The morning after the Moon Ceremony, I woke tangled in furs, my body aching in the most delicious way—muscles sore from training, skin still humming from Kaelen’s touch, heart pounding with something I refused to name. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, not with its usual warning ache, but with a deep, satisfied thrum, like a beast that had finally claimed its mate. And maybe it had.
Kaelen was gone.
The other side of the bed was cold. The furs pulled tight. The fire burned to ash. But his scent lingered—pine, iron, wild—wrapped around me like a promise I wasn’t ready to believe in.
I sat up slowly, wrapping the furs around my shoulders. My gown from the ritual was crumpled on the floor, the laces torn, the fabric stained with his release. I didn’t look at it. Didn’t touch it. Just stared at the dying embers, my mind racing.
Last night—last night had been a surrender. Not just of my body. Of my *truth*. I’d let him touch me. Let him inside me. Let him see the way my body betrayed me, the way my magic screamed for his, the way my soul—*my soul*—had *opened* to him.
And worse—I hadn’t stopped him.
I’d *wanted* it.
Not because the bond demanded it. Not because I was trapped. But because I *wanted* him. Because when he’d looked at me, when he’d whispered, *“I still want to hate you too,”* I’d believed him. Because in that moment, with our bodies fused, our magic merged, our souls touching, I’d felt it—the truth.
We weren’t enemies.
We were *victims*.
Both of us.
And the real enemy—the imposter who’d worn Kaelen’s face, who’d killed Cael, who’d framed us both—was still out there.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, ignoring the faint tremor in my knees. The floor was icy beneath my bare feet. I dressed quickly—leather trousers, a thick wool tunic, boots laced tight. My knives were still hidden in the lining of my coat, where I’d sewn them before crossing the border. I checked the blade at my thigh. Still sharp. Still mine.
Good.
I wasn’t helpless. Not yet.
A knock at the door.
“Enter,” I said, voice steady.
The door opened, and a young she-wolf stepped in, carrying a tray of food—steaming porridge, black bread, a mug of something dark and fragrant. She was slight, her eyes downcast, her movements careful, like she was afraid to make a sound.
“Alpha’s orders,” she murmured, setting the tray on the low table. “He said you’re not to leave the chambers until he returns.”
“And if I do?”
She flinched. “I… I wasn’t told.”
I almost smiled. Almost. But I didn’t. Instead, I walked to the table and picked up the mug. The scent hit me first—bitter herbs, iron, something faintly sweet. Not poison. Not quite. But something designed to dull the senses, to keep a witch from casting.
“Did he brew this himself?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Silas brought it. From the healer.”
Of course. Silas. Kaelen’s shadow. The only one who dared speak when the Alpha was in a rage. The one who watched too closely, who saw too much.
I set the mug down. “I’ll pass.”
She didn’t argue. Just bowed and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
I waited until her footsteps faded. Then I poured the tea into the hearth, watching the flames hiss as the liquid hit the coals. The porridge and bread I left untouched. I didn’t trust anything in this den. Not the food. Not the silence. Not the way the walls seemed to breathe when no one was looking.
I went to the window.
The fortress sprawled below, carved into the mountain like a beast’s ribcage. Smoke curled from chimneys. Wolves moved through the courtyards, their breath fogging in the cold air. Guards patrolled the walls, their eyes sharp, their claws half-extended. This was a war camp, not a home. A kingdom built on blood and fear.
And somewhere in it—was the Ashen Blood Sigil.
Elira’s last words echoed in my mind: *“It’s hidden where the moon bleeds.”*
The Moon Vault.
I’d seen it. I’d stood in its doorway, felt the pulse of the Sigil, seen the silver disc hovering above the obsidian pedestal. Thirty days. That’s all I had to reclaim it. To awaken it. To save my bloodline.
But now—now I wasn’t sure I wanted to destroy it.
Because if I did, I’d destroy the last piece of Cael. The last piece of *me*.
And worse—if I destroyed it, I’d destroy the bond.
And if I lost the bond… I’d lose *him*.
I pressed my palm to the cold glass, grounding myself. Weakness. This was weakness. The bond was manipulating me, twisting my instincts, making me crave what I should despise. I couldn’t trust it. I couldn’t trust *him*.
But I also couldn’t deny it.
The bond was real. The mark on my collarbone still glowed faintly, a crescent moon wrapped in a wolf’s fang. And every time I moved too far from Kaelen, a dull ache pulsed in my chest, like a second heart beating out of rhythm.
“You’re staring into the storm like it holds answers,” his voice said from behind me.
I didn’t turn. “It holds silence. That’s enough.”
Heavy footsteps crossed the stone floor. Then he was beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. He didn’t look at me—just stared out at the fortress, his profile sharp in the dim light. The fire had died to embers, and the room was colder than I’d ever felt it, but he didn’t seem to notice. He never did.
“The council is in an uproar,” he said. “They want answers. About the ritual. About us.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“That it’s none of their business.” He turned, his eyes meeting mine. “You didn’t eat.”
“Your tea smelled like control.”
“It’s not poison.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I stepped away from the window, putting distance between us. “You keep trying to leash me. The oath. The tea. The locked doors. Do you think I don’t see it?”
“I’m trying to *protect* you.”
“From what? The council? Lira? Or from *me*?”
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “From yourself. From the bond. From the way your magic flares when I touch you. The way you *arch* into me.”
My breath caught.
“You think I don’t feel it?” he said, his voice dropping. “The way your pulse jumps. The way your body *aches* for mine. The way you came apart in my arms last night?”
Heat flooded my core. I squeezed my thighs together, cursing myself. He was toying with me. Testing me. And I was failing.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend this is about anything but power.”
“It’s about survival.”
“It’s about *you*.”
He was silent. Then, so softly I almost missed it: “Isn’t it always?”
I didn’t answer. Just pulled the furs tighter, trying to block out his heat, his scent, the way my body ached to turn and press against him.
He exhaled, slow, controlled. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“The imposter.” He stepped to the hearth, feeding dry kindling into the coals, coaxing the flames back to life. “The man who wore my face. Who killed your brother. Who framed me.”
My breath caught. “You believe me.”
“The bond doesn’t lie.” He turned, his eyes sharp. “But I need to *know*. I need to see his face. To know who I’m fighting.”
“Then we need to access the blood memory,” I said. “The last moments of Cael’s life. It’s the only way.”
“How?”
“Blood sigils. A ritual. It’ll be dangerous. Painful. But it’s the only way to see the truth.”
He studied me. “And if it shows you something you don’t want to see?”
“Then I’ll face it.” I met his gaze. “Just like you faced the memory of your captivity. Just like you let me see you broken.”
He stilled. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Then do it.”
—
The ritual required preparation—black candles, salt, a silver bowl, and my blood. I drew the sigils on the stone floor in careful, precise lines, the ancient runes glowing faintly as I whispered the activation phrase. Kaelen watched from the edge of the chamber, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the scar above his brow.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “We can find another way.”
“There is no other way.” I cut my palm with a ceremonial dagger, letting the blood drip into the bowl. “The bond showed us pieces. Fragments. But I need the full memory. I need to see his face.”
He didn’t argue. Just stepped closer, his presence a wall behind me. “If it becomes too much—”
“I’ll stop,” I said. “But I won’t.”
He didn’t answer. Just placed a hand on my shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. “I’m here.”
I nodded, then closed my eyes and began the incantation.
The room grew cold. The candles flickered. The sigils flared gold, then red, then black. My blood rose to the surface, swirling in the bowl like a storm. And then—
Pain.
Sharp. Blinding. Like a blade through my skull. I gasped, my body convulsing, my magic unraveling. The vision slammed into me—
The pyre. Flames roaring. Cael chained to a post, his body broken, his eyes wide with betrayal. The imposter standing over him, wearing Kaelen’s face, his silver fangs bared, his voice cutting through the wind. “Traitor,” he says. “Execution. Justice.”
Cael looks at me. His lips move. “Forgive me.”
The blade falls.
The scream.
The blood.
And then—me. On my knees. Crying. Begging. The mark on my collarbone burning, glowing gold, as the bond drags me forward, toward the pyre, toward *him*.
“You’re mine,” the imposter whispers, his hands on my face. “And I will break you before I lose you.”
“No,” I sob. “You killed him. You killed Cael.”
“Did I?” His grip tightens. “Or did someone else wear my face? My scent? My voice?”
My breath catches. “What?”
“The bond doesn’t lie, Morgana. But *people* do.”
And then the dream shifts—flames engulfing us, the mark on my collarbone blazing, my magic surging, reaching for *his*, merging—
I woke with a gasp.
The room was dark. The candles out. The sigils dim. And Kaelen was holding me, his arms locked around my waist, his face buried in my hair. I was shaking, my body drenched in sweat, my breath coming in short, desperate bursts.
“Morgana,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You’re back.”
“I saw it,” I choked out. “I saw *him*. The imposter. He killed Cael. He wore your face. Your scent. Your voice.”
“But it wasn’t me.”
“No.” I turned in his arms, my hands fisting in his shirt. “It wasn’t you. You were trapped. Powerless. And I—” My voice broke. “I thought you’d killed him. I thought *you* were the monster.”
He didn’t flinch. Just pulled me closer, his mouth finding my neck, not to bite, but to comfort. “And I thought you were here to destroy me. But you were here to avenge your brother. To reclaim what was stolen.”
Our eyes met.
And in that moment, with his body wrapped around mine, his breath warm on my skin, the bond humming between us, I realized something terrifying.
I didn’t hate him.
And if I didn’t hate him—
What was I even fighting for?
“We find him,” I whispered. “Together.”
He didn’t hesitate. Just nodded, his forehead resting against mine. “Together.”
And for the first time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—revenge wasn’t the only thing I had left to fight for.
Maybe I was fighting for *us*.
And maybe that was enough.