I don’t sleep.
Not after the vault. Not after the blood. Not after the way I stood between Solene’s blade and Vaelen—again—like my body had already chosen him long before my mind could catch up. The fire has burned low again, casting flickering shadows across the stone floor, the same shadows that have watched me rage, weep, kiss him, and finally—choose him. His arm is still around me, heavy and warm, his chest a solid wall against my back. I can feel his heartbeat—steady, strong, alive—and the rhythm of his breath, slow and even. He’s asleep. Finally.
But I’m not.
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.
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.
The satchel is gone.
Stolen.
By Solene.
But we have something stronger now.
Truth.
And allies.
Elias is here. Alive. Not dead. Not gone. And he’s standing with us. Not just for me. Not just for the bond. But for the future. For the world Solene wants to twist into her own image of purity and control.
Kaelen is here. With his pack. With his loyalty. With the weight of the northern forests behind him.
And now—
We have the original Moonstone Treaty.
Sealed. Intact. Unbroken.
Proof that Solene forged the documents. That she lied. That she’s been manipulating the truth for ten years.
A soft knock at the door.
“Who is it?” I whisper, not moving.
“Dain,” the voice says, low. “The Council has called an emergency session. Mareth says it’s urgent. He’s already assembled the elders.”
I stiffen. My fingers tighten around the hilt of the silver dagger tucked beneath my pillow. The Council. After everything. After the vault. After the blood. After the way Solene nearly killed me trying to destroy the treaty.
“Why now?” I ask.
“He didn’t say,” Dain replies. “But he emphasized—no weapons. No magic. Just testimony.”
I glance at Vaelen. He’s still asleep, his breathing even, his fangs retracted. But the air around him hums with restrained power, like a storm waiting to break. I know he’s not truly asleep. Not with me so close. Not with the bond thrumming between us like a live wire.
“Let them wait,” I say. “We’re not running to their summons like obedient dogs. Not after what she did. Not after what she tried to destroy.”
“They know about the vault,” Dain says. “Word’s already spreading. The wards were breached. The treaty was taken. Mareth says if we don’t show, they’ll assume we’re hiding something.”
I exhale slowly. “Then we go. But on our terms. No disarming. No surrendering the treaty. And if Solene’s there—”
“She is,” Dain says. “She arrived an hour ago. Calm. Collected. Like she’s already won.”
I don’t answer.
But I believe him.
---
We arrive at the Council chamber twenty minutes later.
The air is thick with tension. The twelve thrones rise in a circle, each carved from a different species’ sacred stone. Mareth sits at the center, silver-haired, eyes like frozen mercury. To his right, Lyria—no longer smirking, no longer confident. Just watching. Waiting. To his left—
Solene.
She’s seated like a queen, her cloak lined with wolf fur, her eyes sharp with ambition. But there’s something different. A stillness. A quiet. A lie beneath the surface.
She sees me.
And for the first time—
She smiles.
“Prince Vaelen,” Mareth says, voice echoing through the chamber. “And Miss Cascade. You’ve been summoned to answer for your actions at the Moonstone Vault.”
“We didn’t break in,” I say, stepping forward. “We reclaimed what was stolen. What was forged. What was lied about for ten years.”
“And what proof do you have of this?” a witch elder demands. “The vault is sacred. Its wards are unbreakable without Elder blood.”
“My mother was an Elder,” I say, pulling the sealed scroll from my belt. “And her blood runs in my veins. I opened it with her blood. With her name. With her truth.”
I unroll the treaty. The vellum is thick, ancient, the wax seal unbroken. The sigils of our bloodlines—Duskbane and Faelorn—glow faintly under the chamber’s torchlight.
“This,” I say, holding it high, “is the original Moonstone Treaty. Untouched. Unaltered. And it proves Solene forged the documents she used to frame Vaelen. To turn the Council against us. To destroy the bond.”
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Solene laughs. Cold. Sharp. “And who told you this? Your bond? Your magic? Or your paranoia?”
“The vault’s wards confirmed it,” Vaelen says. “When she touched the seal, the magic reacted. The chamber trapped us. She knew we’d find it. Knew we’d bring it here. And she came to stop us.”
“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, holding a forged copy of the treaty. “Burn the original,” she whispers. “Let them believe it was destroyed. Let them believe the bond was broken.”
The chamber erupts.
“Fake!” Solene 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 protecting the Council. The bond is a corruption. It’s not love. It’s compulsion.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward. “The bond doesn’t make me love him. It makes me see him. Really see him. The man who let me hate him to keep me alive. The man who’s loved me for centuries.”
She doesn’t answer.
But her 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 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.
---
Later, we return to his chambers, the guards silent, watchful, as we pass. The fire is lit, the bed turned down, the satchel still hidden beneath the floorboard. He doesn’t sleep on the floor.
He lies beside me.
Close.
Our thighs brush.
The bond screams.
But this time—
Neither of us pulls away.
“You should rest,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the mark on my spine. “Tomorrow, we confront Valenir. We make him remember. We make him see the truth.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I ask.
“Then we fight,” he says. “But not to destroy him. To save him.”
I turn my head, looking up at him. “You’re impossible.”
He smirks. Slow. Dangerous. “And you’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive.”
I close my eyes. Breathe.
And for the first time in ten years—
I let myself rest.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m trapped.
But because I choose to.
Because I want to.
Because—
Despite everything—
Despite the lies, the betrayal, the blood—
I believe him.
And the bond—
It sings.