The hidden passage beneath the pedestal yawns like a wound in the earth—dark, slick with frost, descending into a silence so deep it hums. The air that spills out is colder than the Chamber of Echoes, thick with the scent of old blood and something else—something metallic, ancient, *wrong*. Not magic. Not decay. Anticipation.
Kaelen stands before it, his storm-silver eyes narrowed, his body coiled like a predator. One hand rests on the hilt of his war-knife, the other reaches back for mine. I take it without hesitation. His fingers are warm, calloused, unrelenting—anchoring me, grounding me, even as the runes on my spine pulse with warning.
“You don’t have to go down there,” he murmurs, not turning. “We have the Codex. The truth. We can end this now.”
“And let whatever’s down there stay hidden?” I step beside him, my dagger already in hand. “No. If Malrik buried something beneath the Archives, it’s because he didn’t want it found. And that means it’s dangerous.”
He glances at me. “And if it’s a trap?”
“Then we spring it together.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips—sharp, dangerous, *proud*. “Always.”
We descend.
The steps are carved from black stone, uneven, slick with ice. The walls press in, narrowing as we go, the only light coming from the faint glow of my runes. Kaelen moves first—slow, deliberate, every sense stretched. I follow close behind, my breath steady, my pulse a slow drum beneath my skin. The bond hums between us, low and steady, a constant reminder of his presence, his heat, his *life*.
And then—
The passage opens.
Not into a chamber. Not into a vault.
Into a tomb.
Vast. Silent. A cathedral of stone, its dome lost in shadow, its walls lined with sarcophagi—black, unmarked, their surfaces etched with sigils I don’t recognize. The air is thick, heavy, *watchful*. And in the center—
A dais.
And on it—
A coffin.
Not stone. Not wood.
Obsidian. Sealed with silver chains. And at its foot—
A name.
Malrik Duskbane.
My breath stills.
“He’s not dead,” Kaelen says, voice low, rough. “This is a decoy. A ward. A prison.”
“Or a warning.” I step forward, my dagger raised. “Why seal your own name in a tomb beneath the Archives?”
“Because he’s afraid of what’s inside.”
And then—
A sound.
Not from the coffin.
From the sarcophagi.
Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
The lids begin to shift.
One by one, the sarcophagi open—slow, deliberate, like something waking. And from within—
They rise.
Not corpses. Not ghosts.
Warriors.
Werewolves. Vampires. Fae. All clad in ancient armor, their eyes hollow, their movements stiff, their skin gray with death. But they breathe. They move. They live—in some twisted, cursed sense of the word.
“Necromancy,” I whisper. “He’s been raising the dead.”
“Not just raising.” Kaelen steps in front of me, his war-knife drawn. “Binding. Controlling. Using their magic, their strength, their loyalty.”
And then—
The coffin trembles.
The chains rattle. The sigils flare—crimson, then black, then nothing. And then—
The lid slides open.
Not with a groan. Not with a crash.
With a hiss.
And from within—
She rises.
Not Malrik.
Not a warrior.
A woman.
Fae. Tall. Pale. Her hair silver-white, her eyes black as void, her gown flowing like smoke. In her hand—a staff of bone, crowned with a pulsing red crystal.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she says, her voice echoing, layered, like a chorus of the dead. “This place is not for the living.”
“Who are you?” I demand, stepping forward.
She smiles. Not warm. Not kind. Knowing.
“I am Veyra. Keeper of the Tomb. Guardian of the Forgotten. And you—” Her black eyes lock onto me. “You are the last Moonblood heir. The one who should have died with her mother.”
My blood runs cold.
“You knew her.”
“I did.” Her smile fades. “I warned her. Told her not to trust the Council. Not to believe their lies. But she wouldn’t listen. And so she burned.”
“And you did nothing.”
“I was bound,” she says, lifting her staff. “By oath. By blood. By magic. I could not interfere. But I remember. And I wait. And now—” She turns to Kaelen. “You. Son of Malrik. Heir of the Fang. You carry his blood, his power, his curse.”
Kaelen doesn’t flinch. “And you serve him.”
“I serve balance,” she says. “And you two—bound by fated bond, driven by vengeance and duty—threaten it. You seek the truth. But the truth will destroy you.”
“Then let it.” I raise my dagger. “Because I’d rather burn than live in lies.”
She smiles. Again.
And then—
The warriors move.
Not toward me.
Toward Kaelen.
They swarm him—fast, silent, relentless. He fights—brutal, precise, feral—his war-knife flashing, his claws tearing through flesh, his fangs sinking into throats. But there are too many. And they don’t feel pain. Don’t fear death. They just come.
“Brielle—run!” he roars, blood on his face, his tunic torn.
I don’t.
I attack.
My dagger flashes—once, twice, three times—each strike precise, calculated, lethal. I don’t fight like a warrior. I fight like a storm—twisting, evading, striking from blind spots, using the bond to feel their movements before they happen. But they’re fast. Strong. And they keep coming.
And then—
Veyra raises her staff.
The air thickens. The runes on my spine flare—not with moonfire, but with resistance. I feel it—a pull, a command—trying to force me to my knees, to still my blood, to silence my magic.
“You cannot win,” she says, her voice echoing. “You are bound by fate. By blood. By love. And love is the weakest chain of all.”
“Then I’ll break it.”
I lunge.
Not at her.
At the staff.
My dagger slices through the air—fast, true—and strikes the crystal.
It shatters.
Not with a sound. With a scream—a chorus of the dead, rising, wailing, breaking. The warriors freeze. Stagger. Fall. The magic in the chamber shudders—the sigils flicker, the chains rattle, the coffin seals itself.
And Veyra—
She screams.
Not in pain.
In rage.
Her hands fly up, black energy crackling at her fingertips. “You will pay for this!”
And then—
Kaelen is on her.
His war-knife plunges into her chest—once, twice, again—but she doesn’t fall. Just laughs—cold, hollow, endless.
“You cannot kill me,” she says, blood on her lips. “I am already dead.”
And then—
She explodes.
Not her body.
The magic.
A wave of black energy rips through the chamber—shattering the sarcophagi, cracking the walls, knocking us both off our feet. I hit the ground hard, my dagger flying from my hand, my head spinning. Kaelen lands beside me, blood on his face, his war-knife gone.
And then—
Chains.
Not from the coffin.
From the walls.
They snake out—black iron, glowing with cursed sigils—and wrap around us—my wrists, my ankles, my waist—yanking me back, pinning me to the stone. Kaelen roars, fighting, tearing at them, but they’re too strong. Too alive.
And then—
Darkness.
Not from the tomb.
From above.
Figures descend—silent, swift, their faces hidden beneath hoods. Malrik’s enforcers. They move like shadows, their daggers drawn, their eyes cold.
One steps forward—tall, broad, his voice rough. “Bind them. Separate them. The Alpha goes to the Blood Tribunal. The Moonblood goes to the Moonspire.”
“No!” I scream, thrashing. “You touch him, and I’ll burn you all!”
They don’t listen.
They never do.
They drag Kaelen away—his body straining, his voice raw with fury. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t call my name. Just roars—a sound of pure, unrelenting rage.
And then—
They come for me.
Two of them—vampires, their fangs extended, their hands cold. They yank me to my feet, the chains still binding me, my magic suppressed, my body weak.
“You’ll die in the purification chamber,” one hisses. “Like your mother.”
I don’t answer.
Just smile.
Because they don’t know.
They don’t see.
The runes on my spine—though dim—are still alive.
And so am I.
They drag me through the fortress—down corridors, through secret passages, past guards who look away, who don’t interfere. I don’t fight. Don’t scream. Just watch. Memorize. Because if I’m going to die, I’ll make sure they burn with me.
And then—
We reach the Moonspire.
Not the grand hall. Not the throne room.
A cell.
Dark. Cold. Stone walls, iron bars, no windows. They throw me inside, the chains still binding me, my body aching. The door slams shut. The lock clicks.
And then—
Alone.
Not for long.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
And then—
Mira.
She steps into the torchlight, her silver eyes gleaming, her lips painted the color of fresh blood. She’s not in battle regalia. Not in silk. In a gown of black lace, her hair loose, her smile sharp.
“Hello, mate,” she purrs, stepping closer. “Did you miss me?”
“I’d rather die than speak to you,” I say, my voice low, rough.
She laughs. “Oh, you will. But not yet. Malrik wants you alive. For now.”
“And Kaelen?”
“Oh, he’s being… entertained.” She leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “Did you know? The Blood Tribunal has a special chamber for traitors. One where they use the bond to torture them. To make them scream for their mate. To make them beg.”
My blood runs cold.
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She steps back, smiling. “Or do you just not want to believe it? That the man who claims to love you—protect you—is being broken, one scream at a time, while you sit here, helpless?”
“He won’t break.”
“And if he does?” She turns, walking to the door. “Then you’ll have no one. No mission. No love. No hope.”
And then—
She’s gone.
The door slams shut.
And I’m alone.
But not for long.
Because the runes on my spine—though dim—are still alive.
And so am I.
I press my forehead to the stone, breathing through the pain, the fear, the rage. I don’t cry. Don’t scream. Just focus.
The bond.
It’s faint. Distant. But it’s there.
And so is he.
And if he’s being tortured—
Then I’ll burn this place down to save him.
And then—
A sound.
Not from the door.
From the wall.
Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
A hand.
Not Mira’s.
Not an enforcer’s.
Kaelen’s.
He’s here.
And he’s not alone.
The wall cracks. Shatters. And then—
He steps through.
Bloodied. Bruised. His tunic torn, his war-knife in hand, his storm-silver eyes blazing with fury. Behind him—Soren, his dark eyes sharp, his daggers drawn.
“You’re late,” I say, not moving.
He doesn’t smile. Just steps forward, his hands going to the chains, his claws slicing through the iron like paper. “You’re not dying in a cell.”
“And you’re not dying in a torture chamber.” I stand, my body aching, my magic still weak. “We’re leaving. Together.”
“Always.”
Soren moves to the door, peering into the hall. “Guards are coming. We need to move. Now.”
Kaelen grabs my hand—firm, unrelenting. “Ready?”
I meet his gaze. Not with fear. Not with doubt.
With fire.
“Always.”
We run.
Through the Moonspire. Through the fortress. Past guards, past enforcers, past lies. We fight—side by side, back to back, our movements synchronized, our bond humming with purpose. I’m weak. He’s injured. But we’re alive.
And we’re not stopping.
And then—
We reach the Archives.
The hidden passage is still open. The Chamber of Echoes still stands. And in the center—
The Blood Codex.
Untouched. Waiting.
“We can’t stay,” Soren says, scanning the hall. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Then we take it and go,” I say, stepping forward.
Kaelen grabs my wrist. “It’s a trap. They want us to take it. To carry it. To be seen with it.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then the truth dies with us.”
I look at him. His storm-silver eyes are dark, his jaw clenched, his body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—fear. Not for himself. For me.
And then—
I step forward.
My hand closes around the Codex.
The moment I touch it, the sigils flare—silver fire spiraling outward, racing up my arm, through my chest, into my core. Pain—sharp, blinding—tears through me, and I cry out, my body arching, my magic surging in response.
And then—
It stops.
The pain fades.
The fire dims.
And I know—
It’s real.
It’s ours.
“Let’s go,” I say, clutching the Codex to my chest.
Kaelen doesn’t argue. Just 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.