I don’t sleep.
Not after Dain’s warning. Not after the name—Valenir—echoing in my skull like a death knell. Vaelen’s uncle. A Council Elder. A vampire who’s been hiding in plain sight, pulling strings, feeding Solene information, waiting for the bond to wake so he could destroy it. And us.
And now he knows I’m close.
He’s coming.
But I don’t run. I don’t hide. I don’t beg.
I wait.
The fire has burned low again, casting long shadows across the stone floor, the same shadows that have watched me rage, weep, kiss him, and finally—choose him. The satchel of stolen files is still hidden beneath the floorboard near the hearth, untouched, unburned, left for me. Vaelen could have taken it. Could have silenced me. Could have locked me away without proof, without power, without purpose.
But he didn’t.
He left it.
As if he knew I’d stay.
As if he knew I’d fight.
As if he’s already won.
I press my fingers to the bite on my shoulder. It still burns. Still throbs. Still thinks. The crescent-shaped mark pulses faintly beneath my skin, a silent echo of the Blood Moon Ritual, of the way he claimed me, of the way I let him. I told myself it was the magic. The bond. The ritual’s compulsion. But the truth is—
I wanted it.
I wanted him.
And that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.
The guards are still outside. Silent. Watchful. But I don’t care. I’m not a prisoner. I’m a weapon. And I’m loaded.
I pace. Back and forth. The robe slips off one shoulder, the mark on my spine pulsing with every step. I need more. Not just a name. Not just a face. I need truth. I need to know what Valenir wants. Why he’s working with Solene. What he hopes to gain from our destruction.
And then—
I remember.
The blood ritual. The conjuration. The way I saw Elias’s last moments, clear as day, real as breath. If I could see that, if I could relive his final hours, then maybe—just maybe—I can see more.
Maybe I can see him.
Valenir.
Not just his name. Not just his face. But his truth.
I move fast. Pull out the satchel, flip through the files. The autopsy report. The surveillance logs. The transcripts. And then—
I find it.
A photograph. Faded. Torn at the edges. Taken years ago, in the old Council chambers. Twelve figures in thrones. Mareth at the center. And to his right—
Valenir.
Older than he is now, but unmistakable. Silver hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes like frozen mercury. He’s standing beside a younger Vaelen—barely more than a boy, his face unscarred, his eyes bright with something I’ve never seen in them: trust.
And between them—
Elias.
My brother.
Smiling. Laughing. One hand on Vaelen’s shoulder, the other extended toward Valenir, as if offering a handshake, a truce, a promise.
My breath stops.
They knew each other.
They were friends.
And now one is dead. One is a traitor. And one—
One is fighting for me.
I clutch the photograph to my chest, my pulse racing. I need to see more. I need to know what happened between them. What broke them. What turned a mentor into a monster.
I clear a space on the floor, drawing a circle in salt and ash—protection, focus, containment. I place the photograph in the center. Then I pull the silver dagger from my boot, press the tip to my palm. Blood wells, thick and dark. I let three drops fall onto the photograph, whispering the words:
“Sanguis memoriæ, ostende mihi veritatem.”
Blood of memory, show me the truth.
The air shimmers. The candle flames flicker, then go out. The room grows cold. The bond screams, a surge of heat and pain tearing through my spine, but I hold still. I need this.
Then—
Darkness.
And then—
Light.
I’m standing in a room I’ve never seen—stone walls, silver veins, a fire burning low in the hearth. The scent of old parchment and iron fills the air. The Council archives. But not as they are now. Older. Dustier. Forgotten.
And there he is.
Valenir.
Younger. Stronger. His silver hair pulled back, his cloak lined with wolf fur, his eyes sharp with ambition. He’s pacing, one hand clutching a ledger, the other gripping a vial of crimson liquid—blood, thick and dark, swirling with magic.
And Vaelen is there too—barely more than a boy, his face unscarred, his eyes wide with fear. Elias stands beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other clenched into a fist.
“You don’t have to do this,” Vaelen says, voice tight. “We can find another way.”
“There is no other way,” Valenir says, voice smooth, cold. “The Council is fractured. The bond between fae and vampire is weakening. If it breaks now, war starts at dawn.”
“And if you poison it,” Elias says, stepping forward, “you’ll be the one who starts it.”
Valenir smiles. Slow. Dangerous. “And if I don’t, Solene will. She’s already moving. She’s already corrupted the records. She’s already turned the Elders against you.”
“Then we expose her,” Vaelen says.
“And who will believe us?” Valenir asks. “A half-fae witch and a vampire heir with no proof? No. The only way to stop her is to let the bond appear broken. To make them think it’s dead. To buy time.”
“And how?” Elias asks, voice wary.
Valenir uncorks the vial. “With a sacrifice. A death. A lie.”
My breath hitches.
“You want one of us to die?” Vaelen asks, voice raw.
“No,” Valenir says. “I want me to die.”
Silence.
“You’re lying,” Elias says.
“Am I?” Valenir asks, holding up the vial. “This isn’t poison. It’s a sleeping draught. A mimic of death. I’ll take it. They’ll find me cold. Still. Dead. And in the chaos, you’ll have time. Time to gather proof. Time to expose Solene. Time to save the bond.”
Vaelen stares at him. “And when you wake?”
“I won’t,” Valenir says. “The draught is slow. It takes ten years to break. By then, the truth will be known. The bond will be safe. And I’ll be nothing but a memory.”
Elias studies him. Then, slowly, he nods. “It’s risky. But it might work.”
“It will work,” Valenir says. “But only if you keep it a secret. Only if you let them believe I’m dead. Only if you grieve.”
Vaelen looks at Elias. Elias nods.
And then—
Valenir drinks.
His body convulses. He falls to his knees. Vaelen catches him, lowers him gently to the floor. Elias’s hand finds his, squeezes.
“Protect the bond,” Valenir whispers.
“We will,” Elias says. “I swear it.”
Valenir smiles. Then his eyes close.
And he’s gone.
The vision shatters.
I gasp, collapsing to my knees, the photograph clutched in my fist, tears streaming down my face. My chest heaves. My body trembles. The bond screams, a tidal wave of pain and grief and knowing.
Valenir didn’t betray us.
He sacrificed himself.
To protect the bond.
To give us time.
And Solene—
She didn’t just kill Elias.
She exhumed Valenir.
She woke him.
And she corrupted him.
Twisted his loyalty. Poisoned his mind. Made him believe the bond was a lie. Made him believe Vaelen was the traitor.
And now—
Now he’s coming for us.
Not because he wants to destroy the bond.
But because he thinks he’s protecting it.
And I—
I almost ruined everything.
“Cascade!”
Vaelen’s voice. The door bursts open. He’s there, kneeling beside me, hands on my shoulders, his eyes wide with fear. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. I just collapse into him, sobbing, the photograph pressed between us, my fingers digging into his shirt.
He holds me. Tight. Unyielding. His arms like iron, his chest a solid wall against my tears. He doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t demand answers. Just lets me break.
And the bond—
It sings.
Not with hunger. Not with need.
With grief.
With truth.
With love.
Minutes pass. Hours. I don’t know. Finally, my breathing steadies. My tears slow. I pull back slightly, wiping my face with the back of my hand. His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a stray tear.
“You saw it,” he says, voice soft.
I nod. “He sacrificed himself. To protect the bond. To give us time.”
“And Solene woke him,” Vaelen says, voice tight. “She twisted his mind. Made him believe I was the traitor. Made him believe the bond was a lie.”
“And now he’s coming for us,” I whisper. “Because he thinks he’s protecting it.”
“Then we’ll make him remember,” Vaelen says, his grip tightening. “We’ll remind him of the truth. Of the oath he swore. Of the man he used to be.”
I look at him—really look. At the shadows under his eyes. At the scars on his chest. At the way his fingers tremble slightly as they brush my skin.
“Why would you do that?” I whisper. “Why would you risk confronting him? He’s your uncle. He raised you.”
“Because he’s not the man who raised me,” Vaelen says. “Not anymore. And if I don’t stop him, if I don’t make him see the truth, then Solene wins. And the bond—”
He pauses, his thumb tracing my jaw. “The bond is our only chance. Not just to survive. To live.”
“And if he won’t listen?” I ask. “If he attacks? If he tries to kill you?”
“Then I’ll fight,” Vaelen says. “But not to destroy him. To save him.”
I stare at him. “You could’ve told me. Anytime. You could’ve shown me this.”
“And if I had,” he says, “would you have believed me? Or would you have thought it was another lie? Another trick?”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
I wouldn’t have believed him.
Not then.
Not until now.
“Solene used me,” I say, voice hollow. “She raised me. Trained me. Told me Vaelen killed Elias. Told me the bond was a lie. Sent me here to destroy you. To ignite the war.”
“And you almost did,” Vaelen says. “But you didn’t. Because the bond is stronger than her lies. Stronger than her magic. Stronger than fate.”
I look down at the photograph. “He loved you.”
“He died for me,” Vaelen says. “And I—”
He stops.
I look up.
His eyes—crimson, ancient, aching—lock onto mine.
“I’ve loved you since we were children,” he says, voice raw. “Before the bond. Before the treaty. Before the war. I’ve loved you in every lifetime. And I’ll love you in every one after.”
My breath stops.
My heart hammers.
The bond screams—not with pain. Not with hunger.
With recognition.
With home.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I rise onto my knees, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him.
Not fierce. Not angry.
Soft.
Slow.
Real.
His lips part beneath mine. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer. The bond erupts—white-hot, all-consuming, a tidal wave of magic and emotion that throws us both back onto the floor.
But this time—
I don’t fight it.
I let it in.
I let him in.
And when we break apart, breathless, trembling, his forehead resting against mine, I whisper the words I never thought I’d say:
“I believe you.”
He closes his eyes, as if the words are a physical pain.
Then he opens them.
And for the first time—
I see it.
Not just hunger.
Not just possession.
Hope.
“Then stay with me,” he says. “Not because of the Council. Not because of the bond. But because you want to.”
I look at him—really look.
At the man who kept his promise.
At the man who let me hate him to keep me alive.
At the man who’s loved me for centuries.
And I know—
This isn’t vengeance.
This isn’t duty.
This is truth.
“I want to,” I whisper.
And the bond—
It sings.