The fortress is a warzone.
Not the controlled chaos of training, not the hushed tension of political maneuvering—but raw, unfiltered violence. Steel clashes against steel. Magic flares in pulses of crimson and silver. Werewolves shift mid-sprint, fangs bared, eyes gold with fury. Vampires move like shadows, silent and lethal, their daggers finding throats before the scream can form. Fae glide through the air, glamours shifting, their weapons humming with ancient power.
And in the center of it all—Brielle.
She fights like a storm given form—her dagger flashing, her magic flaring in bursts of moonfire, her voice sharp with command. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t *break*.
And gods help me, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
We move side by side—back to back, our bodies synchronized, our bond humming with purpose. She’s wounded—her shoulder bleeding where an enforcer’s blade grazed her—but she doesn’t slow. Doesn’t complain. Just presses forward, her winter-sky eyes locked on Malrik, on Mira, on the vial of her blood like it’s the only thing keeping her from burning the world down.
And I let her.
Because if she wants to burn it down, I’ll stand beside her.
Because if she wants to rule the ashes, I’ll kneel at her feet.
Because if she wants *me*—
I’m already hers.
We cut through the main hall—Soren at our flank, silent and deadly, his daggers flashing as he takes down any who get too close. The Fang loyalists hesitate—some fight, some falter, their eyes flicking between me and Brielle, between blood and bond, between duty and truth.
And then—
Malrik moves.
Not toward us.
Toward the dais.
He raises his hand—black energy crackling at his fingertips—and the air *shudders*. The sigils on the floor ignite—crimson, pulsing, *alive*—and the ground beneath us splits. Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
A barrier.
Not of steel. Not of magic.
Of *sound*.
A wall of screaming energy—voices layered, endless, *familiar*—rises between us and the dais, separating Brielle and me, Soren and the others. I roar—low, guttural—and lunge forward, but the sound *tears* through me, not just my ears, but my *mind*—memories flashing: my father’s cold commands, my mother’s whispered warnings, the night she vanished, the day I took the Alpha mark, the first time I saw Brielle, the first time I touched her, the first time I let myself *feel*.
And then—
Brielle.
Her voice.
Not real. Not present.
But *amplified*—twisted, warped—screaming in my head: You don’t love me. You’re using me. You’re just like him. You’ll let me die. You’ll let them take everything.
I stagger. Fall to one knee. My claws dig into the stone, my fangs bared, my body trembling.
“No,” I growl. “That’s not her.”
But the doubt is there. The fear. The *weakness*.
And Malrik knows it.
He stands on the dais, untouched, unharmed, his black eyes gleaming with triumph. “You see?” he calls, his voice cutting through the scream. “The bond is fragile. The heart is weak. And love—” He smiles. “—is the easiest chain to break.”
I don’t answer.
Just rise.
Because he’s wrong.
Because love isn’t a chain.
It’s a *weapon*.
I turn—ignoring the barrier, ignoring the voices, ignoring the pain—and sprint toward the Archives. Not the main entrance. Not the front. The *back*—the hidden passage, the Chamber of Echoes, the tomb beneath the pedestal. If we can’t fight through, we’ll fight *around*.
Soren appears beside me—silent, fast, his dark eyes sharp. “She’s not on the dais,” he says, voice low. “She’s gone.”
My blood runs cold. “Where?”
“Malrik’s men took her. Toward the Moonspire. They’re moving fast.”
I don’t hesitate. Don’t think.
Just *run*.
We cut through the fortress—down corridors, through secret passages, past guards who don’t interfere, who look away, who know the truth but choose silence. The bond hums beneath my skin—faint, distant, but *there*. I can feel her. Not her voice. Not her magic. Her *presence*. Her *fear*. Her *rage*.
And it’s enough.
We reach the Moonspire—its spires piercing the night sky, its halls lit with cold silver light. The entrance is guarded—vampires, werewolves, fae—but they’re not expecting an attack from *inside*. Soren moves first—fast, silent, his daggers finding throats before they can scream. I follow—brutal, precise, *feral*—my war-knife flashing, my claws tearing through flesh, my fangs sinking into bone.
And then—
Her cell.
Dark. Cold. Iron bars. And inside—
Brielle.
She’s on her knees, her back against the wall, her hands bound, her gown torn, her face streaked with blood and sweat. But her eyes—gods, her *eyes*—are alive. Burning. *Furious*.
She sees me. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak.
Just *nods*.
And I know—she’s been waiting.
I don’t waste time. My claws slice through the iron bars like paper. I step inside, my war-knife in hand, my body caging hers. “You’re not dying in a cell,” I growl.
She lifts her chin. “And you’re not dying in a torture chamber.”
My chest tightens. Not from the wound on my arm. Not from the blood on my face.
From the truth in her voice. From the way she looks at me—not with pity. Not with fear. With *pride*.
“We’re leaving,” I say, slicing through her bonds.
“Together,” she says, rising.
“Always.”
Soren moves to the door, peering into the hall. “Guards are coming. We need to move. Now.”
I grab her hand—firm, unrelenting. “Ready?”
She meets my gaze. Not with fear. Not with doubt.
With fire.
“Always.”
We run.
Through the Moonspire. Through the fortress. Past enforcers, past loyalists, past lies. We fight—side by side, back to back, our movements synchronized, our bond humming with purpose. She’s weak. I’m 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,” Brielle says, stepping forward.
I grab her 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.”
She looks at me. Her winter-sky eyes are dark, her jaw clenched, her body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—fear. Not for herself. For *me*.
And then—
She steps forward.
Her hand closes around the Codex.
The moment she touches it, the sigils flare—silver fire spiraling outward, racing up her arm, through her chest, into her core. Pain—sharp, blinding—tears through her, and she cries out, her body arching, her magic surging in response.
And then—
It stops.
The pain fades.
The fire dims.
And she knows—
It’s real.
It’s *ours*.
“Let’s go,” she says, clutching the Codex to her chest.
I don’t argue. Just grab her hand—firm, unrelenting—and pull her 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.”
I growl—low, involuntary—and my claws extend, embedding in the stone as I fight the urge to charge.
“Don’t,” Brielle whispers, gripping my hand. “He wants you to lose control. He wants you to prove he’s right.”
I don’t answer. Just keep my eyes on my father, my 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.
Her 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.”
My hand tightens around Brielle’s. “Run,” I murmur. “I’ll hold them.”
“No.” She steps forward, her voice loud, clear, cutting through the chaos. “You want me? Then come and take me. But know this—” She turns 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.”
She points 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.”
I step in front of her, shielding her with my body. “Touch her,” I growl, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”
“You’d kill your own father?” Malrik asks, voice dripping with mockery.
“For her?” I say, turning my head just enough to look at her. “In a heartbeat.”
And just like that, the line is drawn.
Father against son.
Legacy against love.
And her—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.
We fight—side by side, back to back, our movements synchronized, our bond humming with purpose. Brielle is a storm—her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire, her dagger flashing, her voice sharp with command. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t *break*.
And I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
We cut through the main hall—Soren at our flank, silent and deadly, his daggers flashing as he takes down any who get too close. The Fang loyalists hesitate—some fight, some falter, their eyes flicking between me and Brielle, between blood and bond, between duty and truth.
And then—
Malrik moves.
Not toward us.
Toward the dais.
He raises his hand—black energy crackling at his fingertips—and the air *shudders*. The sigils on the floor ignite—crimson, pulsing, *alive*—and the ground beneath us splits. Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
A barrier.
Not of steel. Not of magic.
Of *sound*.
A wall of screaming energy—voices layered, endless, *familiar*—rises between us and the dais, separating Brielle and me, Soren and the others. I roar—low, guttural—and lunge forward, but the sound *tears* through me, not just my ears, but my *mind*—memories flashing: my father’s cold commands, my mother’s whispered warnings, the night she vanished, the day I took the Alpha mark, the first time I saw Brielle, the first time I touched her, the first time I let myself *feel*.
And then—
Brielle.
Her voice.
Not real. Not present.
But *amplified*—twisted, warped—screaming in my head: You don’t love me. You’re using me. You’re just like him. You’ll let me die. You’ll let them take everything.
I stagger. Fall to one knee. My claws dig into the stone, my fangs bared, my body trembling.
“No,” I growl. “That’s not her.”
But the doubt is there. The fear. The *weakness*.
And Malrik knows it.
He stands on the dais, untouched, unharmed, his black eyes gleaming with triumph. “You see?” he calls, his voice cutting through the scream. “The bond is fragile. The heart is weak. And love—” He smiles. “—is the easiest chain to break.”
I don’t answer.
Just rise.
Because he’s wrong.
Because love isn’t a chain.
It’s a *weapon*.
I turn—ignoring the barrier, ignoring the voices, ignoring the pain—and sprint toward the Archives. Not the main entrance. Not the front. The *back*—the hidden passage, the Chamber of Echoes, the tomb beneath the pedestal. If we can’t fight through, we’ll fight *around*.
Soren appears beside me—silent, fast, his dark eyes sharp. “She’s not on the dais,” he says, voice low. “She’s gone.”
My blood runs cold. “Where?”
“Malrik’s men took her. Toward the Moonspire. They’re moving fast.”
I don’t hesitate. Don’t think.
Just *run*.
We cut through the fortress—down corridors, through secret passages, past guards who don’t interfere, who look away, who know the truth but choose silence. The bond hums beneath my skin—faint, distant, but *there*. I can feel her. Not her voice. Not her magic. Her *presence*. Her *fear*. Her *rage*.
And it’s enough.
We reach the Moonspire—its spires piercing the night sky, its halls lit with cold silver light. The entrance is guarded—vampires, werewolves, fae—but they’re not expecting an attack from *inside*. Soren moves first—fast, silent, his daggers finding throats before they can scream. I follow—brutal, precise, *feral*—my war-knife flashing, my claws tearing through flesh, my fangs sinking into bone.
And then—
Her cell.
Dark. Cold. Iron bars. And inside—
Brielle.
She’s on her knees, her back against the wall, her hands bound, her gown torn, her face streaked with blood and sweat. But her eyes—gods, her *eyes*—are alive. Burning. *Furious*.
She sees me. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak.
Just *nods*.
And I know—she’s been waiting.
I don’t waste time. My claws slice through the iron bars like paper. I step inside, my war-knife in hand, my body caging hers. “You’re not dying in a cell,” I growl.
She lifts her chin. “And you’re not dying in a torture chamber.”
My chest tightens. Not from the wound on my arm. Not from the blood on my face.
From the truth in her voice. From the way she looks at me—not with pity. Not with fear. With *pride*.
“We’re leaving,” I say, slicing through her bonds.
“Together,” she says, rising.
“Always.”
Soren moves to the door, peering into the hall. “Guards are coming. We need to move. Now.”
I grab her hand—firm, unrelenting. “Ready?”
She meets my gaze. Not with fear. Not with doubt.
With fire.
“Always.”
We run.
Through the Moonspire. Through the fortress. Past enforcers, past loyalists, past lies. We fight—side by side, back to back, our movements synchronized, our bond humming with purpose. She’s weak. I’m 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,” Brielle says, stepping forward.
I grab her 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.”
She looks at me. Her winter-sky eyes are dark, her jaw clenched, her body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—fear. Not for herself. For *me*.
And then—
She steps forward.
Her hand closes around the Codex.
The moment she touches it, the sigils flare—silver fire spiraling outward, racing up her arm, through her chest, into her core. Pain—sharp, blinding—tears through her, and she cries out, her body arching, her magic surging in response.
And then—
It stops.
The pain fades.
The fire dims.
And she knows—
It’s real.
It’s *ours*.
“Let’s go,” she says, clutching the Codex to her chest.
I don’t argue. Just grab her hand—firm, unrelenting—and pull her 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.”
I growl—low, involuntary—and my claws extend, embedding in the stone as I fight the urge to charge.
“Don’t,” Brielle whispers, gripping my hand. “He wants you to lose control. He wants you to prove he’s right.”
I don’t answer. Just keep my eyes on my father, my 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.
Her 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.”
My hand tightens around Brielle’s. “Run,” I murmur. “I’ll hold them.”
“No.” She steps forward, her voice loud, clear, cutting through the chaos. “You want me? Then come and take me. But know this—” She turns 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.”
She points 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.”
I step in front of her, shielding her with my body. “Touch her,” I growl, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”
“You’d kill your own father?” Malrik asks, voice dripping with mockery.
“For her?” I say, turning my head just enough to look at her. “In a heartbeat.”
And just like that, the line is drawn.
Father against son.
Legacy against love.
And her—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.