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. The battle in the Council Chamber left scars—not just on the stone, not just on our bodies—but on the air itself. Magic still hums in the cracks of the floor, lingering like a curse half-cast. The scent of blood and fire clings to the corridors, and the whispers have changed. No longer fear. No longer doubt.
Now, they speak of *us*.
Of the woman who stood before the High Houses and named the real traitor. Of the Alpha who chose her over his own father. Of the bond that burned through Malrik’s lies like wildfire.
They call me queen.
They call us fire.
And I don’t know whether to laugh or weep.
We stand in the war room—Kaelen, 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 I can hear. I haven’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.
I won’t read it aloud.
Won’t let Kaelen see.
Because it’s not just about his father.
It’s about him. About the way Malrik raised him. About the way he made Kaelen believe he had to be a monster to be strong. About the promises whispered in the dark, the lessons taught in pain, the legacy forged in blood.
And I don’t know how to tell him.
Not yet.
Not when he’s still bleeding from the fight in the east corridor. Not when the wound on my side still burns, still weeps, still pulses with every beat of my heart. Not when the bond hums beneath my skin—low, steady, real—no longer tainted by Malrik’s tracking spell, but raw with something deeper, something I can’t name.
Kaelen paces—his bare feet silent on the stone, his body wrapped in a dark robe, his hair loose, his claws retracted but his fangs still visible when he speaks. He hasn’t slept. Not since the Moonwell. Not since I took a blade for him. Not since he kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
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 him.
The way his jaw clenches when he passes too close to me. The way his breath hitches when our arms brush. The way his storm-silver eyes darken, just slightly, when the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
He’s not afraid of me.
But he’s afraid of this.
Of us.
Of what we’re becoming.
And gods help me, I don’t know how to fix it.
“She’s here,” Soren says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is low, rough, the kind of tone he only uses when the danger is real. “Elowen. At the west gate. Says she needs to speak with you. Alone.”
My breath stills.
Elowen.
My mentor. My only ally. The woman who gave me the false identity, who taught me to wield moonfire, who loved me like a daughter.
And now she’s here.
After everything.
After Malrik used her name to lure me into a trap. After I thought she might be gone, captured, dead.
And she wants to speak with me. Alone.
Kaelen stops pacing. Turns. “You’re not going.”
“And if she’s in danger?” I ask, stepping forward. “If Malrik’s men are watching her? If she’s risking everything to get this message to me?”
“Then she should’ve sent it through Soren,” he growls. “Not walked into the fortress like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“She’s not a lamb,” I snap. “She’s the most powerful witch in the Arcanum. If she’s here, it’s because she has no choice.”
He steps into my space, caging me in. “And if it’s a trap? If she’s been turned? If Malrik’s using her to get to the Codex?”
“Then I’ll face it,” I say, lifting my chin. “But I won’t hide behind you. Not from her. Not from anyone.”
He stares at me. Not with anger.
With fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
And then—
He nods.
“Soren,” he says, not looking away from me. “Escort her to the Moonwell Chamber. No weapons. No guards. Just Brielle and Elowen. And if anything goes wrong—”
“I’ll burn the door down,” Soren says, already moving.
And then—
It’s just us.
Kaelen and me.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, his hand lifting to my face. “You can send me instead. I’ll get the message.”
“And if it’s not for you?” I press my forehead to his. “If it’s something only she can tell me? Only a woman who’s lost everything to this court?”
His breath hitches.
Not from anger.
From the truth in my voice. From the way my fingers press against his heart, from the way my body leans into his, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not soft. Not slow.
His mouth opens over mine, his tongue sliding against mine, tasting me like he’s starving. I gasp, and he takes the opening, his hands sliding up my back, pressing me closer, until there’s no space between us, no air, no thought, no anything but him. The bond flares—warm, insistent, needing—and the moonfire surges, silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light.
And then—
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at me. His storm-silver eyes are dark, his jaw clenched, his body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—love. Grief. Hope.
“Come back to me,” he says, voice rough. “No matter what she says. No matter what she reveals. Come back to me.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From the truth in his words. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, needing.
“Always,” I whisper.
I follow Soren through the fortress—silent, swift, shadows in the dark. The air grows colder the deeper we go, thick with the scent of old magic and deeper stone. He leads me to the Moonwell Chamber—its dome open to the sky, its floor carved from white stone, its center dominated by a pool of silver water—still, reflective, alive. Around it, ancient sigils pulse with faint light, etched into the stone in a language I don’t recognize but feel—Fae. Old. Sacred.
And there—
Elowen.
She stands at the edge of the pool, her back to me, her silver hair loose, her robes the color of storm clouds. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.
Soren nods at me. Then leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
And then—
It’s just us.
“You came,” she says, not turning. Her voice is soft, but I hear the strain beneath it. The grief. The guilt.
“You asked,” I say, stepping forward. “After everything—after Malrik used your name to trap me—you still expected me to come?”
She turns.
And I see it—her face is pale, her eyes shadowed, her hands trembling. But her spine is straight. Her gaze is steady.
“I didn’t know,” she says. “About the trap. I swear it. I only learned of it when Malrik’s men came for me. I escaped. Barely.”
“And the message?”
“Was real,” she says. “I *did* have information. But they intercepted it. Twisted it. Used it to lure you into danger.”
My chest tightens. Not from anger.
From the truth in her voice. From the way her hands clench at her sides, from the way her breath hitches, from the way her magic flares—faint, but there.
“Then why now?” I ask. “Why come here? Why risk everything?”
She doesn’t answer. Just steps to the edge of the pool, her reflection shimmering in the silver water. “Do you know why I gave you the name ‘Lyra Vale’?”
I frown. “It was neutral. Untraceable. A cover.”
“It was more than that,” she says, her voice low. “It was a memory. A promise.”
And then—
She begins to speak.
Not fast. Not rushed.
Like a woman unspooling a wound.
“I wasn’t always just a mentor,” she says. “I was once… *more*. To Malrik. We were lovers. Centuries ago. Before the purge. Before the Moonbloods were exiled. Before he became the monster he is now.”
My breath stills.
Elowen. And Malrik.
It can’t be.
And yet—
She continues.
“We were young. Reckless. In love. He was not the tyrant then. He was passionate. Idealistic. He believed in unity. In balance. And I believed in *him*.”
“And what changed?” I whisper.
“Power,” she says, her voice breaking. “Ambition. Greed. When the Council demanded a sacrifice to seal the Veil Accord, he volunteered the Moonbloods. Said their magic was too volatile. Too dangerous. I begged him to stop. Told him it was a lie. That the real danger was *him*.”
“And he didn’t listen.”
“No,” she says, tears in her eyes. “He had me exiled. Stripped of my rank. Banished to the outer territories. And when I returned, years later, I found that he had taken everything. Your mother’s magic. Her name. Her legacy. And he had *you*—a child, hidden, protected by the very woman who had once loved him.”
My chest tightens. Not from shock.
From the weight of it. From the way her voice cracks, from the way her hands tremble, from the way her magic flares—faint, but there.
“And you raised me,” I say. “Taught me. Protected me.”
“Because I owed your mother,” she says. “Because I failed her. Because I let the man I loved become a monster.”
“And now?”
She turns to me. Her eyes are dark, her jaw clenched, her body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—grief. Regret. Love.
“Now I fight,” she says. “Not for vengeance. Not for justice. For *you*. Because you’re not just her daughter. You’re *more*. You’re the fire that will burn his world to the ground.”
My breath hitches.
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.
My arms lock around her, pressing her to my chest, my breath warm against her ear. “You’re not just my mentor,” I murmur. “You’re my *mother*.”
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, “I’ll help you burn him first.”
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the truth is revealed.
Not because Malrik’s crimes are exposed.
Because I’m not alone.
Not in my grief.
Not in my rage.
Not in my love.
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*.