I don’t sleep.
Not after the visions. Not after the truth. Not after the way Vaelen held me, how his voice cracked when he said he’d loved me in every lifetime, how his hands trembled as they brushed my tears. The bond hums beneath my skin, no longer a curse, no longer a weapon—but a living thing, pulsing with something I can’t name. Something warm. Something real. But it’s also heavy. Thick. Like a fever has taken root in my blood, spreading through my veins, tightening in my core. The mark on my spine flares with every heartbeat, a dull throb, a constant reminder of what I’ve done—what I’ve let him do. I told myself it was the ritual. The Blood Moon. The magic. But the truth is, I didn’t just submit. I participated. I moaned. I clawed his back. I screamed his name. I let him mark me.
And I’d do it again.
The thought doesn’t terrify me anymore.
It thrills me.
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 claiming, of the way he thrust inside me until I came apart, of the way the bond sang not with magic, not with politics, but with something deeper. Something real.
And now—
Now I have proof.
Not just visions. Not just whispers from the dead. Not just blood-magic echoes.
Real proof.
The kind the Council can’t ignore.
I rise from the bed, my bare feet cold against the stone. The robe slips off one shoulder, the mark on my spine pulsing with every step. I need to move. Need to act. Need to fight. Not just for vengeance. Not just for duty.
For truth.
I pull on black trousers, a fitted tunic, lace up my boots. My lockpick goes back into my hair. The silver dagger into my boot. The satchel—now heavy with truth—I tuck beneath my arm. I don’t ask permission. Don’t wait for an escort. I open the door.
The guards are still outside. Silent. Watchful. But they don’t stop me. Don’t even look at me. Just part like shadows as I pass.
The castle is alive with tension—whispers ripple through the air, servants move quickly, guards stand at every corner. The failed assassination on Elder Mareth still hangs over us. The Blood Moon Ritual. The bond. The truth. It’s all unraveling.
I find Vaelen in the war room—standing over a map of the city, his back to me, his shoulders tense. Dain is beside him, speaking in low tones. They both turn as I enter.
“You’re awake,” Vaelen says, voice rough.
“So are you,” I say, stepping forward. “And so is Solene. And she’s not just a traitor. She’s a martyr in her own mind. A savior. A mother figure who sacrificed everything—her honor, her reputation, her student—for the greater good. And now she’s coming for us. Not to destroy the bond. To break it. To sever it with fire and blood and lies, because she thinks she’s protecting me. Protecting the fae. Protecting the world from what she believes is a cursed union.”
Dain’s eyes narrow. “You saw this?”
“In a vision,” I say, pulling the satchel from beneath my arm. “Using blood magic. Vaelen’s blood. I saw Solene—alive. Not dead. Not executed. Alive. And she didn’t kill Elias. She faked his death. Just like she faked Vaelen’s. Just like she faked her own.”
Vaelen steps closer. “You saw me?”
I nod. “You drank the sleeping draught. You let them believe you were dead. To protect the bond. To buy time. And she—”
“—woke me,” Vaelen says, voice tight. “Twisted my mind. Made me believe I was the traitor. Made me believe the bond was a lie.”
“And now she’s coming for us,” I whisper. “Because she thinks she’s protecting it.”
Vaelen’s jaw tightens. “Then we confront her. In the Council. Today.”
Dain shakes his head. “You can’t just accuse a Council Elder without proof. They’ll dismiss it as blood-magic delusion. Or worse—claim you’re under his influence.”
“Then we give them proof,” I say, opening the satchel. “Not just visions. Not just whispers. Documents. Transcripts. Surveillance logs. The vial of Solene’s blood. The ledger from the old archives. And—”
I pull out the photograph—faded, torn at the edges. The one from Chapter 12. Valenir, Elias, and Vaelen, standing together, smiling. Friends. Brothers.
“—this.”
Dain takes it, studies it. “This is old. Before the purge.”
“And it proves they knew each other,” I say. “That they were allies. That Solene didn’t just kill Elias—she used him. Made him disappear. Made me believe he was dead. Made me believe Vaelen killed him. Sent me here to destroy him. To ignite the war.”
Vaelen’s hand finds mine. “And you didn’t. Because the bond is stronger than her lies. Stronger than her magic. Stronger than fate.”
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.
“We go to the Council,” I say. “Today. We demand a hearing. We present the evidence. We make them see.”
Vaelen nods. “And if they don’t believe us?”
“Then we fight,” I say. “But not to destroy them. To save them.”
He smirks. Slow. Dangerous. “And you’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
I don’t smile.
But my fingers tighten around his.
---
The Council Chamber is a cavern of black stone, silver veins pulsing with ancient magic. Twelve thrones rise in a circle, each one carved from a different species’ sacred stone—obsidian for vampires, moonstone for fae, iron for werewolves, onyx for witches. The air is thick with tension, with power, with hunger.
We enter together—Vaelen and me. Hand in hand. Not as enemies. Not as pawns. As partners.
The Elders are already seated. Mareth at the center—ancient, silver-haired, eyes like frozen mercury. To his right, Lyria, draped in silk, her lips painted blood-red, her gaze sharp with malice. To his left, Valenir—older, scarred, his eyes burning with quiet fury. And at the far edge—
Solene.
She looks exactly as I remember her—silver hair pulled back, cloak lined with wolf fur, eyes sharp with ambition. But there’s something different. A hardness. A coldness. A lie beneath the surface.
She sees me.
And for the first time—
She flinches.
“Prince Vaelen,” Mareth says, voice echoing through the chamber. “And… Miss Cascade. You requested an emergency hearing?”
“We did,” Vaelen says, stepping forward. “To expose a traitor in your midst. A witch who has manipulated the Council, corrupted the records, and orchestrated the deaths of innocent lives—all to destroy the bond between fae and vampire.”
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
Lyria smirks. “How convenient. The accused accuses another.”
“We have proof,” I say, stepping forward. “Documents. Transcripts. Blood-magic visions. And a witness.”
“A witness?” Valenir scoffs. “From a half-breed witch who’s been under the vampire’s thrall since the Blood Moon?”
“The bond is not a thrall,” I say, voice steady. “It’s a truth. And the truth is—Solene is alive. She didn’t die ten years ago. She faked her death. She faked Elias’s death. She faked Vaelen’s. All to manipulate me. To send me here. To destroy him.”
Solene rises. “Lies. All of it. Blood magic twists the mind. You’ve been poisoned by his influence. You don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“Then let’s test it,” I say, pulling the vial from my belt. “Blood of memory. Show me the truth.”
I press the tip of my dagger to my palm. Blood wells. I let three drops fall onto the vial.
“Sanguis memoriæ, ostende mihi veritatem.”
The air shimmers. The vial glows. And then—
Light.
A vision unfolds above us—Solene, in the old archives, handing the vial to Elias. “Drink it,” she says. “To protect the bond.”
The chamber erupts.
“Fake!” Lyria shouts. “Projection magic!”
“No,” Mareth says, rising. “That’s blood-memory. Unforgeable.”
Solene’s face is stone. “Even if it’s real, it proves nothing. I was trying to protect the Council. To expose the Duskbane.”
“By framing an innocent?” Vaelen says. “By making me believe I was the traitor? By making her believe I killed her brother?”
“By saving the bond,” Solene says. “By keeping it hidden until the time was right.”
“And now?” I ask. “Now that the time is here? You’re trying to destroy it.”
She doesn’t answer.
But her eyes flick to Valenir.
And I see it.
The truth.
“You didn’t wake him,” I say, stepping forward. “You controlled him. You used blood magic. You twisted his loyalty. Made him believe the bond was a lie. Made him believe Vaelen was the traitor.”
Valenir’s eyes widen. “I… I don’t—”
“You were never a traitor,” I say. “You were a victim. Just like me.”
Solene’s hand flies to her dagger.
“Guards!” Mareth shouts.
But she’s fast.
She lunges—not at me.
At Vaelen.
Her blade flashes—silver, cursed, dripping with venom.
And I move.
Not thinking.
Not hesitating.
I step in front of him.
The blade sinks into my side—just below the ribs, deep, twisting.
But I don’t fall.
I can’t.
Because he’s behind me.
And I’m all that’s between him and death.
“Cascade—!”
His voice. Raw. Desperate. Shattered.
I turn. Slowly. Painfully. Blood drips from my side, pooling at my feet. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. My vision blurs.
But I’m still standing.
And Solene—
She’s frozen.
Because Vaelen is there—his hand around her throat, his fangs bared, his eyes glowing crimson.
“You don’t get to touch her,” he growls. “Not again. Not ever.”
He throws her back. She hits the ground, the blade skittering away.
And then—
Silence.
Just the drip of blood. The low hum of the wards. The pounding of my heart.
And him.
His arms around me. Pulling me close. Supporting my weight. His body warm against my back, his breath hot on my neck.
“You idiot,” he whispers. “You idiot. Why would you do that?”
I try to speak. Can’t.
The venom is spreading. My knees buckle. I fall to one knee, then the other. My vision blurs. My fangs—wait, no, I don’t have fangs—my hands clench the stone.
And then—
He’s there.
His arms around me. Lifting me. Carrying me.
Not like a prisoner.
Not like a burden.
Like something precious.
Like something hers.
---
The world comes back in fragments.
Firelight.
Stone walls.
The scent of moon-bloom and iron and something sweet, something his.
And him.
He’s beside me—kneeling on the floor, his hands pressing to the wound in my side, his magic flaring, his breath coming fast. Blood drips from his fingertip, smeared across the blade of his dagger. He whispers the words—“Sanguis pura, sanguis vera”—and the magic flows into me, slow, steady, agonizing.
The venom burns. My body rebels. My muscles spasm.
But I don’t pull away.
Because he’s here.
Because his hands are on me.
Because the bond—
It sings.
Not with pain.
Not with fear.
With need.
“You’re not supposed to do this,” I rasp. “Blood magic… it takes from you.”
“Shut up,” he says, not looking at me. “You took a poisoned blade for me. The least I can do is keep you from dying.”
“And if it kills you?” I ask.
“Then it kills me,” he says, voice flat. “But I’d rather die saving you than live knowing I let you die.”
My breath hitches.
He doesn’t see it. Doesn’t feel it. But I do.
Because those words—
They’re the truth.
And the truth is more dangerous than any blade.
Minutes pass. Hours. I don’t know. The venom retreats, slow, grudging, but it’s leaving. My strength returns. My magic stabilizes.
And then—
He stops.
His hand falls away. His breath comes fast. His face is pale. His lips are colorless.
“You’re drained,” I say, sitting up slowly. “You gave too much.”
“I gave enough,” he says, wiping his hand on his trousers. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
“And you?” I ask. “Are you alive?”
He glares at me. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” I say, reaching for him. “I’m asking.”
He doesn’t pull away.
My hand frames his face. My thumb brushes his cheek. His skin is cold. His breath hitches.
“You could’ve died,” I say, voice rough. “Because of me.”
“And you did,” he says. “Because of me. So I’d say we’re even.”
“We’re not,” I say. “Because I’d do it again. A hundred times. A thousand. I’d take every blade meant for you. I’d burn in every fire. I’d bleed in every war. Just to keep you alive.”
He stares at me. “Why?”
“Because I love you,” I say. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the Council. Not because of fate. Because of you. The man who let me hate him to keep me alive. The man who’s loved me for centuries. The man who’s standing here, naked, vulnerable, and still waiting for me to choose him.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
I rise onto my knees.
And I 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.