The fortress is quiet now—too quiet.
Not the hush of peace. Not the calm after a storm. This is the silence of waiting. Of coiled tension. Of something far worse than war brewing beneath the surface.
We stand in the war room—Brielle, Soren, and I—surrounded by maps etched into black stone, sigils glowing faintly under torchlight, the air thick with the scent of old blood and older magic. The Blood Codex rests on the central pedestal, its crimson leather cover pulsing like a heartbeat, its silver sigils whispering secrets only she can hear. She hasn’t opened it again since the Council Chamber. Not fully. Just enough to confirm—Malrik’s signature is there. The lies are real. The theft of Moonfire magic, the forged oaths, the blood pacts with the Southern Claw—all documented in ink that shifts like living shadow.
And yet.
She won’t read it aloud.
Won’t let me see.
“It’s not just about your father,” she said earlier, her winter-sky eyes dark with something I can’t name. “It’s about *you*. About the way he raised you. About the way he made you believe you had to be him to be strong.”
I didn’t answer.
Because she’s right.
And the truth cuts deeper than any blade.
Now, she paces—her bare feet silent on the stone, her body wrapped in a dark robe, her hair loose, her runes faintly glowing along her spine. She hasn’t slept. Not since the bond sickness. Not since Mira’s lies. Not since the truth in the Codex began to unravel everything I thought I knew.
Soren stands by the door, his arms crossed, his dark eyes scanning the corridor beyond. He hasn’t spoken since we entered. Just watches. Waits. Listens.
And I—
I watch *her*.
The way her fingers brush the hilt of her dagger. The way her breath catches when she passes too close to me. The way her body tenses, just slightly, when the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
She’s not afraid of me.
But she’s afraid of *this*.
Of us.
Of what we’re becoming.
And gods help me, I don’t know how to fix it.
“We should move,” Soren says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is low, rough, the kind of tone he only uses when the danger is real. “The Council session was a disaster. Malrik’s influence is stronger than we thought. The Southern Claw is mobilizing. The Crimson Conclave is whispering about ‘cleansing the bloodlines.’ And Mira—” He pauses. “—she’s not done.”
Brielle stops pacing. Turns. “What about her?”
“She’s meeting with Varn again. In the east garden. Midnight. They think they’re hidden. They’re not.”
I don’t react. Don’t growl. Don’t move.
But my claws extend, just slightly, embedding in the stone beneath my fingers.
Varn.
One of my own. A guard who swore loyalty to the Fang. Who fought beside me in the last border war. Who I trusted.
And now he’s selling secrets to a fae seductress who claims I promised her the Alpha mark.
“You’ve known,” I say, not looking at Soren. “How long?”
“Since the Archives,” he admits. “I saw them together. Heard the whispers. But I needed proof. Needed to know who else was involved.”
“And?”
“Only him. For now.”
“Then we deal with him tonight.”
Brielle steps forward, her eyes sharp. “You’re going to kill him?”
“No.” I finally look at her. “I’m going to make him *talk*. Then I’ll decide.”
She studies me. Then, slowly, she nods. “Good. Because if you kill him without answers, you’re no better than your father.”
The words land like a blade.
Not because they’re cruel.
Because they’re *true*.
And she knows it.
She sees it.
All of it.
And I don’t know whether to hate her for it or love her more.
“Then we go together,” she says, turning to the map. “If Varn’s been feeding Mira information, he might know where Malrik’s storing the stolen Moonfire essence. Where he’s hiding the other prisoners. Where he’s planning his next move.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, stepping closer. “I can handle Varn. You should rest. Recover.”
She turns. Her winter-sky eyes lock onto mine. “I’m not fragile, Kaelen. I’m not broken. And I’m not your prisoner.”
“You’re my *mate*,” I growl, stepping into her space, caging her in. “And I won’t lose you. Not to bond sickness. Not to Mira’s lies. Not to Malrik’s games.”
“And I won’t let you lose yourself,” she whispers, her hand lifting to my chest. “Not to vengeance. Not to duty. Not to the ghost of your father.”
My breath hitches.
Not from anger.
From the truth in her voice. From the way her fingers press against my heart, from the way her body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
And then—
Soren clears his throat.
We both turn.
He’s not smirking. Not judging. Just watching. Waiting.
“They’re moving,” he says. “Varn and Mira. Now.”
I nod. Step back. “Then we move with them.”
We leave the war room—silent, swift, shadows in the dark. The fortress is quieter than usual—no training drills, no council debates, no late-night revelry. Just the low hum of magic, the flicker of torchlight, the occasional whisper from a guard who looks away when we pass.
They’re afraid.
Of Malrik.
Of the Council.
Of *us*.
And they should be.
We descend through the east wing—past the armory, past the barracks, past the gardens where the black roses bloom under moonlight. The air is thick with the scent of lilac—Mira’s perfume. Deceit. Manipulation. And beneath it, the faint copper of blood.
They’re close.
Soren signals—two fingers to his eyes, then a slash across his throat. *I see them. I can end it.*
I shake my head. *Not yet.*
We move closer—silent, careful, using the bond to feel their presence, their fear, their lies. And then—
We see them.
Varn and Mira—standing beneath the arched trellis, their bodies close, their voices low. She’s in silver silk, her hair loose, her lips painted the color of fresh blood. He’s in full guard regalia, his dagger at his belt, his posture tense.
“You’re late,” she says, her voice a purr. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“You’re not the only one with duties,” he mutters. “The Alpha’s suspicious. He’s watching everyone.”
“Let him watch,” she says, stepping closer. “He’s too busy with his *mate* to see what’s really happening.”
“And the Codex?”
“Still sealed. But Malrik has a plan. If the Council doesn’t dissolve the bond by dawn, he’ll activate the tracking spell.”
My blood runs cold.
Brielle’s hand finds mine, her fingers tightening.
“Tracking spell?” Varn asks.
“A blood sigil,” she says. “Embedded in the bond during the ceremony. Malrik thought it would help him control Kaelen. But it works both ways. As long as the bond exists, he can follow their movements. Know their location. Even feel their emotions.”
“And if they break the bond?”
“Then he loses control. But he’s counting on them to stay together. To keep feeding the bond. To keep giving him access.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then he’ll force them. With pain. With fear. With the threat of exile.”
“And Mira?” I whisper, my voice low, deadly. “What’s her role?”
“Distraction,” she says. “Doubt. She’s to keep Brielle off balance. Make her question the bond. Make her question *him*. And when the time comes—” She smiles. “—she’ll be the one to deliver the final blow.”
Varn hesitates. “And if I’m caught?”
“Then you die,” she says, stepping closer. “But if you succeed? Malrik promises you a seat on the Council. Power. Immortality.”
He swallows. Nods.
And then—
We move.
Soren appears behind Varn—fast, silent, his dagger at the man’s throat. I step into the light, my war-knife in hand, my claws extended, my fangs bared. Brielle stays behind me, her magic flaring, her runes glowing along her spine.
Varn freezes. His eyes widen. His breath hitches.
Mira doesn’t flinch. Just smiles. “Alpha. Mate. How… *predictable*.”
“You’re done,” I growl, stepping forward. “No more meetings. No more whispers. No more lies.”
“And if I refuse?” she asks, lifting her chin. “If I tell the Council what I know? About the tracking spell? About your father’s control?”
“Then I’ll make sure you never speak again,” I say, voice quiet. Deadly. “But not before you watch him die.”
She pales. Just slightly. But she recovers fast—too fast. “You won’t kill me. Not in front of witnesses. Not without proof.”
“I don’t need proof,” I say. “I have *truth*.”
And then—
I turn to Varn.
“You swore loyalty to the Fang,” I say, my voice cold. “To me. And yet you sold secrets to *her*.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the ground.
“Why?”
“Because you’re weak,” he mutters. “Because you let a woman bind you. Because you’re not the Alpha your father was.”
My claws dig into the stone. “And if I let you live? What then?”
“I’ll serve you,” he says. “Loyally. Without question.”
“Liar.” I step closer. “You’ll betray me again the moment it benefits you.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just stays silent.
And then—
Brielle steps forward.
Not around me. Not past me.
With me.
She walks up to Varn, her winter-sky eyes sharp, her voice low. “You want power? Immortality? You think Malrik will give you that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“He’ll use you,” she says. “Then discard you. Just like he did my mother. Just like he’s doing to Mira. And when you’re no longer useful?” She leans in. “He’ll kill you. Slowly. Painfully. And no one will mourn you.”
He swallows. His hands tremble.
“But if you help us,” she continues, “if you give us everything—names, plans, locations—we’ll protect you. Give you a new identity. A new life.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then Kaelen will kill you,” she says, not looking at me. “And I won’t stop him.”
Silence.
Then—
“I’ll talk,” he whispers.
I nod. “Soren. Take him to the holding cell. Secure him. And if he tries to run—”
“I’ll cut his legs off,” Soren says, dragging Varn away. “Permanently.”
And then—
It’s just us.
Mira and me.
And Brielle.
She stands between us—her body a wall, her magic flaring, her runes glowing. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.
Just waits.
“You’re not going to kill me,” Mira says, stepping forward. “Because you need me. You need the truth I carry.”
“And if I rip it from you?” I ask, stepping closer. “If I break every bone in your body until you scream it?”
She smiles. “You won’t. Because you’re not a monster. Not like your father.”
“Don’t compare me to him,” I growl, my claws extending. “I am *nothing* like him.”
“Aren’t you?” She steps closer. “You control. You dominate. You punish. You use fear to keep your pack in line. You let your mate suffer bond sickness because you won’t claim her. You let your father manipulate you because you’re afraid to be weak.”
My breath hitches.
Not from anger.
From the truth in her words.
And then—
Brielle moves.
Not toward me.
Toward *her*.
She steps into Mira’s space, her winter-sky eyes sharp, her voice low. “You don’t know him,” she says. “You don’t know what he’s done. What he’s sacrificed. What he’s *become* for this court.”
“Oh, I know him,” Mira says, her eyes flicking to me. “Better than you think.”
“Then you know he’d rather die than let his father win,” Brielle says. “That he’d rather burn this fortress to the ground than let you destroy us.”
“And if I do?” Mira asks, stepping closer. “If I expose the tracking spell? If I tell the Council he’s been manipulated? If I prove the bond is tainted?”
“Then you’ll be dead before the words leave your lips,” Brielle says, her magic flaring. “And I’ll make sure your body is fed to the wolves.”
Mira laughs. Sharp. Cold. *Triumphant*.
And then—
She turns.
Walks away.
Not running. Not fleeing.
Just… leaving.
And I let her.
Because I know what she’s doing.
She’s not afraid.
She’s *winning*.
And as the silence settles, as the scent of lilac fades, as the bond hums beneath my skin—low, steady, *real*—I turn to Brielle.
She’s watching me. Not with fear. Not with doubt.
With fire.
“You let her go,” she says.
“Because she’s not the threat,” I say. “The tracking spell is. Malrik knows where we are. What we’re doing. *How* we’re feeling.”
She steps closer. “Then we break it.”
“How?”
“With magic,” she says. “With blood. With fire.”
“And if it hurts the bond?”
“Then it hurts,” she says, lifting her chin. “But I’d rather feel pain than be controlled. I’d rather be free than be safe.”
My chest tightens.
Not from fear.
From the truth in her words. From the way her hand lifts, cups my face, her thumb brushing my lower lip. From the way her body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
And then—
I pull her close.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
My arms lock around her, pressing her to my chest, my breath warm against her ear. “You’re not just my mate,” I murmur. “You’re my *light*. My *fire*. My *truth*.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her forehead to mine, her breath mingling with mine, her magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
And then—
She whispers, “Then let’s burn it down.”
And just like that, the world tilts.
Because we’re not just fighting for the truth.
For justice.
For vengeance.
We’re fighting for *each other*.
And if this is the end?
Then let it burn.
But not today.
Not while we’re still standing.
Not while the bond still sings.
Not while love still burns.
And as the first light of dawn breaks over the fortress, as the scent of lilac fades into smoke, as the whispers of traitors turn to ash—I know one thing for certain.
Malrik thinks he can control us.
He thinks he can break us.
He thinks he can win.
But he’s already lost.
Because we’re not just fated.
We’re *fire*.
And fire doesn’t obey.
It *consumes*.