The locket pulses against my chest like a second heart, warm and insistent, its moonstone surface glowing faintly beneath the fabric of my tunic. The map it revealed is etched into my mind—tunnels winding beneath the Fang Citadel, chambers sealed with Moonblood magic, a vault hidden even from the Alpha’s eyes. We’ve been over it a hundred times, Kaelen and I, tracing the sigils with our fingers, memorizing every turn, every ward, every death trap. But knowing the path and walking it are two different things.
And now, we’re about to walk it.
We stand at the edge of the Forgotten Stair—ancient, crumbling, carved into the living rock beneath the fortress. No torches line the walls. No guards patrol. This passage was sealed centuries ago, after the last Moonblood rebellion, warded with spells meant to kill any who weren’t of pure blood. But I’m not pure. I’m not even full fae. I’m half-witch, half-fae, a bastard child of betrayal and fire. And yet—
The wards didn’t burn me when we tested them.
They *recognized* me.
Kaelen stands beside me, his storm-silver eyes scanning the darkness below. He’s dressed in black leather armor, his war-knife at his hip, his claws retracted but his fangs just visible when he speaks. He hasn’t said much since we left the war room. Just watched me. Waited. Listened.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, his voice low, rough.
“I’m not sure about anything,” I say, pressing a hand to the locket. “But I know this is the only way. The Codex points here. My mother’s magic remembers this place. And if the stolen moonfire is down there—if the prisoners are still alive—then we don’t have a choice.”
He doesn’t argue. Just steps closer, his heat flooding into me, his presence a wall, his scent a cage. “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*.
We descend the stairs—silent, swift, shadows in the dark. The air grows colder the deeper we go, thick with the scent of old magic and deeper stone. My runes flare faintly along my spine, casting a soft silver light that barely cuts through the darkness. Kaelen moves like a predator, his steps soundless, his body coiled, his senses sharp. He doesn’t need light. Doesn’t need sight. He *feels* the danger before it comes.
And I feel it too.
Not with my eyes.
With the bond.
It hums beneath my skin—low, steady, *real*—a current of heat and light that runs through my veins, grounding me, anchoring me, reminding me that I’m not alone.
“There,” I whisper, stopping at a fork in the tunnel. The map flares in my mind, the sigils pulsing like a heartbeat. “Left. The right path leads to a dead end—collapsed centuries ago. The left… that’s where the ward is.”
Kaelen nods, stepping in front of me, caging me in. “Then I go first.”
“No,” I say, stepping around him. “The wards are Moonblood. They’ll kill you if you’re not bonded. But I’m not just the heir. I’m the key. And you’re the lock.”
He doesn’t like it. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his storm-silver eyes darken, in the way his hand never leaves the hilt of his war-knife. But he doesn’t argue. Just steps back. Lets me lead.
And gods help me, I don’t know if I’m ready for this.
The tunnel narrows—slick with frost, lit only by the faint glow of my runes. The walls are lined with ancient carvings—Fae script, Moonblood sigils, symbols of protection and memory. My magic flares brighter, silver fire spiraling up my spine, painting the stone in light. And then—
I feel it.
Not a sound. Not a scent.
A *pulse*.
Faint. Distant. But *there*.
Like a heartbeat beneath the stone.
“It’s close,” I whisper, my breath fogging in the cold air. “The ward. It’s alive.”
Kaelen steps closer, his heat flooding into me. “Then let it try to stop us.”
And then—
The passage opens.
Vast. Silent. A chamber carved from white stone, its ceiling lost in shadow, its center dominated by a pedestal of black obsidian. And on it—
The ward.
Not a door. Not a lock.
A *veil*.
A shimmering curtain of silver light, pulsing with ancient magic, etched with runes that shift and change like living shadow. It hums—low, deep, *hungry*—and the air around it shimmers, distorting like heat off stone.
“Only a Moonblood heir can pass,” I say, stepping forward. “But the second key—the blood sigil—only a bonded Alpha can activate it.”
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate. “Then give me your hand.”
I do.
Our fingers intertwine—warm, calloused, unrelenting. The bond flares—low, steady, *real*—a current of heat and light that runs through my veins, grounding me, anchoring me, reminding me that I’m not alone.
I press my palm to the veil.
The moment my skin touches the light, 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. The chamber trembles. The pedestal cracks. The veil shimmers, *wavering*.
“Now!” I gasp. “The sigil!”
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate.
He presses his palm to the obsidian pedestal—right over the blood sigil, a crescent moon entwined with a wolf’s fang. His blood drips from a cut on his palm, dark and thick, and the sigil *ignites*—crimson, pulsing, *alive*.
The veil *screams*.
Not with sound.
With *magic*.
It ripples—silver fire colliding with crimson blood—and then—
It *parts*.
Not with a bang. Not with a flash.
With a *whisper*.
And beyond it—
Darkness.
But not empty.
Alive.
“It’s real,” I whisper, stepping forward. “The vault. The magic. The prisoners. It’s all *real*.”
Kaelen follows close behind, his presence a wall at my back, his heat a cage around me. “Then let’s take it back.”
We move through the veil—slow, deliberate, every sense on high. The air on the other side is colder, thicker, laced with the scent of old blood and older magic. The walls are lined with cells—iron bars, stone floors, sigils etched into the walls to suppress magic. And in them—
Shadows.
Figures.
*People*.
Some stir at our approach. Others don’t move. Some whisper. Others scream. And then—
A voice.
Low. Familiar. *Alive*.
“Brielle?”
My breath stills.
Not from fear.
From *recognition*.
I turn.
And there—
In the farthest cell, chained to the wall, her silver hair matted, her face gaunt, her eyes sunken but *burning*—
Elowen.
“You’re alive,” I whisper, stumbling forward.
She smiles—weak, trembling, but *real*. “Did you think Malrik could kill me that easily?”
Kaelen is at my side in an instant, his war-knife flashing as he slices through the iron chains. “We thought you’d escaped. That you’d fled.”
“I tried,” she says, her voice rough. “But they caught me. Used me as bait. Knew you’d come for me.”
My chest tightens. Not from guilt.
From the truth in her voice. 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*.
“We’re getting you out,” I say, helping her to her feet.
“Not yet,” she says, her eyes locking onto mine. “There’s something you need to see. Something *down there*.”
She points deeper into the vault—into the darkness beyond the cells, where the tunnel slopes downward, lit only by faint, flickering torches.
“What?”
“The heart of it,” she says. “The stolen magic. The source. And… *her*.”
My breath stills.
“*Her*?”
“Your mother.”
The word hits me like a blade.
My mother.
Dead. Executed. Burned alive in a purification ritual.
And yet—
Elowen wouldn’t lie. Not about this. Not now.
“Then we go,” Kaelen says, stepping forward. “Together.”
“Always,” I whisper.
We move through the vault—silent, swift, shadows in the dark. The air grows colder the deeper we go, thick with the scent of old magic and deeper stone. The torches flicker—blue, unnatural, *wrong*—and the walls are lined with sigils that pulse like a heartbeat. And then—
The chamber opens.
Vast. Silent. A dome of black stone, its ceiling lost in shadow, its center dominated by a pillar of pure moonfire—silver light spiraling upward, pulsing like a living thing. And around it—
Vials.
Thousands of them.
Each filled with glowing liquid—moonfire, stolen, *trapped*.
And in the center—
A woman.
Chained to the pillar, her silver hair loose, her runes glowing faintly along her spine, her eyes closed, her body still.
But alive.
“Mother,” I whisper, stumbling forward.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
But her chest rises. Falls. Rises. Falls.
She’s in stasis. Trapped. Drained.
And the moonfire—her magic—is being siphoned into the vials, feeding the stolen power that Malrik has used to control the Council.
“He’s been keeping her alive,” Elowen says, her voice breaking. “Using her magic to fuel his lies. To maintain his power. To *rule*.”
My chest tightens. Not from shock.
From rage. *Grief*. *Fury*.
And then—
I step forward.
Not slowly.
Not carefully.
With *fire*.
I press my palm to the pillar—right over her heart.
The moment I touch it, 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—
Her eyes open.
Winter-sky blue. Familiar. *Alive*.
“Brielle,” she whispers, her voice weak, trembling. “You came.”
Tears stream down my face. Not from pain.
From the truth in her voice. 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*.
“I’m getting you out,” I say, my voice breaking. “I’m taking you home.”
She smiles—weak, trembling, but *real*. “You already are.”
And just like that, the world shifts.
Not because the spell is broken.
Not because Malrik’s control is gone.
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. “We need to move. The wards will reset. The guards will come.”
“Then we take the magic,” I say, pressing my palm to the pillar. “All of it.”
He doesn’t argue. Just steps beside me, pressing his palm to the opposite side.
Our blood mingles—hers, mine, his—and the sigils *scream*.
Not with pain.
With *truth*.
The vials shatter—glass exploding, liquid surging, moonfire spiraling upward in a storm of silver light. The pillar cracks. The chains break. And my mother—
She *rises*.
Not with strength.
With *fire*.
And then—
A sound.
Not from the chamber.
From *above*.
Shouts. Footsteps. The clash of steel.
Soren appears, his dark eyes sharp, his daggers drawn. “They’re coming,” he says. “Malrik’s enforcers. At the gates.”
I don’t move. Just press my forehead to my mother’s. “Then we’ll be there.”
“Together,” Kaelen murmurs.
“Always.”