MORGANA

I came here to kill the Wolf King.

And now I’m standing in the heart of the Ashen Circle, the nomadic coven of witches who raised me, my bare feet on the packed earth, the scent of sage and bone dust thick in the air. The tents rise around me like ghosts in the mist, their flaps stitched with ancestral sigils that pulse faintly with power. Drums beat in the distance—slow, steady, ancient. The rhythm matches my pulse, matches the bond, matches the war that hums beneath my skin.

I shouldn’t be here.

Not because they’ll turn me away.

But because they’ll know.

Know that I came not as a daughter.

But as a queen.

As a weapon.

As a woman who has chosen love over vengeance, and now must ask for help to keep it.

Kael stands behind me, silent, still, his presence a storm. He hasn’t spoken since we crossed the border into Balkan wilds. Hasn’t touched me. Just watches, his gold eyes burning, his fangs retracted but ready. He knows this place is sacred. Knows it’s where I learned to survive. Knows it’s where I learned to hate.

And he knows—

I don’t know if I can trust them.

The coven’s Elder, Mother Sable, steps from the largest tent—tall, gaunt, her skin etched with scars from old rituals, her eyes milky white with blindness and sight. She wears a cloak of raven feathers, her staff carved from the spine of a long-dead witch. Her voice, when she speaks, is like wind through dry leaves.

“Morgana,” she says. “Daughter of the lost line. You return with fire in your blood and a wolf at your back.”

“I return with truth,” I say, stepping forward. “And a war at my heels.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. Just lifts her staff, tracing a sigil in the air. It flares—golden, then black, then gone. The air crackles. The drums stop.

“The bond is real,” she says. “But so is the lie.”

“What lie?” Kael growls.

“That you saved her,” Mother Sable says. “That you are her salvation. You are her curse. The bond feeds on pain. On war. On death. And it will consume her—unless she breaks it.”

I press two fingers to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. The bond hums beneath my skin, a live wire stretched taut, feeding me his strength, his rage, his love.

“It’s not a curse,” I say. “It’s a choice.”

“Is it?” Mother Sable asks. “Or is it the magic of a desperate girl who finally found someone who sees her? Who wants her? Who needs her?”

My breath catches.

Because she’s right.

And that terrifies me.

“I didn’t choose it to survive,” I say. “I chose it to live.”

She studies me—blind eyes seeing more than sight ever could. “Then prove it,” she says. “Prove you are not just a woman in love. Prove you are a witch. A queen. A warrior.”

“How?” I ask.

“The Trial of Blood,” she says. “One spell. One life. One truth.”

My blood turns to ice.

The Trial of Blood.

Not the Council’s ritual.

This is older.

Darker.

A witch’s trial. A test of will, of power, of sacrifice. To cast a spell that requires blood—your own, or another’s. To face the truth it reveals. To survive the cost.

“And if I fail?” I ask.

“You die,” she says. “Or worse—you live, but broken. Hollow. A shell of what you were.”

Kael steps forward, his body a wall of heat, his fangs bared. “She doesn’t have to do this.”

“She does,” Mother Sable says. “Because if she walks away without proving herself, the coven will not aid her. And without us—” She turns her milky eyes toward the horizon. “—you will fall.”

I press my palm to the mating mark on my chest. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

Kael turns to me. “Morgana—”

“I have to,” I say. “Not for them. For me. For us.”

He stills.

Lifts his head.

Looks at me—gold eyes burning, fangs just visible in the torchlight. “Then I’ll be with you,” he says. “Every step.”

“No,” I say. “This is mine.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath hot against my lips. “You’re not just my mate,” he murmurs. “You’re my equal.”

“And you’re mine,” I say. “Now watch me burn.”

The coven gathers in a wide circle around the fire pit, their faces shadowed, their hands clasped. The air hums with old magic, with the weight of oaths, with the memory of blood. Mother Sable stands at the center, her staff raised, her voice chanting in the Old Tongue—words that twist like smoke, that burn like fire, that cut like glass.

I step into the circle, barefoot, dressed in a simple shift of undyed linen. No weapons. No armor. Just my magic. Just my blood. Just the truth.

“Cast your spell,” Mother Sable says. “Let the blood speak.”

I close my eyes.

And I reach.

Not for power.

Not for vengeance.

For memory.

I press my palm to my chest, over the mating mark, and I pull—not from my magic, but from my soul. From the wound I’ve carried since I was ten. From the night I watched my mother burn. From the years I spent hating. From the moment I realized I loved him.

And then—

I slice my palm with the ritual dagger.

Blood wells—dark, thick, laced with fae and witch blood. I let it fall to the fire.

And the spell begins.

Not with words.

Not with runes.

With truth.

The fire roars—golden, then black, then gone. The air crackles. The ground trembles. And then—

I see it.

Her.

My mother.

Not in the temple.

Not in death.

In the Ashen Circle.

She’s standing before Mother Sable, her silver circlet gone, her robes torn, her hands bound in suppression cuffs. She’s not afraid. Not broken. Just… resolute.

And around her—

The witches.

My mentors. My teachers. The women who raised me.

Their faces are cold. Their eyes sharp. Their hands on their blades.

“You brought the war to us,” one says. “You defied the Fae. You chose the wolf. And now they’ll come for us.”

“I chose peace,” my mother says. “I chose life. I chose my daughter.”

“And for that,” Mother Sable says, “you will be cast out. Your bloodline severed. Your name erased.”

“Then do it,” she says. “But know this—” She lifts her head, gold eyes burning. “—my daughter will survive. And one day, she’ll return. And she’ll burn the world for what you’ve done.”

The vision shatters.

I collapse to my knees, my breath ragged, my hands trembling. Tears spill down my face, hot and silent. The fire dims, the magic fading, the drums still.

But the truth—

It remains.

Mother Sable stands before me, her staff lowered. “You see now,” she says. “We did not abandon you. We were forced to. The Fae threatened to burn the coven if we sheltered you. So we let you go. We let you believe we had cast you out. So you would be safe.”

I press my forehead to the earth, my fingers clutching the soil. “You let me hate you,” I whisper. “You let me believe I was alone.”

“And it saved your life,” she says. “And now—” She lifts her staff. “—you’ve returned. Not as a lost child. But as a queen. A warrior. A witch.”

I lift my head.

Gold meets milky white.

“Then help me,” I say. “Not for loyalty. Not for duty. But because if they win—if the Fae, the Council, Thorne—they’ll come for you next. They’ll burn this place. They’ll erase your names. They’ll kill your daughters.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Just nods.

And then—

The coven kneels.

One by one, they drop to one knee, their heads bowed, their hands over their hearts. Not to me.

To the truth.

To the war.

To the future.

“We are yours,” Mother Sable says. “Not as a coven. But as a family. As a weapon. As a storm.”

I don’t answer.

Just press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.

And I know—

Maybe I don’t have to win this war.

Maybe I don’t have to destroy them.

Maybe—

Maybe I can just belong.

But not yet.

Because first—

We have to burn the past.

We return to the temple by dawn.

The white stone rises from the ash. Silver vines curl through the cracks. Floating orbs of soft light ignite in the air. The sigils on the floor pulse with power—fae magic, witchcraft, werewolf strength, vampire blood—all of it. It’s not just a temple.

It’s a kingdom.

And it’s ready.

Kael is already there, standing in the center, his presence a storm. He turns as I approach, his gold eyes burning, his fangs just visible in the torchlight.

“You did it,” he says.

“We did it,” I say, stepping into his arms. “Together.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just pulls me into his chest, his arms locking around me, his heartbeat steady against my ear. “You’re not just my mate,” he murmurs. “You’re my queen.”

“And you’re mine,” I say. “And if they come again—” I lift my head, gold eyes burning. “—we’ll burn them together.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just kisses me.

Not gentle.

Not sweet.

Violent.

His mouth crashes into mine, his fangs scraping my lips, his tongue claiming me like he owns me. And I—

I kiss him back.

My hands fist in his coat, pulling him closer, my body arching into his, my core aching, needing. The bond flares—golden light erupting between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic. The wind howls. The stone trembles. The temple hums with power.

And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Fast. armed.

I break the kiss slowly, my breath ragged, my fangs bared. I don’t turn. Don’t release him. Just hold him tighter, my body a wall between him and the threat.

“Morgana,” a voice calls. Cold. Regal. Familiar.

My blood turns to ice.

I know that voice.

Elder Veylin.

One of the three Fae High Elders. The man who stood beside my mother as she was executed. The one who declared her a traitor. The one who helped burn our temple to ash.

And now he’s here.

At my door.

Again.

Kael growls, low and rough, his body coiling. “You don’t have to answer,” he says.

“I do,” I say, stepping forward. “They’ll come for me. They’ll come for you. And if I don’t go—” I press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. “—they’ll use it against us.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just steps beside me, his presence a storm, his gold eyes burning.

I open my eyes.

Elder Veylin stands at the edge of the temple, tall and pale, his silver robes edged with black runes, his staff raised. Behind him, two Fae guards flank the corridor, their eyes cold, their hands on their blades.

“Daughter of the High Priestess,” he says, voice echoing in the stone hall. “You are summoned before the Fae High Court. Come.”

“I’m not your daughter,” I say, stepping forward. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t flinch.

Just turns and walks.

I follow.

Kael at my side.

The corridors are silent. The torches flicker with unnatural blue at the edges. The scent of iron and pine fades, replaced by something older—moonflowers, frost, the cold magic of the Fae. We ascend through the fortress, through hidden passages, through veils of glamour that shimmer like mist. And then—

We step into the Fae Enclave.

Ice-carved walls. Silver vines. Floating orbs of soft light. The air is thick with ancient power, with the weight of oaths, with the memory of betrayal. The High Court chamber is circular, the floor etched with runes that pulse faintly with magic. Three thrones rise at the center—onyx, carved with fae script, glowing with cold fire.

The other two Elders are already seated.

Elder Solen—her hair like spun moonlight, her eyes sharp as glass. And Elder Nyx—his face half-hidden in shadow, his voice like smoke.

They don’t rise.

Don’t greet me.

Just watch.

“Morgana,” Elder Veylin says, taking his seat. “Daughter of the traitor. Heir to nothing. You stand before the Fae High Court.”

“I don’t,” I say. “I stand before the men who murdered my mother. Who framed her. Who burned our temple to hide their lies.”

“Silence,” Elder Solen snaps. “You speak to your betters.”

“I speak to my enemies,” I say. “And I don’t kneel to murderers.”

Elder Nyx leans forward, his voice low, dangerous. “You have no right to challenge us. You are half-blood. Half-witch. An abomination.”

“And yet,” I say, lifting my chin, “I’m the only one who survived. The only one who remembers. The only one who knows the truth.”

“The truth?” Elder Veylin laughs. “That you’ve been claimed by a wolf? That you’ve let him mark you? That you’ve forsaken your blood, your magic, your duty?”

“I haven’t forsaken anything,” I say. “I’ve embraced it. I’m not just Fae. I’m not just witch. I’m both. And I’m stronger for it.”

“You are weak,” Elder Solen says. “Tainted by the wolf’s bond. Corrupted by his touch. And now, you threaten the balance.”

“The balance?” I say. “You mean your control. Your power. Your lies.”

“Enough,” Elder Nyx says, standing. “You have one choice. One path. Return to us. Renounce the wolf. Break the bond. And we will spare you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you are declared traitor,” he says. “And you will be branded. Hunted. Killed.”

“And Kael?”

“He will die,” Elder Veylin says. “And the Iron Court will burn.”

I don’t flinch.

Just press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.

“You don’t get to choose for me,” I say. “Not anymore. I’m not your weapon. I’m not your pawn. I’m not your daughter. I’m a queen. And I rule beside the man I love.”

“You love a monster,” Elder Solen hisses.

“And you serve cowards,” I say. “Who let my mother die to protect their secrets. Who let Kael take the blame so they wouldn’t have to.”

“Silence!” Elder Nyx roars. “You will obey. Or you will die.”

“Then kill me,” I say, stepping forward. “But know this—” I raise my hand, the mating mark glowing. “—if you harm me, the bond will destroy you. If you harm him, I will burn your court to ash. And if you try to take what’s mine—” I lift my chin, gold eyes burning. “—I will make you regret the day you ever touched my mother’s blood.”

The runes on the floor ignite—golden light erupting across the chamber, the air crackling with magic. The torches blaze. The Elders stumble back.

“The bond is confirmed!” Elder Solen shouts. “The mate-mark is sealed!”

“And so is my choice,” I say. “I am not yours. I am his. And I will never bow to you again.”

“Then you are condemned,” Elder Nyx says, voice cold. “Leave this place. And know—” He steps forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “—we will not forget. We will not forgive. And we will not stop.”

“Neither will I,” I say. “And next time, I won’t warn you.”

I turn and walk away.

Kael at my side.

The corridors blur. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. My hands tremble. My vision blurs. I don’t stop. Don’t slow. Just keep moving, my bare feet silent on the stone, my heart pounding, my pulse racing.

And then—

I see it.

Not in front of me.

Not in the stone.

In the air.

A whisper.

From the wind.

From the magic.

From the bond.

“She’s coming.”

I stop.

Kael tenses. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But they’re not afraid. And they’re not alone.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just steps in front of me, his body a wall of heat, his fangs bared, his claws extended.

And then—

From the mist, a figure emerges.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in black silk, her hair like spun silver, her eyes burning with ancient fire.

Elder Solen.

One of the three Fae High Elders.

The woman who declared my mother a traitor.

The one who helped burn our temple to ash.

And now she’s here.

At my door.

Again.

“Morgana,” she says, voice echoing in the stone. “Daughter of the High Priestess. You stand before the Fae High Court.”

“I don’t,” I say, stepping forward, my dagger in hand, my back straight. “I stand before the woman who murdered my mother. Who framed her. Who burned our temple to hide their lies.”

“Silence,” she snaps. “You speak to your betters.”

“I speak to my enemies,” I say. “And I don’t kneel to murderers.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Just raises her hand.

And behind her—

Dozens of fae emerge from the mist.

Armed. Armored. ready.

“You have one choice,” she says. “Return to us. Renounce the wolf. Break the bond. And we will spare you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you are declared traitor,” she says. “And you will be branded. Hunted. Killed.”

“And Kael?”

“He will die,” she says. “And the Iron Court will burn.”

I don’t flinch.

Just press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.

“You don’t get to choose for me,” I say. “Not anymore. I’m not your weapon. I’m not your pawn. I’m not your daughter. I’m a queen. And I rule beside the man I love.”

“You love a monster,” she hisses.

“And you serve cowards,” I say. “Who let my mother die to protect their secrets. Who let Kael take the blame so they wouldn’t have to.”

“Silence!” she roars. “You will obey. Or you will die.”

“Then kill me,” I say, stepping forward. “But know this—” I raise my hand, the mating mark glowing. “—if you harm me, the bond will destroy you. If you harm him, I will burn your court to ash. And if you try to take what’s mine—” I lift my chin, gold eyes burning. “—I will make you regret the day you ever touched my mother’s blood.”

The runes on the ground ignite—golden light erupting across the ravine, the air crackling with magic. The torches blaze. The fae stumble back.

“The bond is confirmed!” one of them shouts. “The mate-mark is sealed!”

“And so is my choice,” I say. “I am not yours. I am his. And I will never bow to you again.”

She doesn’t answer.

Just turns and vanishes—cloak dissolving into mist, footsteps fading into silence.

And then—

Silence.

Just the wind. The stone. The bond.

Kael turns to me, his gold eyes burning. “They’ll come back,” he says.

“Let them,” I say. “Because if they do—” I press my palm to the mating mark on his chest. “—we’ll burn them together.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just pulls me into his chest, his arms locking around me, his heartbeat steady against my ear.

And I know—

Maybe I don’t have to win this war.

Maybe I don’t have to destroy them.

Maybe—

Maybe I can just belong.

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.

Marked by the Wolf King

The first time Morgana sees him, he’s standing over a corpse—her mother’s body at his feet, her silver circlet in his hand. Ten years old, hidden in the shadows, she watches as the Wolf King declares the Fae Coven traitors and burns their temple to ash. She survives. She learns. She becomes a weapon.

Now, at twenty-seven, she returns to the Iron Court disguised as a neutral envoy from the Northern Witches, her magic veiled, her scent masked. Her mission: sabotage the Blood Moon Treaty that will cement werewolf supremacy over all supernaturals. She plans to kill the King during the ceremonial bond-rune exchange—until their fingers brush, and a golden mark flares across both their chests. The crowd roars. The Council declares them Fated. The bond is irreversible. And he—Kael, the Wolf King—smirks like he’s known her soul all along.

But his touch is fire. His voice, a growl that sinks into her bones. When he pins her against the obsidian door after the ceremony, his fangs grazing her pulse, whispering, “You’ve been mine since the night I killed your mother,” she doesn’t know whether to bite him… or kiss him back.

Because the bond doesn’t just crave union—it demands it. And if she resists too long, the fever will break her mind. Meanwhile, whispers rise: a rival queen claims she once bore his heir; a vampire lord wants Morgana’s blood for immortality; and the Fae High Court watches, waiting to see if she’ll burn the world for vengeance… or let it burn for love.