The fortress trembles beneath us—stone grinding, sigils flaring, the air thick with the scent of moonfire and blood. We stand in the heart of the vault, the stolen magic spiraling upward in a storm of silver light, the vials shattered, the chains broken, my mother rising from centuries of stasis like a phoenix from ash. She’s weak—her body trembling, her breath shallow, her runes flickering like dying embers—but she’s *alive*. And she’s looking at me.
Not with pity. Not with sorrow.
With *pride*.
“You came,” she whispers again, her voice raw, trembling, but steady. “You found me.”
“I never stopped looking,” I say, my voice breaking. I press my forehead to hers, my hands cradling her face, my magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame. “I swore I’d burn this place to the ground if I had to. And I will.”
She smiles—weak, trembling, but *real*. “You always were stubborn.”
“Like mother, like daughter.”
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 scanning the chamber, his war-knife in hand, his body coiled. “We need to move,” he says, voice low, rough. “The wards are down. The enforcers are already breaching the gates. If we don’t get her out now—”
“Then they’ll take her again,” I finish, rising. “I won’t let that happen.”
“No,” he says, stepping close, his heat flooding into me, his presence a wall, his scent a cage. “You won’t. Because I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
My chest tightens. Not from fear.
From the truth in his words. From the way his hand lifts, cups my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. From the way his body leans into mine, just slightly, from the way the bond flares—warm, insistent, *needing*.
And then—
I remember.
Not the vault. Not the magic. Not even my mother.
The *Blood Codex*.
It’s still in my tunic—crimson leather, silver sigils, pulsing like a heartbeat. We brought it with us, not just as proof, but as a weapon. A key. A final reckoning. And now, standing in the heart of Malrik’s lies, with the stolen magic swirling around us, with my mother alive in my arms, I know what I have to do.
“We can’t just run,” I say, stepping back. “Not yet. Not without finishing this.”
Kaelen’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“The Codex,” I say, pulling it from my tunic. “It’s not just a record. It’s a *witness*. And it needs to see what we’ve found. It needs to *know*.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he nods. “Then let it speak.”
I press my palm to the cover.
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 pillar cracks. The dome shudders.
And then—
It stops.
The pain fades.
The fire dims.
And the Codex… *opens*.
Not with a sound. Not with a light.
With a *whisper*.
I gasp. Stagger back. My hands fly to my mouth. My heart hammers.
Because I see it.
The truth.
Not just my mother’s name, cleared.
Not just Malrik’s signature on the execution order.
But *everything*.
The lies. The betrayals. The blood pacts. The hidden alliances. The way he framed the Moonbloods to steal their magic. The way he used the Council to consolidate power. The way he turned the Fang against each other. The way he manipulated Kaelen—raised him to be strong, to be ruthless, to be *his*.
And then—
I see *him*.
Kaelen.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a pawn.
As a *son*.
And for the first time, I understand.
He didn’t just inherit his father’s throne.
He inherited his *guilt*.
His *fear*.
His *shame*.
And he’s been carrying it all this time.
And I… I’ve only added to it.
My breath hitches. Not from the revelation.
From the *weight* of it.
“Kaelen,” I whisper, turning to him. “You need to see this.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just steps forward, his storm-silver eyes dark, his jaw clenched, his body coiled. He presses his palm to the open Codex—his blood mingling with mine, with my mother’s—and the sigils *scream*.
Not with pain.
With *truth*.
His breath stills. His body tenses. His fangs extend, just slightly, his claws flexing at his sides. I see it in his eyes—the moment it hits him. The realization. The grief. The *betrayal*.
“He used me,” he says, voice low, rough. “All this time. He raised me to be strong. To be feared. To be *him*. And I never saw it.”
“You weren’t meant to,” my mother says, stepping forward. Her voice is weak, but steady. “He wanted a weapon. A monster. Someone who would do anything to protect the throne. But you… you were always more than that.”
He doesn’t look at her. Just stares at the Codex, at the shifting ink, at the truth laid bare. “And you?” he asks. “Did you know? Did you see what he was?”
“I did,” she says. “And I tried to stop him. But he had me branded a traitor. Executed in a purification ritual. They thought I was dead. But Malrik… he kept me alive. Used me. Drained me. Because my magic was too powerful to destroy.”
“And he’s been using it ever since,” I say, stepping between them. “To control the Council. To maintain his power. To *rule*.”
Kaelen closes the Codex slowly, his hands trembling. Not from weakness. From *rage*.
“Then it ends now,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “No more lies. No more secrets. No more *him*.”
“And what about you?” I ask, stepping closer. “What about the bond? The Alpha mark? The legacy?”
He turns to me. His storm-silver eyes are dark, his jaw clenched, his body coiled. But beneath the fury, I see it—love. *Grief*. *Hope*.
“The bond is real,” he says, voice rough. “You’re real. And this—” He gestures to the vault, to the stolen magic, to my mother. “This is *ours*. Not his. Not the Council’s. Ours.”
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 pull him close.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
My arms lock around him, pressing him to my chest, my breath warm against his ear. “You’re not him,” I murmur. “You’re *better*.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his magic flaring in pulses of moonfire that paint the stone in silver flame.
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 here,” he says. “Malrik’s enforcers. At the vault entrance. They’ve breached the wards.”
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate. “Then we meet them.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward. “We don’t fight them here. Not in the dark. Not in the shadows. We fight them where the world can see.”
“Where?”
“The Council Chamber,” I say, clutching the Codex to my chest. “We take the truth. We take the magic. We take *her*. And we show them *everything*.”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he nods. “Then let’s go.”
We move through the vault—silent, swift, shadows in the dark. I help my mother walk, her arm over my shoulder, her body weak but unyielding. Kaelen moves like a predator, his steps soundless, his body coiled, his senses sharp. Soren takes the rear, his daggers flashing, his eyes scanning the darkness.
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. And then—
We reach the Forgotten Stair.
The ascent is slow—my mother weak, the air thick with magic, the bond humming beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. But we don’t stop. Don’t hesitate. We climb—step by step, breath by breath, heart by heart—until we break the surface, until we emerge into the fortress, into the war room, into the light.
And there—
The Council Chamber.
The obsidian doors are open, the air thick with the scent of incense and iron, the silence heavier than any roar. Beyond, the dome looms—its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with thrones of black stone, its center dominated by the dais where the Blood Codex should rest.
And on the thrones—
The High Houses.
Fae. Vampire. Werewolf. All seated, all watching, all silent. Their eyes are sharp, their postures rigid, their glamours shifting like smoke. They don’t speak. Don’t move. Just *wait*.
And at the head of the dais—
Malrik.
Dressed in blood-red silk, his black eyes gleaming, his lips curled in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t bow. Just watches us—me, specifically—as we walk down the center aisle, hand in hand, our steps echoing like thunder.
“Alpha,” he says, voice smooth as poisoned silk. “And… *mate*.” He lingers on the word, mocking it. “I see you’ve been… *occupied*.”
Kaelen doesn’t flinch. Just steps forward, his body caging me in. “We’ve been preparing. For the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” Malrik asks, leaning back. “That you forged the Codex? That you manipulated the bond? That you’re not fit to lead?”
“The truth,” I say, stepping forward, the Codex clutched to my chest. “Is in *this*. And it names the real traitor.”
The hall erupts.
Gasps. Whispers. The scrape of steel.
Malrik doesn’t move. Just smiles. “Prove it.”
“I will.” I press my palm to the cover.
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 thrones rattle. The dome cracks.
And then—
It stops.
The pain fades.
The fire dims.
And the Codex… *opens*.
Not with a sound. Not with a light.
With a *whisper*.
I gasp. Stagger back. My hands fly to my mouth. My heart hammers.
Because I see it.
The truth.
Not just my mother’s name, cleared.
Not just Malrik’s signature on the execution order.
But *everything*.
The lies. The betrayals. The blood pacts. The hidden alliances. The way he framed the Moonbloods to steal their magic. The way he used the Council to consolidate power. The way he turned the Fang against each other. The way he manipulated Kaelen—raised him to be strong, to be ruthless, to be *his*.
And then—
I see *him*.
Kaelen.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a pawn.
As a *son*.
And for the first time, I understand.
He didn’t just inherit his father’s throne.
He inherited his *guilt*.
His *fear*.
His *shame*.
And he’s been carrying it all this time.
And I… I’ve only added to it.
My breath hitches. Not from the revelation.
From the *weight* of it.
And then—
Malrik laughs.
Not loud. Not mocking.
Quiet. Cold. *Knowing*.
“You see it now, don’t you?” he says, rising. “The truth isn’t just in the Codex. It’s in *him*. In his blood. In his weakness. In his *love* for you.”
Kaelen steps forward, his war-knife in hand, his claws extended, his fangs bared. “Touch her,” he growls, “and I’ll rip your throat out.”
“You’d kill your own father?” Malrik asks, voice dripping with mockery. “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.