The fortress still hums with the aftermath of battle—stone cracked, sigils scorched, the air thick with the scent of blood and old magic. But the silence now isn’t the quiet of defeat. It’s the stillness before the storm. The kind that settles when the first wave has broken, and the second is gathering force on the horizon.
I stand in the Moonwell Chamber, the silver water still reflecting the early dawn, the ancient sigils pulsing faintly beneath my bare feet. Elowen is gone—vanished into the hidden passages with a promise to return when the time is right. But her words linger like smoke in my lungs. Malrik was not always a monster. I loved him once. And I failed you both.
I press a hand to my chest, feeling the echo of her confession ripple through me. My mother. My mentor. My enemy’s lover. The threads of this war are tangled not just in politics and power, but in love, in betrayal, in the kind of grief that never truly heals.
And yet—
I don’t feel weaker for knowing.
I feel sharper.
Clearer.
Because now I understand: this isn’t just about justice.
It’s about breaking cycles.
I return to the war room slowly, my boots silent on the stone, my runes still glowing faintly along my spine. 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 I pass.
They’re afraid.
Of Malrik.
Of the Council.
Of us.
And they should be.
The war room is empty when I enter—maps glowing faintly, sigils pulsing like slow heartbeats, 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.
“You’re back.”
His voice comes from the shadows—low, rough, familiar. Kaelen steps into the torchlight, his storm-silver eyes fixed on me, his jaw tight, his body coiled. He’s dressed in black trousers, a new tunic, his war-knife at his side. No armor. No pretense. Just him. Just the truth.
“You were worried,” I say, stepping forward.
“You were gone too long.” He closes the distance between us, his heat flooding into me, his presence a wall, his scent a cage. “I felt it. The bond… it dimmed. Like you were pulling away.”
“I wasn’t.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heart. “I was just… remembering.”
He doesn’t ask what. Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
My breath hitches.
Not from fear.
From the truth in his voice. From the way his body leans into mine, 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.
“Tell me,” he says, voice rough. “Whatever it is. Whatever she said. I can take it.”
I hesitate.
Because I want to. Gods, I want to. But not here. Not now. Not with the Codex watching us like a ghost.
“Later,” I whisper. “When we’re not standing in the middle of a war.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he nods. “Then we end it.”
“How?”
“By finding the truth they’re hiding.” He turns to the pedestal, his hand hovering over the Codex. “Malrik didn’t just bury the evidence. He hid it. Somewhere even the Council can’t reach. Somewhere only a Moonblood could find.”
My breath stills.
“The Blood Codex doesn’t just name the traitor,” he continues. “It points to where the stolen magic is stored. Where the other prisoners are held. Where the final proof is sealed.”
“And you think I can find it.”
“I know you can.” He turns back to me, his storm-silver eyes burning. “Because you’re not just my mate. You’re the last heir of the Moonblood line. And that magic—your magic—isn’t just power. It’s *memory*. It remembers what was taken. It remembers where it belongs.”
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.
And then—
I remember.
Not a vision. Not a dream.
A feeling.
From when I was a child. Before the purge. Before the exile. Before my mother was taken.
I was six. She held me in her lap, her silver hair loose, her runes glowing faintly along her spine. In her hands—a locket. Not gold. Not silver. Moonstone. Carved with ancient sigils, warm to the touch, pulsing with a light that matched her eyes.
“This,” she said, pressing it into my palm, “is our legacy. Not the throne. Not the magic. This. The truth. And one day, when the time is right, it will lead you home.”
I never saw it again after the night they came for her.
But I never forgot it.
“There’s a locket,” I say, stepping back. “From my mother. Moonstone. Sigils. It was the last thing she gave me.”
Kaelen’s eyes narrow. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was lost. But…” I press a hand to my chest, feeling the echo of that night. “But what if it’s not? What if it was hidden? What if it’s the key?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then we find it.”
“And if Malrik has it?”
“Then we take it back.” He steps forward, caging me in. “And if he tries to stop us?”
“Then we burn his world to the ground.”
He smiles. Sharp. Dangerous. Hopeful.
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the spell is broken.
Not because Malrik’s control is gone.
Because we’re not just fighting to survive.
We’re fighting to remember.
We search the fortress—silent, swift, shadows in the dark. Not through the main corridors. Not past the guards. Through the hidden passages—narrow, slick with frost, lit only by the faint glow of my runes. The air grows colder the deeper we go, thick with the scent of old magic and deeper stone.
“Where would she have hidden it?” Kaelen asks, his voice low.
“Somewhere only I could find,” I say. “Somewhere tied to my magic. To my blood.”
And then—
I feel it.
Not a sound. Not a scent.
A pulse.
Faint. Distant. But there.
Like a heartbeat beneath the stone.
“This way,” I say, turning down a narrow passage I’ve never seen before. The walls are lined with ancient carvings—Fae script, Moonblood sigils, symbols of protection and memory. My runes flare brighter, silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light.
Kaelen follows close behind, his presence a wall at my back, his heat a cage around me.
And then—
The passage opens.
Vast. Silent. A tomb carved from white stone, its ceiling lost in shadow, its center dominated by a pedestal of black obsidian. And on it—
The locket.
Just as I remembered it. Moonstone. Sigils. Warm to the touch, pulsing with a light that matches my eyes.
My breath stills.
“It’s real,” I whisper.
“And it’s yours,” Kaelen says, stepping forward.
I don’t hesitate. Just reach for it.
The moment my fingers brush the surface, 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 the locket… opens.
Not with a click. Not with a light.
With a map.
Etched in moonfire, glowing in the dark—a network of tunnels, chambers, sigils. And at the center—
A vault.
Beneath the Fang Citadel. Warded with Moonblood magic. Hidden from all but the true heir.
“This is it,” I whisper, tracing the lines with my finger. “The final proof. The stolen magic. The prisoners. It’s all there.”
Kaelen steps closer, his storm-silver eyes dark. “And we’re the only ones who can get to it.”
“Because the wards will kill anyone who isn’t Moonblood.”
“And I’m not letting you go alone.”
I turn to him. “You don’t have to. The map shows a second key. A blood sigil. Only a bonded Alpha can activate it.”
He doesn’t smile. Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Then we go together.”
“Always.”
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.