I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m standing in the ruins of the Fae Coven’s inner sanctum—the heart of the temple that burned the night my mother died. The air is thick with the scent of old ash, moonflowers, and something deeper—something alive. Not magic. Not memory. But presence.
The stone is cracked. The arches collapsed. The silver vines, once lush and glowing, now hang like dead serpents from the shattered ceiling. The sigils on the floor are barely visible beneath centuries of soot and time. But I can feel it.
Beneath the ruin.
Beneath the grief.
It’s still here.
Kael stands behind me, silent, still, his presence a storm. He hasn’t spoken since we crossed the border into Lumin Vale. Hasn’t touched me beyond the brush of his thumb against my wrist—a grounding pulse, a silent promise. His gold eyes burn, his fangs just visible, his claws retracted but ready. He knows this place. Knows what it cost me. Knows what it cost him.
And he knows—
I don’t know if I can do this.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because I’m ready.
The scroll Seraphine gave us confirmed it—the Fae High Court ordered my mother’s execution. Not for treason. Not for betrayal. But because she refused to hand over the Blood Moon Key—the artifact that controls the treaty’s magic. She chose me over power. And they killed her for it.
Kael didn’t light the pyre to destroy her.
He lit it to protect me.
To give me a chance to survive. To grow. To become the woman who could burn them all.
And now—
I’m here.
Not to mourn.
Not to rage.
But to claim.
“This is where she stood,” I say, stepping forward, my bare feet silent on the cracked stone. “Right here. Where the central sigil used to be.”
Kael doesn’t answer. Just follows, his body a wall of heat at my back. I can feel his breath against my neck, his heartbeat steady, his focus absolute. He’s not here to fight. Not here to protect.
He’s here to witness.
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. But it’s not just his.
It’s mine.
And it’s awake.
“I need blood,” I say, pulling the ritual dagger from my belt. “Not yours. Mine.”
He stills. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I do,” I say, slicing my palm. Dark blood wells—thick, laced with fae and witch blood—and falls to the stone. “This isn’t your battle. It’s mine. And I have to face it as myself. Not as your mate. Not as a queen. But as her daughter.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just steps back, his presence a storm held at bay.
The blood hits the stone.
And the temple answers.
The runes ignite—golden light erupting from beneath the ash, the air crackling with magic. The wind howls. The broken arches tremble. The silver vines lift, curling toward the sky like they remember the sun.
And then—
I see her.
Not in a vision.
Not in a memory.
In the air.
Before me.
My mother.
Not as I remember her—broken, burning, betrayed.
But as she was.
Tall. Radiant. Gold-eyed. Her silver circlet whole, her robes flowing like liquid moonlight. She smiles—soft, sad, proud—and reaches out.
“Morgana,” she says, voice echoing in the stone. “You came back.”
Tears spill down my face. “I had to. I had to know. I had to—”
“You had to live,” she says. “And you did. You fought. You loved. You chose him.”
“And now I have to destroy them,” I say, my voice breaking. “For you.”
She shakes her head. “Not for me. For yourself. For the truth. For the future.”
“But they killed you,” I whisper. “They framed you. They burned our home.”
“And you survived,” she says. “You became stronger. You found love. You found power. And now—” She lifts her hand, and beneath the stone, something moves. “—you find the Key.”
The ground trembles.
Not with magic.
With memory.
The stone splits—slowly, deliberately—and from the ash, a pedestal rises. Black. Smooth. Etched with runes that pulse with golden light. And on top—
A key.
Not metal.
Not stone.
Carved from solidified moonlight, threaded with veins of fae gold, humming with ancient power. It’s not just an artifact.
It’s a heart.
“The Blood Moon Key,” I whisper.
“The heart of the treaty,” she says. “The source of its magic. The balance between species. And now—” She steps back, fading into the light. “—it’s yours.”
“Wait,” I say. “Don’t go. I need you. I—”
“You don’t need me,” she says, her voice soft, fading. “You never did. You were always enough.”
And then—
She’s gone.
Not with a scream.
Not with a whisper.
With a smile.
I press my palm to the mating mark on my chest. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. But beneath it, something else stirs.
Peace.
Not the absence of war.
But the presence of truth.
I step forward, my breath ragged, my fangs bared, and I reach for the Key.
The moment my fingers brush it—
Power erupts.
Golden light floods the ruins, the air crackling with magic. The runes on the floor ignite, the wind howls, the ash rises. I don’t fall. Don’t flinch. Just stand there, my hand wrapped around the Key, my blood magic surging, my fae blood singing.
And then—
I see it.
The truth.
Not just about my mother.
Not just about Kael.
But about the treaty.
About the Blood Moon.
About the balance.
The Key doesn’t just control the magic.
It is the magic.
Forged from the first pact between species. Powered by sacrifice. Sustained by truth.
And it’s been corrupted.
Not by werewolves.
Not by witches.
By the Fae High Court.
They’ve been draining its power for centuries. Twisting its magic. Using it to maintain control, to crush dissent, to eliminate threats.
And my mother—
She was the last Guardian.
The only one who could stop them.
And when she refused to hand over the Key—
They made Kael kill her.
Not because he wanted to.
But because they threatened to destroy the Iron Court, the Ashen Circle, the entire supernatural world if he refused.
He lit the pyre to save thousands.
And he let the world believe he was the monster—
So I could survive.
So I could become the woman who could set it right.
Tears spill down my face.
Because I finally understand.
It was never about revenge.
It was about truth.
And now—
I have it.
I turn to Kael, my hand clutching the Key, my gold eyes burning. “They lied,” I say. “About everything. About her. About you. About the treaty.”
He steps forward, his presence a storm, his heat searing through the cold. “Then we expose them.”
“No,” I say. “We destroy them.”
He stills. “You don’t have to do this. We can rule. We can rebuild. We can—”
“And let them keep poisoning the world?” I ask, lifting the Key. “No. They’ve had their chance. They’ve had centuries. And they’ve used it to crush the weak, to silence the truth, to burn the light.”
He studies me—gold eyes burning, fangs just visible in the torchlight. “You’re not just my mate,” he says. “You’re my equal.”
“And you’re mine,” I say. “Now let’s go remind them who we are.”
We leave the ruins fast—silent, shadows against the stone. The Key pulses in my hand, warm, alive, hungry. It knows what’s coming. It knows the war is not over.
It knows—
The final battle begins now.
Kael leads, his body in half-shift—claws retracted, fangs just visible, gold eyes glowing in the dark. I follow, my magic humming beneath my skin, my fae blood singing in my veins. I don’t need a weapon. I don’t need armor. I have something better.
Truth.
We reach the Iron Court by dawn.
The fortress rises from the mist, black stone spires cutting through the clouds. The air is thick with the scent of iron and pine. The final signing of the Blood Moon Treaty has been delayed, but not canceled. And every instinct in my body screams that the calm before the storm is over.
But this time—
I’m not afraid.
I’m ready.
We enter through the eastern passage—silent, fast, shadows against the stone. The fortress is stirring—Alphas patrolling the walls, Betas reinforcing the gates, envoys whispering in shadowed corners. But they don’t stop us. Don’t question us.
They feel it.
The shift.
The power.
The truth.
We reach the war room in silence.
Kael sits at the head of the obsidian table, his presence a storm, his gold eyes burning. I stand beside him, the Key in my hand, my back straight, my chin high.
“We have the Key,” I say, placing it on the table. “And we have the truth.”
Riven steps forward, his face pale, his gold eyes sharp. “Then we strike.”
“No,” I say. “We don’t strike. We reveal.”
“And if they don’t believe you?” Kael asks.
“They will,” I say. “Because the Key doesn’t just hold power. It holds memory. And when I activate it—” I press my palm to the Key. “—the world will see what they’ve done.”
He studies me. Then nods. “Then do it.”
I close my eyes.
And I pull.
Not from my magic.
Not from my blood.
From the bond.
From the truth.
From the love.
Golden light erupts—bright, fierce, unstoppable—flooding the war room, the air crackling with magic. The runes on the floor ignite, the torches blaze, the stone trembles.
And then—
I see it.
The memory.
Projected above the table—clear, sharp, real.
My mother, standing in the Fae High Court, the Key in her hand. The Elders surrounding her—Veylin, Solen, Nyx—their faces cold, their voices sharp. They demand she hand it over. She refuses. They threaten war. She stands firm.
And then—
Kael steps forward.
Not as a monster.
Not as a killer.
As a man who has no choice.
He takes the pyre. He lights it. He burns the temple. And as the flames rise—
He whispers to her.
So low, only she can hear.
“Live. For your daughter. For the future. I will carry the blame. But you—” His voice breaks. “—you must survive.”
The memory ends.
Silence.
Just the drip of water from the ceiling, the flicker of torchlight, the faint hum of the Key.
And then—
Riven drops to one knee. “My queen,” he says, head bowed. “I will follow you into the fire.”
One by one, the Alphas, Betas, Envoys—they kneel. Not to me.
To the truth.
To the war.
To the future.
Kael stands, his presence a storm. “Then we go to war.”
“No,” I say, pressing my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. “We go to justice.”
He turns to me—gold eyes burning. “Say it again,” he says, voice rough. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper, lifting my chin. “Only yours. Always yours. Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. But because I want to be.”
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.