I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m standing in the heart of the Iron Vault—the ancient chamber buried beneath the fortress, where the bones of the first werewolf kings are entombed in black stone. The air is thick with the scent of old blood, iron, and something deeper—something wrong.
It’s not just magic.
It’s rot.
The runes on the walls pulse with a sickly green light, not gold, not silver, not any color I’ve ever seen in the temple or the coven. They writhe like living things, etched into the stone with claws, not knives. The floor is cracked, veins of dark ooze seeping through, spreading like infection. And at the center—
A sarcophagus.
Not of stone.
Of flesh.
Twisted, pulsing, veined with blackened arteries that throb in time with a heartbeat I can’t hear but feel—deep in my bones, in my blood, in the bond.
Kael stands beside me, silent, still, his presence a storm. But this time, he’s not coiled with rage. Not burning with defiance. He’s… still. Too still. His gold eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on the sarcophagus like he’s seeing a ghost.
And maybe he is.
“This place,” he murmurs, voice rough, “was sealed centuries ago. No one was supposed to enter. Not even the Alpha.”
“Then why are we here?” I ask, stepping forward, my bare feet silent on the cracked stone. The ooze recoils from my touch, hissing like acid. My magic hums beneath my skin—fae and witch blood singing in warning.
“Because the bond led us,” he says. “It’s been pulling me since last night. Since the Blood Moon rose. Since we… since we sealed it.”
I press two fingers to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. But beneath it, something else stirs. A shadow. A whisper. A curse.
“It’s not just the bond,” I say. “It’s something older. Something buried.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps forward, his claws retracting, his fangs bared. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t reach for me. Just walks toward the sarcophagus like he’s in a trance.
And then—
The flesh splits.
Not with a scream.
Not with a roar.
With a whisper.
And from the darkness within—
A hand.
Not human. Not wolf. Not even close.
Blackened. Twisted. Clawed. Veined with pulsing corruption. It reaches out—slow, deliberate—and wraps around Kael’s wrist.
He doesn’t pull away.
Just gasps—low, sharp, pained—as the corruption spreads up his arm, black veins snaking beneath his skin, his gold eyes flickering, dimming.
“Kael!” I scream, lunging forward.
But the runes on the floor ignite—green light erupting across the stone, the air crackling with poison. A wall of magic slams between us, thick, viscous, hungry. I slam into it, my palms burning, my magic flaring, but it doesn’t break.
It feeds.
“Morgana,” Kael growls, his voice distorted, layered with something ancient, something wrong. “Don’t… touch it. Don’t… come closer.”
“Like hell I won’t,” I snarl, pressing my palms to the barrier. My blood magic surges—dark, thick, laced with fae fire—and the green light flickers. “What is this? What’s happening to you?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me—gold eyes burning through the corruption—as the hand pulls him into the sarcophagus.
And then—
It closes.
The flesh seals shut, the black veins pulsing, the heartbeat slowing, stopping, waiting.
And I’m alone.
Alone in the dark.
Alone with the curse.
I press my palm to the barrier. It doesn’t break. Doesn’t crack. Just hums with that sickly green light, feeding on my magic, on my fear, on the bond.
And then—
I hear it.
Not in the air.
Not in the stone.
In me.
A whisper.
From the bond.
“He is not the first.”
I freeze.
Because that’s not my voice.
Not Kael’s.
It’s something else.
Something ancient.
Something hungry.
I press two fingers to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. But beneath it, the shadow deepens. The whisper grows louder.
“He is the vessel. The last. The cursed.”
“What do you want?” I hiss, pressing my palm to the barrier. “Who are you?”
“We are the First. The Forgotten. The Buried.”
“And what did you do to him?”
“We did nothing. He carries us. As his father did. As his father’s father did. The bloodline is ours. The throne is ours. The curse is ours.”
My blood turns to ice.
Because I understand now.
The Wolf Kings aren’t just rulers.
They’re hosts.
The first king wasn’t a man.
He was a prison.
And every Alpha since has inherited the curse—the corruption, the hunger, the thing that lives in the flesh-sarcophagus, feeding on the bloodline, waiting to rise.
And Kael—
He’s the last.
The strongest.
The one they’ve been waiting for.
I press my forehead to the barrier, my breath ragged, my fangs bared. “Then you don’t get him,” I whisper. “Not now. Not ever.”
The runes flicker.
The green light dims.
And then—
I feel it.
Not in my chest.
Not in my blood.
In my soul.
The bond—
It answers.
Not with magic.
Not with fire.
With truth.
I press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. But not just mine.
Ours.
And if he’s cursed—
Then so am I.
I step back.
Close my eyes.
And I pull.
Not from my magic.
Not from my blood.
From the bond.
I drag it up—golden light erupting beneath my skin, searing through the corruption, through the fear, through the lies. I don’t summon a spell.
I summon memory.
The temple.
The Blood Moon.
The night he laid me down on magic and worshipped me like I was something sacred.
The morning after, when he kissed me like it wasn’t a claim—but a promise.
The way he fought for me. Died for me. Chose me.
And then—
I slam my palm to the barrier.
Not with force.
With love.
Golden light erupts—bright, fierce, unstoppable—shattering the green magic, cracking the stone, searing through the corruption. The runes scream—high, sharp, laced with betrayal—but it’s too late.
The barrier breaks.
I don’t hesitate.
I lunge forward, my magic humming, my fangs bared, and I tear at the flesh-sarcophagus.
It resists.
It fights.
It bleeds.
Black ooze sprays across my face, burning, but I don’t stop. I rip, I claw, I destroy—until the flesh splits open, and Kael falls out, gasping, his body covered in black veins, his gold eyes flickering.
“Kael!” I scream, catching him as he collapses. “Look at me! Look at me!”
He blinks—slow, pained—and his hand finds mine. “Morgana,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t have… you’ll be cursed too.”
“I already am,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest, over the mating mark. “And I don’t care.”
The corruption spreads—black veins snaking up my arm, my pulse racing, my vision blurring. But I don’t pull away.
I press my forehead to his. “You’re not alone,” I say. “You never were. And if this thing wants you—” I lift my head, gold eyes burning. “—it has to go through me first.”
The sarcophagus shudders.
Not with anger.
With fear.
Because it knows.
It knows the bond isn’t just magic.
It’s war.
And we don’t fight alone.
I press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. But not just a mark.
A weapon.
“I, Morgana,” I say, voice echoing in the chamber, “daughter of the High Priestess, heir to nothing, queen of my own making, swear this: I am yours. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. But because I choose you. And if this curse wants you—” I press my other hand to Kael’s chest. “—it has to take us both.”
The bond roars.
Golden light erupts—brighter than the Blood Moon, fiercer than the temple, hotter than the forge of the first king. It surges through me, through him, through the chamber, through the curse.
And then—
The sarcophagus screams.
Not a voice.
A thousand.
Howling, wailing, dying.
The flesh splits—black ooze boiling, veins bursting, the heartbeat stopping, shattering. The runes on the walls ignite—golden light consuming the green, the corruption burning, the curse breaking.
And then—
Silence.
Just the drip of water from the ceiling, the flicker of torchlight, the faint hum of the bond.
And then—
Kael stirs.
His gold eyes open—clear, bright, his. The black veins recede, vanishing beneath his skin like smoke in the wind. He looks at me—really looks at me—and his hand finds my face.
“You saved me,” he whispers.
“We saved each other,” I say.
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 violent.
Not desperate.
Gentle.
Sweet.
Real.
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.