The fortress is still—too still.
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 training grounds 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. “Mira. At the west gate. Says she needs to speak with the Alpha. Alone.”
My breath stills.
Mira.
The fae seductress. The liar. The spy. The woman who wore Kaelen’s shirt, who flashed a fake bite mark, who claimed he’d promised her the Alpha mark. The woman who stood beside Malrik in the Council Chamber, holding a vial of my blood like a trophy.
And now she’s here.
After everything.
After we exposed her lies. After Kaelen stripped her of rank. After she vanished into the night like smoke.
And she wants to speak with him. Alone.
Kaelen stops pacing. Turns. “You’re not going.”
“And if it’s a trap?” I ask, stepping forward. “If Malrik’s using her to get to you? If she’s been turned? If she’s carrying a curse, a sigil, a message meant to break the bond?”
“Then I’ll face it,” he growls. “But not with you in the line of fire.”
“And if she’s telling the truth?” I snap. “If she’s ready to turn? If she has information about the vault, about the stolen magic, about where Malrik’s hiding?”
He steps into my space, caging me in. “You don’t trust her.”
“No,” I say, lifting my chin. “I don’t. But I trust *you*. And if you go, I go.”
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 Kaelen, Brielle, and Mira. 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 stay behind. Let me handle her.”
“And if she tries to manipulate you?” I press my forehead to his. “If she uses your guilt, your doubt, your fear of becoming your father? I’m not letting you face her alone.”
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.
“No matter what she says,” he says, voice rough. “No matter what she shows you. No matter what she claims. You’re the only one I want. The only one I’ve ever wanted.”
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.
“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m not letting her take that from us.”
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—
Mira.
She stands at the edge of the pool, her back to us, 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.
Kaelen. Mira. Me.
“You came,” she says, not turning. Her voice is soft, but I hear the strain beneath it. The grief. The guilt.
“You asked,” Kaelen says, stepping forward. “After everything—after you stood beside Malrik, after you claimed I’d promised you the Alpha mark, after you held a vial of her blood like a prize—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 vial. About the blood. Malrik took it from me. Said he needed proof. Said he’d use it to protect the Council.”
“And the mark?” I ask, stepping forward. “The shirt? The lies about our bond?”
She doesn’t flinch. Just meets my gaze. “The shirt was real. He gave it to me. After a meeting. Said I’d earned it.”
Kaelen stiffens. “I gave it to you as a warning. A test. To see if you’d use it to manipulate the court.”
“And I did,” she says, her voice breaking. “Because I was afraid. Because I thought if I could bind you, if I could claim you, I’d be safe. That Malrik wouldn’t turn on me.”
“And the bite mark?” I ask.
“Fake,” she says. “Painted. Glamour. I wanted them to believe it was real. That you’d chosen me. That I had power.”
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. “What?”
“Not you,” she says, turning to Kaelen. “Me. Malrik. He gave me that name. Before you. Before Brielle. Before the bond.”
My breath stills.
Mira. And Malrik.
It can’t be.
And yet—
She continues.
“I wasn’t always just a spy. I was once… *more*. To Malrik. His protégé. His weapon. His *daughter*.”
My blood runs cold.
Daughter?
“He raised me,” she says, her voice low. “Trained me. Told me I was special. That I could be Alpha. That I could rule. But only if I proved myself. Only if I could manipulate the bond, break it, control it.”
“And you tried,” Kaelen says, his voice rough. “You used her. Used me. Used the bond.”
“Because I had no choice,” she says, tears in her eyes. “Because if I failed, he’d kill me. Because he’s not just my father. He’s my maker. My master. And I was his puppet.”
“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 *freedom*. Because I see what you have. What you are. And I want it. Not power. Not lies. Not blood. *Love*. Real. True. Unbroken.”
My breath hitches.
Not from fear.
From the truth in her words. From the way her hand lifts, cups her own face, her thumb brushing her lower lip. From the way her body leans forward, just slightly, from the way the air shimmers—like a tear in the veil.
And then—
I step forward.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
My arms lock around her, pressing her to my chest, my breath warm against her ear. “You’re not just his weapon,” I murmur. “You’re *more*. You’re the fire that will burn his world to the ground.”
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.
Kaelen steps forward, his storm-silver eyes dark. “You’ve been stripped of rank. Exiled from the Fang. But if you swear loyalty—not to me, not to the Council, but to the truth—you can stay. As an ally. As a sister.”
She looks at him. Then at me. And for the first time, I see it—hope. Grief. Love.
“I swear,” she says, her voice steady. “On my blood. On my magic. On my life.”
He doesn’t smile. Just nods. “Then rise.”
She does.
And then—
He does something I don’t expect.
He *pins* her.
Not roughly. Not cruelly.
His hand grips her shoulder, his body caging hers, his storm-silver eyes locking onto hers. “You will never lie to us again. You will never manipulate the bond. You will never use her blood, her name, her pain as a weapon. And if you do—”
“I’ll burn with it,” she says, lifting her chin. “I know.”
He releases her. Steps back.
And then—
I do something I don’t expect.
I *hug* her.
Not tentative. Not cautious.
My arms lock around her, pressing her to my chest, my breath warm against her ear. “You’re not alone,” I murmur. “Not anymore.”
She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t speak.
Just holds on.
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.
Marked by Moonfire
The first time Brielle touches Kaelen Duskbane, the world burns.
It’s not metaphor. Flames erupt from the ceremonial contract scroll as their blood mingles—proof of a fated bond the Supernatural Council declared extinct centuries ago. She came to Shadowveil under the alias “Lyra Vale,” a neutral witch envoy, to infiltrate the tribunal, steal the Blood Codex that holds the truth about her mother’s execution, and vanish. But fate doesn’t care about plans. One touch, one drop of shared blood, and the ancient runes on her spine—hidden since childhood—ignite with moonfire, revealing her true heritage: last heir of the exiled Fae Moonblood line.
Kaelen, Alpha of the Northern Fang Pack and enforcer of the Council’s will, should arrest her on sight. Instead, the bond roars through him, primal and unrelenting. To avoid civil war, the Council mandates a binding contract marriage—70 days of cohabitation, ritual intimacy, and public unity—before either can walk away.
Now, she’s trapped in his fortress, wearing his ring, sleeping in the room next to his, every breath laced with his scent. She’s determined to hate him. He’s determined to break her will. But when a rival seductress appears in his chambers wearing his mark, and a secret ritual forces them to share body heat through a freezing night, the line between vengeance and desire begins to blur.
And someone knows her secret. Someone is watching. Someone wants them both dead before the contract ends.
Because the truth? The Blood Codex doesn’t just clear her mother’s name. It names the real traitor. And his name is Kaelen’s father.