes—once, twice, three times—each strike precise, calculated, *lethal*. The first dummy’s head splits clean down the middle, the sigil of the Southern Claw shattered. The second takes a slash across the throat, the third a stab through the heart. And then—
She spins.
Not to rest. Not to boast.
To *challenge*.
Her winter-sky eyes lock onto the nearest warrior—a young male, barely twenty, his muscles taut, his pride high. He’s been watching her since she entered, his gaze lingering, his mouth twisted in a smirk.
“You want to test me?” she asks, voice low, rough. “Then step up.”
He hesitates. Looks to me.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just watch.
And then—
He draws his sword.
It’s a mistake.
He’s strong. Fast. Trained. But he fights like a brute—swinging wide, relying on force, telegraphing every move. And Brielle? She’s a blade in human form. She doesn’t block. Doesn’t parry. She *evades*, her body twisting, slipping through his strikes like smoke, her dagger a silver flash in the dawn.
And then—
She disarms him.
Not with magic. Not with the bond.
With skill.
Her foot sweeps his leg, her elbow drives into his ribs, and her dagger presses to his throat—just hard enough to draw blood—before he even hits the ground.
“Yield,” she says.
He swallows. Nods.
She steps back, offering him a hand. He doesn’t take it. Just scrambles to his feet, humiliation burning in his eyes.
And then—
Another steps forward.
Then another.
And another.
One by one, the Fang challenge her—male, female, seasoned, young—and one by one, she defeats them. Not with cruelty. Not with arrogance. But with *precision*. With *control*. With the kind of skill that doesn’t come from privilege or birthright.
It comes from survival.
From blood.
From fire.
And I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
When the last warrior yields—his sword at her feet, his head bowed—she doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t demand recognition. Just wipes her blade clean, sheathes it, and turns to me.
“Satisfied?” she asks, voice sharp.
“No.” I step forward, my war-knife still in hand. “You left your left side open during the third spin. And you hesitated before the disarming strike. If he’d been faster, you’d be bleeding.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just lifts her chin. “Then show me how to do it right.”
And just like that, the air shifts.
Not with tension. Not with hostility.
With *danger*.
Because she’s not just challenging the Fang.
She’s challenging *me*.
And I won’t back down.
I close the distance between us—slow, deliberate, every step echoing in the sudden hush. The Fang retreat, forming a circle, their breaths shallow, their eyes wide. They know what’s coming. They’ve seen me fight. They’ve seen me kill. But they’ve never seen me fight *her*.
And neither have I.
“Guard up,” I say, voice low.
She does—her dagger in her right hand, her left arm raised, her body coiled, ready. Her chest rises and falls with steady breaths, her eyes locked on mine. Not afraid. Not angry.
Alive.
I move first—fast, brutal, testing her reflexes. My war-knife slices through the air, not to kill, not to wound, but to *push*. And she meets me—parrying, evading, countering—her movements fluid, precise, *fierce*.
Again. Again. Again.
Our blades clash—steel on steel, sparks flying, the sound sharp as a whip. She’s fast. Faster than I expected. But I’m stronger. Older. More experienced. And when I feint left and strike right, my blade knocks hers from her hand, sending it skittering across the frost.
She doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t retreat.
She *attacks*.
Her body flies at me—fists, elbows, knees—each strike aimed to disable, not destroy. I block most. But one lands—a sharp jab to my ribs—and I grunt, stumbling back.
And then—
She’s on me.
Not with a weapon. Not with magic.
With *hunger*.
Her hands fly to my tunic, gripping the fabric, pulling me down, her mouth crashing into mine—hard, deep, *feral*. I groan—low, involuntary—and my arms lock around her, lifting her off the ground, pressing her back against the training post as I take more, deeper, *harder*, until we’re both breathless, trembling, lost in the fire.
And then—
I break it.
Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
I pull back, just enough to breathe, to think, to *not* lose myself. Her lips are swollen, her breath ragged, her eyes wide with something I can’t name—desire, yes, but also *defiance*.
“That wasn’t part of the lesson,” I growl.
“Neither was disarming me,” she counters, her voice rough. “You said I left my left side open. So I closed it.”
“With a kiss?”
“With *distraction*.” She grins—sharp, dangerous. “And it worked.”
I don’t answer. Just step back, sheathing my knife. The Fang are silent. Watching. Waiting.
And then—
I turn to them.
“You see her?” I ask, voice loud, cutting through the stillness. “That’s your Alpha’s mate. That’s the woman who stood beside me in battle. Who faced Malrik’s enforcers. Who fought for this fortress when others would’ve run.”
I pause. Let it sink in.
“And if any of you so much as *look* at her wrong—if you question her loyalty, her strength, her *right* to stand at my side—I’ll deal with you myself. Is that clear?”
No one speaks.
But no one looks away.
And that’s enough.
I turn back to her. She’s watching me—her winter-sky eyes sharp, her body still humming with the aftermath of the fight, the kiss, the bond. And then—
She steps forward.
Not to challenge. Not to provoke.
To *thank*.
Her hand lifts, brushes my jaw, light, tentative, like she’s testing the truth of me. And then she pulls me down, her lips brushing mine—soft, slow, *real*—before stepping back.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she murmurs.
“Yes, I did.” I cup her face, my thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. “You’re not just my mate. You’re my *equal*. And I won’t let them forget it.”
She doesn’t answer. Just nods, her eyes bright with something I can’t name—pride, maybe. Trust. *Love*.
And then—
She turns, walks to the edge of the yard, retrieves her dagger, and sheathes it.
“I’m going to the Archives,” she says, not looking back. “To prepare for the Chamber of Echoes.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You can’t. The wards will kill you.”
“Then I’ll wait outside. Guard the entrance. Fight off anyone who tries to stop you.”
She turns. “And if I fail?”
“You won’t.”
“And if I do?”
I step closer, caging her in, my hands on either side of her head, braced against the stone wall. “Then I’ll burn the fortress to the ground until I find you. And I’ll drag you out myself.”
Her breath hitches. Not from fear. From the truth in my voice. From the way my eyes darken, from the way my body leans into hers, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
“You’d really do that?” she whispers. “Risk your rank? Your pack? Your life?”
“I already have.” I press my forehead to hers. “The moment I let you live. The moment I let the bond take hold. The moment I chose you over the Council’s orders.”
“And if I asked you to prove it?”
“I already did.” My hand lifts, brushes her cheek, my thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. “I’m standing here. Telling you the truth. Letting you see me break. What more do you want?”
Her chest tightens. Not from anger.
From the truth in my eyes. From the way my voice trembles, just slightly. From the way my body leans into hers, like I’m *needing* this as much as she is.
And then—
She kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
Desperate.
Hard. Deep. *Feral*. Her hands fly to my hair, pulling me closer, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that matches my own. I groan—low, rough, guttural—and my arms lock around her, lifting her off the ground, pressing her back against the wall as I take more, deeper, *harder*, until we’re both breathless, trembling, lost in the heat of it.
And then—
I let go.
Not of her.
Of the mission.
Of the vengeance.
Of the armor.
For one moment, one breath, one *eternity*, I stop fighting. Stop calculating. Stop pretending I don’t want this. Don’t need this. Don’t *love* this.
And I kiss her like I’m dying.
Like I’m burning.
Like I’m *alive*.
Her hands slide under my tunic, gripping my hips, pulling me against her, her body arching into mine, *welcoming* me. The bond roars between us, not with fire, not with lust, but with something deeper. Something *real*.
And then—
Tears.
Hot. Silent. *Unstoppable*.
They spill down my cheeks, soaking into her skin, and she feels them. Of course she does. She pulls back, just enough to look at me, her winter-sky eyes wide, her breath ragged.
“Kaelen—”
“Don’t,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers. “Don’t say anything. Just… just hold me.”
And she does.
She turns, guides me to the bench beneath the black roses, lays me down with a tenderness that shatters me, and then she’s there—above me, around me, *in* me—not with her body, not yet, but with her presence, her heat, her scent, her hands cradling my face as I cry. Not for my father. Not for the lies. Not for the pain.
For *her*.
For the woman who could’ve let me die in the Archives. Who could’ve handed me over to the Council. Who could’ve used me and discarded me like every other man in my life.
But didn’t.
Who saved me. Protected me. *Chose* me.
And when the tears slow, when my breath evens, when my body stops trembling, she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t demand. Just kisses me—soft, slow, *real*—her lips brushing mine, her thumb wiping away the last traces of salt, her voice a whisper against my skin.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For everything. For your father. For the Council. For making you fight so hard to believe me.”
“You didn’t make me,” I whisper. “I chose to.”
She smiles. Small. Real. “Then choose again.”
“What?”
“Choose me. Not because of the bond. Not because of the mission. Not because you have to. But because you *want* to.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From the truth in her words.
And then—
I do.
I reach up, cup her face, and pull her down into a kiss that’s not desperate. Not angry. Not afraid.
Hopeful.
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the Council accepts us. Not because Mira’s lies are exposed. Not because the Blood Codex is found.
Because *I* accept *her*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t just politics.
Maybe it’s *love*.
And then—
A horn sounds.
Not the Frost Call.
The Moonfire Ceremony.
The ritual begins at dusk. The Codex must be claimed before dawn.
She rises first, offering me a hand. I take it, let her pull me up, her grip firm, unrelenting.
“We should go,” she says.
I nod. “Together.”
She smiles. Not cold. Not sharp.
Real.
And as we walk through the fortress, side by side, hand in hand, the whispers rise behind us like smoke.
Did you see that?
He cried.
For her.
He’s not just her mate.
He’s her *queen*.
And for the first time, I don’t care.
Because she’s not just my mate.
She’s my *weakness*.
And my *strength*.
And if Malrik thinks he can use her to break me—
He’s already lost.