I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m sitting on a slab of cold stone, my back pressed to the wall, my wrists bound in iron cuffs etched with suppression runes. The air is thick with damp earth and old magic, the scent of iron and frost clinging to my skin like a second layer. Torchlight flickers from the corridor beyond the bars, casting long, shifting shadows across the cell floor. The runes on the walls pulse faintly—warded, silenced, warded again—designed to break magic, to break will, to break me.
But they won’t.
Because I’m not the woman who came here to assassinate a monster.
I’m the woman who loves him.
And love is stronger than iron.
The cuffs burn. Not just against my skin—though they do, cold and biting, the runes flaring each time I try to summon my magic—but deeper. Into my bones. Into my blood. Into the bond.
And the bond—
It’s screaming.
Not in pain.
Not in anger.
In loss.
It’s been hours since they dragged me from the war room. Hours since the Council declared me under arrest for treason. Hours since Kael—my king, my mate, the man who took poison for me—didn’t stop them.
He didn’t fight.
He didn’t roar.
He just watched.
Gold met gold. His eyes burned with something I couldn’t read—rage? Grief? Duty?—but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let Riven step forward and say the words: *“You’re under arrest. For the murder of the Fae envoy.”*
“What?” I’d gasped. “I didn’t—”
“The envoy was found dead in the eastern passage,” Riven said, his voice low, his gaze sharp. “Fae venom in his blood. Your sigil carved into the stone.”
“That’s impossible,” I said. “I was with Kael. All night.”
“And yet,” the High Elder said, stepping forward, “the magic points to you. The venom matches the poison used on the King. The sigil—*Vel’thar*—is one only a witch of Northern blood can carve.”
“So someone framed me,” I said, stepping toward Kael. “You know that. You know I didn’t do this.”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me—like he was seeing me for the first time.
Like he wasn’t sure.
And that—that—was what broke me.
They took me then. Not roughly. Not cruelly. But with cold precision. The cuffs snapped around my wrists. The suppression runes flared. My magic—wild, raw, alive—was ripped from me like a limb. I screamed. Not from pain. From the bond.
It flared—golden light erupting across the chamber, the runes on my chest glowing, the air crackling with magic.
And then—
It was gone.
Severed.
Not broken.
Not denied.
Suppressed.
And now—
It’s worse than pain.
It’s emptiness.
I press two fingers to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—faint, weak, like a dying flame. The runes on the cuffs flare, burning my skin, draining the heat, the light, the life. I hiss, pulling back, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Because if I stop touching it, if I stop reminding myself it’s still there—
Then I’ll start to believe they’ve won.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” a voice says from the corridor.
I lift my head.
The warden stands there—tall, pale, his eyes cold. He’s not werewolf. Not vampire. Not fae. Just a human, enhanced with blood magic, his veins black beneath his skin. He carries a tray—bread, water, a vial of dark liquid.
“Do what?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Touch the mark,” he says, stepping into the cell. “It’s forbidden. The bond is suspended. You’re not his queen here. You’re a prisoner.”
“I’ll always be his,” I say, pressing my fingers back to the mark. “No cell. No cuffs. No lie can change that.”
He sets the tray down, his movements slow, deliberate. “You think he’ll come for you?”
“I know he will,” I say.
“Then you’re a fool,” he says. “The Council has declared you a traitor. If you’re guilty, you’ll be executed. If you’re innocent—” He leans in, his breath cold against my skin. “—you’ll still be exiled. No mate bond can survive that.”
I don’t flinch.
Just press my palm to the mark, feeling the faint pulse beneath my skin. “You don’t understand,” I say. “It’s not just magic. It’s not just duty. It’s love. And love doesn’t die in a cell.”
He studies me. Then shakes his head. “You’ll die without him,” he says. “Or confess.”
“Then I’ll die,” I say. “But I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just turns and leaves, the door clanging shut behind him, the lock clicking into place.
Silence.
Just the drip of water from the ceiling, the flicker of torchlight, the faint hum of the suppression runes.
And then—
I dream.
Not of darkness.
Not of fear.
Of him.
Kael.
He’s standing in the war room, his presence a storm, his gold eyes burning. The bond hums between us—golden, fierce, alive. He reaches for me, his hand warm around mine, his thumb brushing my knuckles. “You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You could leave. Start over. Be free.”
“I am free,” I say. “Because I’m not running anymore. I’m not hiding. I’m not pretending I don’t love you.”
He stills.
His breath catches.
And then—
He pulls me into his chest, his arms locking around me, his heartbeat steady against my ear. “Say it again,” he murmurs.
“I love you,” I say, my voice breaking. “And I’m not afraid anymore.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds me.
And for the first time, I believe—
Maybe I don’t have to win this war.
Maybe I don’t have to destroy them.
Maybe—
Maybe I can just belong.
The dream shifts.
Now I’m in the lower tunnels, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old magic. Thorne stands before me, his black eyes burning. “You came,” he says. “You said you had the truth,” I say. “About my mother.”
“I do,” he says. “But you won’t like it.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “I need to know.”
“Your mother wasn’t executed for treason,” he says. “She was executed for refusing to commit it.”
My breath catches.
“The Fae High Court wanted her to betray the werewolves,” he continues. “To hand over the Blood Moon Treaty. But she refused. And when she wouldn’t comply, they framed her. They made it look like she was the one who wanted war. And to make it believable—” He steps closer. “—they needed a monster. A king who would burn her temple. Who would declare her a traitor. Who would take her circlet and wear it like a trophy.”
“Kael,” I whisper.
“He didn’t kill her,” Thorne says. “He watched her die. He lit the pyre to hide the truth. He took the blame so the peace wouldn’t shatter. So you could live.”
Tears spill down my face.
“He let you believe he was the monster,” Thorne says. “So you’d survive. So you’d grow strong. So one day, you could come back—and destroy the real ones.”
“He did it for me,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Thorne says. “And now—” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “—you have to decide. Will you keep fighting the man who saved you? Or will you stand with him and destroy the ones who killed your mother?”
I look up at him—black eyes, pale skin, fangs just visible in the torchlight.
And I know—
This isn’t just about truth.
It’s about power.
About war.
About the future.
“I’ve already chosen,” I say, voice steady. “I chose him. Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. But because I want to. Because I love him. Because he’s the only one who’s ever made me feel like I’m not just a weapon.”
Thorne studies me. Then smiles—slow, dark. “Then you’re ready.”
“For what?”
“The war,” he says. “Because it’s not coming.
It’s already here.”
The dream fractures.
Now I’m in the healing chamber, kneeling beside Kael on the cold stone floor, my fingers trembling as I press the silver dagger to his skin. The rune—*Vel’thar*—flares beneath his flesh, golden light erupting across the chamber, the air crackling with magic. The bond surges—stronger than ever, a flood of heat, of power, of truth. My magic flares—golden light erupting from my palms, my fae blood singing in my veins. The furs beneath him ignite. The torches blaze. The walls tremble.
And then—
I come back.
To the cell.
To the cuffs.
To the silence.
My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. My hands tremble. My vision blurs. I press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—faint, weak, alive. Not gone. Not broken. Just suppressed.
Like me.
But not for long.
Because I know the truth now.
Not just about my mother.
Not just about Kael.
About me.
I’m not just half-fae. Not just half-witch.
I’m both.
And I’m stronger for it.
The cuffs burn. The runes flare. The suppression magic coils around my magic like a serpent, squeezing, suffocating, starving it. But it can’t kill it. Not completely. Not when the bond still pulses beneath my skin, faint but there.
I close my eyes.
Focus.
Not on the pain.
Not on the fear.
On the bond.
On the memory of his hands. His voice. His breath against my neck. On the way he said *“You’re mine”* like it was a vow. Like it was a promise. Like it was the only truth in the world.
I press two fingers to the mating mark.
And I push.
Not with force.
Not with rage.
With love.
My magic—faint, weak, starving—responds. A flicker. A spark. A pulse. The runes on the cuffs flare, burning my skin, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Because if I stop, if I give in, they win.
And I won’t let that happen.
I push harder.
Deeper.
Into the bond.
Into the memory.
Into the truth.
And then—
A crack.
Faint. Small. But there.
The suppression magic wavers. The runes flicker. The bond—
It surges.
Just for a heartbeat.
Golden light erupts beneath my skin, the mating mark glowing, the air crackling with magic. The cuffs burn, the runes flaring, but I feel it—
Connection.
Not to the cell.
Not to the cuffs.
To him.
And in that moment—
I know.
He’s coming.
Not because of duty.
Not because of the bond.
Because he loves me.
And love doesn’t die in a cell.
The door clangs open.
I lift my head.
Not the warden.
Not a guard.
Lyra.
She steps inside, her dark hair braided with silver thread, her green eyes sharp. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t bow. Just walks straight to me, her boots silent on the stone. She kneels, pulls a small vial from her sleeve—dark liquid swirling inside.
“Fae venom antidote,” she says, voice low. “Just in case.”
“You don’t need it,” I say. “I’m not poisoned.”
“No,” she says. “But you will be. They’ll try to break you. With pain. With magic. With lies. And if they succeed—” She presses the vial into my hand. “—this will keep you alive long enough for him to get here.”
“He’s coming,” I say.
“Of course he is,” she says. “But they’ll try to stop him. The Council. The High Court. Seraphine. They’ll say it’s treason. That he’s choosing you over the pack.”
“And he will,” I say. “Because I’m not just his mate. I’m his queen.”
She smiles—small, sad. “Then you’d better be ready. Because when he comes—” She leans in, her voice dropping. “—it won’t be quiet. It won’t be peaceful. It’ll be war.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m ready to fight.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—faint, weak, alive. “Then survive,” she says. “For him. For us. For the truth.”
She turns to go.
“Lyra,” I say.
She stops.
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t look back. “Don’t thank me yet. The real war hasn’t started.”
Then she’s gone, vanishing into the shadows.
I clutch the vial, my fingers trembling. The cuffs burn. The runes flare. The bond pulses—faint, weak, alive.
And I know—
I won’t die here.
Not in this cell.
Not in these cuffs.
Because I’m not just a prisoner.
I’m a queen.
And queens don’t beg.
They burn.
I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now—
I think I love him.
And worse—
I don’t want to be anyone else.
Because I don’t want to be free.
Because I don’t want to be anything but his.
And if they think a cell can break me—
They’ve already lost.