The northern ridge was a blade of frozen earth jutting into the Veil’s bleeding sky—wind-scoured, lifeless, the ground cracked with frost veins that pulsed faintly with dark magic. We crested the rise just before dusk, the last light staining the snow crimson, the air so cold it burned my lungs with every breath. Avalon walked beside me, her boots silent on the ice, the new dagger strapped to her thigh, its sigils humming beneath the leather. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. But I could feel her—the bond thrumming between us, not with fire now, but with something deeper. Something quiet. Like the calm before the storm.
Silas was ahead, his wolf-shadow flickering at the edge of the torchlight, his golden eyes scanning the ridge line. The guards followed, silent, obedient, their weapons drawn, their breath curling in white plumes. They knew. They could feel it—the shift, the crack in the armor, the unraveling of control.
I was not the same man.
And neither was she.
We found them at the heart of the ridge—a circle of black stone, ancient, cracked, etched with runes that hadn’t been spoken in centuries. Vexis stood at the center, his coat of ash and shadow flaring behind him, his eyes like molten silver. Around him, seven figures in dark cloaks—rogue witches, exiled fae, corrupted lupines—the remnants of the Dark Council. And at his feet—
A bowl.
Not stone. Not metal.
Bone.
Carved from the skull of a Winter Court elder, its hollow depths filled with a liquid so black it seemed to swallow the light. Blood. Not fresh. Not human. Old. Tainted. Powerful.
“Nephew,” Vexis said, his voice smooth as poison. “You brought the hybrid. How… predictable.”
I didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, placing myself between him and Avalon. My coat flared behind me, the silver runes glowing faintly in the dim light. The bond pulsed—hot, immediate—and I knew she was watching me, her hand on the hilt of her dagger, her breath unsteady.
“You think this ends here?” I said, my voice low, rough. “You think a circle of broken stone and stolen blood will stop us?”
He smiled. Slow. Sharp. “It already has.”
And then—
He raised his hand.
The runes on the ground flared—crimson, then black, then white—and the air ripped open. Not with sound. Not with fire.
With truth.
Visions flooded me—Avalon, young, bleeding, her mother’s body at her feet. Me, centuries ago, my fangs buried in the throat of a witch who had loved me, then left me broken. Vexis, standing over my father’s corpse, whispering, “The throne is mine now.” The Blood Oath, not as a curse, but as a vow—“No love shall survive. No bond shall endure. The line will be broken.”
I staggered, my hand flying to the mark on my chest. It burned, not with pain, but with recognition. This wasn’t just magic.
This was a trial.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, turning to Avalon. “You don’t have to face him. Not like this.”
She didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, her silver-lavender eyes locked onto Vexis. “I do. Because this isn’t just about the Oath. It’s about the truth. And I’m done hiding from it.”
Vexis laughed—low, dark, the sound vibrating through the ridge like thunder beneath stone. “You think you can face the truth, little half-breed? You, who’ve spent your life pretending you’re not afraid? You, who’ve let a vampire claim you to survive?”
“I didn’t let him claim me,” she said, her voice steady. “I claimed him. And he let me.”
The bond flared—hot, undeniable—and I stilled, my breath catching in my throat. She’d said it before. But now, in front of him, in front of the Dark Council, in front of the world—
It was a declaration.
A vow.
“Then prove it,” Vexis said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Drink.”
He gestured to the bowl.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping forward.
“Cursed blood,” he said. “From the first witch who loved a vampire. It will show her the truth of her bloodline. The truth of her mother. The truth of you.”
“And if she refuses?”
“Then she’s not the heir,” he said. “She’s not the key. And the Oath stands.”
Silence.
Not empty. Not still.
It pulsed.
I turned to Avalon. Her jaw was clenched. Her chest rose and fell too fast. But her eyes—
They were alive.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “I’ll drink it. I’ll face the trial. You don’t have to—”
“No,” she said, cutting me off. “This is mine. My blood. My name. My curse. And I’m the only one who can break it.”
My chest tightened.
Not from anger.
From pride.
She stepped forward, her boots cracking against the ice, and knelt before the bowl. The sigils flared, the blood swirling, rising in a slow, dark spiral. She didn’t hesitate. Just dipped her fingers into the liquid, then brought them to her lips.
And drank.
The moment the blood touched her tongue, the ridge exploded.
Not with sound. Not with fire.
With memory.
Visions flooded her—her mother, young, fierce, her silver-lavender eyes wide with defiance as she stood before the Council, her voice ringing through the chamber. *“I did not rebel. I loved. And love is not a crime.”* The executioner’s blade. The blood on the stone. The silence that followed.
And then—
Vexis.
Standing over her body, his hand on her throat, his fangs buried in her neck. Not to feed. Not to kill.
To bind.
Her blood, drawn in a circle. The Oath Stone pulsing. The runes flaring. A vow spoken in blood, in pain, in revenge.
“No witch shall love a vampire and live. No child of their union shall walk free. The bloodline shall be bound, generation to generation, until the last heir breaks the chain… or dies trying.”
She screamed.
Not from pain.
From truth.
Her body convulsed, her back arching off the ground, her fingers clawing at the ice. The bond flared—white-hot—and I was at her side in an instant, my arm around her waist, pulling her against me. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her skin burning, her fangs fully descended now, her eyes wide, unseeing.
“Avalon,” I said, my voice rough. “Look at me. Look at me.”
She didn’t. Just writhed in my arms, her body trembling, her voice a low, guttural moan. The cursed blood was working—tearing through her veins, forcing her to face the past, the pain, the grief she’d buried for years.
And I—
I couldn’t let her face it alone.
“Kael, no—” Silas said, stepping forward. “It’s not meant for you. It could kill you.”
“Then I’ll die with her,” I said.
And I dipped my fingers into the bowl.
The blood was cold. Thick. Alive.
I brought it to my lips.
And drank.
The moment it touched my tongue, the world shattered.
Not with sound. Not with fire.
With truth.
Visions flooded me—Avalon, the night of the ritual, her hand on my waist in sleep, her lips on my neck. The child with silver-lavender eyes, laughing in a sunlit garden. The war. The blood. The fire. The betrayal. Me, standing over her body, a dagger in my hand, her blood on my lips, my face streaked with tears.
I had killed her.
I gasped, staggering, my body drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. The mark on my chest burned, not with pain—but with fire. The bond flared, white-hot, and I turned—
Avalon was watching me.
Her eyes were silver-lavender, wide, unguarded. Her hand was on my chest—just resting there, her palm flat against the mark, her fingers curled slightly, as if she’d reached for me in her sleep and hadn’t realized it.
“You did it,” she said, her voice rough. “You drank it. You faced it.”
“So did you,” I said, my breath ragged. “And you didn’t break.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
Instead, she leaned into me, her forehead resting against mine, her breath mingling with mine. The bond hummed between us—no longer a scream, no longer a curse.
A song.
And then—
Vexis laughed.
Not mocking.
Not triumphant.
But angry.
“You think this changes anything?” he said, stepping forward, his eyes molten silver, his voice guttural. “You think drinking cursed blood makes you strong? You think facing the past makes you free?”
“It makes us real,” Avalon said, standing, her body still trembling, but her voice steady. “And that’s more than you’ll ever be.”
He didn’t flinch. Just raised his hand—and the runes flared again, the dark magic surging, the ground cracking beneath our feet. The Dark Council moved, forming a circle around us, their eyes glowing with power, their hands raised.
“Then let’s see how real you are,” he said. “When you’re dead.”
And then—
Chaos.
Spells tore through the air—crimson, black, silver—lightning arcing across the ridge, the ground splitting, the ice shattering. Silas shifted, his wolf-form a blur of gold and shadow, tearing through the ranks of the Dark Council. The guards fought, their weapons flashing, their shadows flickering. But Vexis—
He came for Avalon.
And I—
I moved.
Not with speed. Not with power.
With truth.
I stepped in front of her, my body a shield, and took the full force of his spell—a bolt of black fire that ripped through my chest, burning through flesh, through bone, through soul. I screamed, not from pain, but from release, as the mark on my chest burned, not with pain—but with fire. The bond flared—white-hot—and I turned—
Avalon was watching me.
Her eyes were silver-lavender, wide, unguarded. Her hand was on my chest—just resting there, her palm flat against the wound, her fingers curled slightly, as if she’d reached for me in her sleep and hadn’t realized it.
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
And then—
She kissed me.
Not angry. Not desperate.
But true.
Her lips crashed against mine, hard and demanding, her hand fisted in my hair, holding me still. I didn’t kiss her back—couldn’t. I was frozen, stunned, my body rigid against hers. But I didn’t pull away. And that was enough.
The bond screamed.
Fire ripped through my veins, magic surging between us, lighting the sigils on the ground until the entire ridge blazed with silver light. I could taste her—mint and iron and something wild—and for one reckless second, I forgot why I was here. Forgot the war. Forgot the truce. Forgot everything but the way her lips felt beneath mine.
And then—
She bit me.
Not a love bite. Not a tease.
A wound.
My fangs sank into her lower lip, breaking skin, drawing blood. She groaned—low, guttural, aroused—and the bond exploded, a surge of magic so violent it made the walls shake. I tasted her—her blood, her power, her soul—and for the first time, I didn’t pull away.
I fed.
Just a sip. Just a taste.
But it was enough.
She broke the kiss, stepping back, her lip bleeding, her breath ragged, her eyes blazing. The mark on her collarbone burned, not with pain—but with fire.
“You’d hate me for it,” she said, breathless.
“I already do,” I whispered.
And then—
She smiled.
Not warm. Not kind.
A predator’s smile.
“Good,” she said. “Then you’ll remember.”
The battle raged on.
But we—
We were no longer just fighting.
We were alive.
And the moon—
The moon was watching.