The fortress burns.
Not with fire—though flames lick the stained-glass spires, painting the stone in blood-red light—but with *truth*. The Blood Codex lies open on the dais, its silver sigils pulsing like a heartbeat, its ink shifting, revealing the lies, the betrayals, the blood pacts. Malrik’s crimes are no longer whispers in the dark. They’re etched in magic, screaming across the Council Chamber, echoing through the minds of every High House member, every enforcer, every loyalist who once believed in his rule.
And yet.
He stands. Unbroken. Unbowed. A predator at the edge of a dying fire, watching the chaos with cold, calculating eyes.
“You think this changes anything?” he says, voice smooth as poisoned silk. “You think a book—forged by a traitor’s daughter—can unmake centuries of order?”
I step forward, the Codex clutched to my chest, my runes flaring along my spine. “It’s not forged. It’s *truth*. And you know it.”
He smiles. Not with warmth. Not with amusement.
With *promise*.
“And if I say it is?” he asks. “If I declare you a liar? A manipulator? A witch who used her body to bind the Alpha?”
Kaelen moves—fast, silent, lethal—stepping in front of me, caging me in with his body. His war-knife is in hand, his claws extended, his fangs bared. “Say it,” he growls. “And I’ll rip your tongue out.”
Malrik doesn’t flinch. Just laughs—low, cold, knowing. “You’d kill your own father? For a woman who came here to destroy us all?”
“For her?” Kaelen says, turning his head just enough to look at me. “In a heartbeat.”
The hall holds its breath.
And then—
Chaos.
Not from the Council. Not from the guards.
From *above*.
Stone grinds. Dust falls. And then—
The dome *shatters*.
Not from magic. Not from force.
From *fire*.
Flames erupt from the stained glass, painting the chamber in crimson light. The sigils on the floor ignite—crimson, pulsing, *alive*—and the ground beneath us splits. Werewolves shift mid-sprint, fangs bared, eyes gold. Vampires move like shadows, silent and lethal. Fae glide through the air, glamours shifting, weapons humming with ancient power.
And in the center of it all—
Us.
Back to back, our movements synchronized, our bond humming with purpose. I fight with magic—moonfire flaring in pulses of silver flame, my dagger flashing, my voice sharp with command. Kaelen fights with steel—brutal, precise, *feral*—his war-knife flashing, his claws tearing through flesh, his fangs sinking into bone.
We cut through the chaos—side by side, back to back, our bodies moving as one. Soren appears beside us—silent, deadly, his daggers flashing as he takes down any who get too close. The loyalists hesitate—some fight, some falter, their eyes flicking between me and Kaelen, 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 Kaelen 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 mother’s cold commands, my father’s whispered warnings, the night she vanished, the day I took the Alpha mark, the first time I saw Kaelen, the first time I touched him, the first time I let myself *feel*.
And then—
Kaelen.
His 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 him.”
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,” she 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,” she 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 hers. “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.
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*.