I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m standing in the heart of the Supernatural Council’s Grand Hall, the vaulted ceiling arching above us like the ribcage of a fallen god, the air thick with the scent of iron, pine, and blood. Torchlight flickers along the obsidian walls, casting jagged shadows across the floor. The runes etched into the stone pulse faintly with power—gold, silver, crimson, black—each a testament to the fragile peace between species. But peace is a lie.
And today, it dies.
The Council is gathered—Alphas, Betas, Envoys, Elders—seated in a half-circle of thrones, their eyes sharp, their voices low. But this time, they’re not watching Kael.
They’re watching me.
And the Blood Moon Key in my hand.
It hums—warm, alive, hungry—its veins of fae gold pulsing in time with my heartbeat, with the bond, with the truth that’s about to shatter their world. I can feel it in my blood, in my bones, in the way my magic no longer fights me. It sings. It flows. It obeys.
Because I’m not just Morgana, the half-blood outcast.
I’m not just the daughter of a traitor.
I’m not even just the witch who came to kill a king.
I’m the Guardian.
And I will not kneel.
Kael stands beside me, silent, still, his presence a storm. He hasn’t spoken since we entered the hall. Hasn’t touched me beyond the brush of his thumb against my wrist—a silent promise, a grounding pulse. His gold eyes burn, his fangs just visible, his claws retracted but ready. He knows what’s coming.
So do I.
High Elder Voss rises, his silver robes edged with black runes, his staff raised. His gaze locks onto the Key—cold, calculating, cornered. He knows what it is. Knows what it means. Knows that the lies he’s spent centuries weaving are about to unravel.
And still, he fights.
“Morgana of the Fae,” he says, voice echoing in the hall. “You have defied the Council. You have consorted with the enemy. You have claimed a throne that is not yours. And now—” His eyes narrow. “—you bring a forbidden artifact into this chamber.”
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.
“I didn’t bring it,” I say, stepping forward. “I reclaimed it. From the ruins of the temple your kind burned. From the ashes of the woman you murdered.”
“Your mother was a traitor,” Voss says, voice cold. “She refused to uphold the balance. She threatened the peace.”
“No,” I say. “She refused to let you corrupt it. She refused to hand over the Key so you could drain its power, twist its magic, and crush anyone who stood in your way.”
A murmur ripples through the chamber. Alphas shift. Betas tense. Envoys exchange glances.
They’re afraid.
Good.
Let them be.
Voss doesn’t flinch. Just raises his staff. “Then let the Council decide. By vote. By law. By ancient rite.”
“And if I refuse?” Kael growls.
“Then you are in rebellion,” Voss says. “And the Iron Court will rise against you.”
“Let it rise,” Kael says, stepping beside me. “I’ll burn it to ash before I let them take her.”
I press my palm to the mating mark on my chest. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. The bond flares—golden light erupting across the hall, the runes on the floor igniting, the air crackling with magic. The torches blaze. The Council stumbles back.
“The bond is confirmed!” one of the Betas shouts. “The mate-mark is sealed!”
“Then let it be tested,” Voss says, voice cold. “Let the Trial of Truth decide.”
My breath catches.
Again.
They want to test us. To pit us against each other. To break what they can’t control.
But they don’t understand.
The bond isn’t just magic.
It’s memory.
It’s every moment we’ve fought, every lie we’ve burned, every truth we’ve spoken. It’s the night he saved me from the assassins. The morning I healed him. The temple where we claimed each other not because we had to—but because we wanted to.
“You’re not doing this,” Kael says, his voice low, rough.
“I have to,” I say. “If we refuse, they’ll declare you a traitor. They’ll send assassins. They’ll burn the temple. They’ll come for us every night until we break.”
“And if you die?” he growls.
“Then I die,” I say. “But I won’t let them destroy what we’ve built. Not like this.”
He stills.
Lifts his head.
Looks at 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.”
The Trial is held in the arena beneath the fortress—black stone, high walls, torches flickering with unnatural blue at the edges. The air is thick with the scent of old blood and iron. The crowd gathers in silence—Alphas, Betas, Envoys, guards—watching from the balconies, their eyes sharp, their breath held.
Kael and I stand in the center, barefoot, dressed in ceremonial robes—white for me, black for him. No weapons. No armor. Just magic. Just blood. Just the bond.
High Elder Voss stands at the edge, his staff raised. “By the ancient rite, the Trial of Truth shall begin. Let the Key speak. Let the magic decide. Let the past be revealed.”
He steps back.
And then—
It begins.
The ground trembles. The runes on the floor ignite—golden, then black, then gone. The air crackles with magic. And then—
Shadows rise.
Not from the walls.
Not from the torches.
From the Key.
They twist, coil, form—into figures. Warriors. Assassins. Us.
Dark versions of ourselves.
Me—cloaked in shadow, fangs bared, dagger in hand.
And Kael—eyes black, claws extended, growling low.
They don’t speak.
Just attack.
The shadow-Morgana lunges first—fast, silent, deadly. Her dagger slices toward my throat. I twist, barely avoiding it, my magic flaring. I don’t summon a weapon.
I summon truth.
“You’re not me,” I say, pressing my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. “I don’t fight to kill. I fight to protect.”
The shadow hesitates.
And in that heartbeat—
I strike.
Not with magic.
With memory.
I slam my palm to the ground.
The runes ignite—golden light erupting across the stone, the air crackling with magic. The vision from the ruins flashes—my mother, standing tall, unafraid. Kael, lighting the pyre. The truth.
And the shadow—
It screams.
Not from pain.
From recognition.
It shatters—glass under a hammer, dissolving into mist.
And then—
Kael roars.
The shadow-Kael has him pinned, claws at his throat, fangs bared. But Kael doesn’t fight.
He speaks.
“You’re not me,” he growls. “I don’t rule through fear. I don’t love through control. I love through choice.”
The shadow hesitates.
And in that heartbeat—
He flips it.
One hand at its throat. One at its chest. And then—
He slams it into the ground.
“I am the Wolf King,” he says, voice rough. “And I choose her. Every day. Every life. Every death. I choose her.”
The shadow screams—high, sharp, laced with betrayal—and shatters.
Silence.
Just the drip of water from the ceiling, the flicker of torchlight, the faint hum of the runes.
And then—
The bond roars.
Golden light erupts between us, the runes on our chests glowing, the air crackling with magic. The torches blaze. The walls tremble. The crowd stumbles back.
“The bond is true!” one of the Betas shouts. “It has passed the Trial!”
“Then it is confirmed,” Voss says, voice cold. “The mating stands.”
But he doesn’t look at us.
He looks at the shadows—still flickering at the edge of the arena, still moving.
And I know—
This isn’t over.
We return to the war room in silence. The fortress is stirring—Alphas patrolling the walls, Betas reinforcing the gates, envoys whispering in shadowed corners. 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.
Kael doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just sits beside me, his presence a storm, his hand warm around mine. His gold eyes are locked on the maps, but I know he’s not seeing them. He’s seeing me. The way I stood in the arena. The way I faced my shadow. The way I chose him—over revenge, over duty, over everything.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “You could’ve let me fight for you.”
“And you could’ve let me die,” I say. “But you didn’t. Because we’re not just mates. We’re partners. Equals. And if we don’t fight together—” I press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. “—we’ll lose.”
He stills.
Lifts his head.
Looks at me—gold eyes burning, fangs just visible in the torchlight. “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 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 war room hums with power.
And then—
The door bursts open.
Not with a slam.
Not with a roar.
With a whisper.
And then—
Riven steps inside.
His face is pale. His gold eyes are sharp. His hand is on his blade.
“They’re coming,” he says.
“Who?” Kael asks.
“The Council,” Riven says. “They’re mobilizing. Alphas. Betas. Enforcers. They’re moving on the temple.”
My breath stops.
The temple.
Our temple.
“They’re not just coming,” Riven says. “They’re bringing the Binding Chains.”
My blood turns to ice.
The Binding Chains.
Forged from fae steel, etched with suppression runes. Designed to break magic. To break will. To break bonds.
They’re not here to arrest.
They’re here to erase.
Kael stands, his presence a storm. “Then we meet them.”
“You can’t,” Riven says. “They outnumber you. They’re armed. They’re—”
“I don’t care,” Kael says. “They want war? They’ll get it.”
I stand beside him, my back straight, my chin high. “We’re not running,” I say. “We’re not hiding. We’re not letting them take what’s ours.”
Riven studies us. Then nods. “Then I’m with you.”
We leave 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. 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.
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.
Instinct.
The wind whispers to me. The stone speaks. The magic in the air—old, cold, hungry—tells me where to step, where to hide, where to strike.
We reach the temple by midnight.
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 under siege.
The Council’s forces surround it—Alphas in black armor, Betas with silver blades, Enforcers carrying the Binding Chains. The air is thick with the scent of iron and fear. Torchlight flickers across the stone, casting long, jagged shadows.
And at the center—
High Elder Voss.
His staff raised. His eyes cold. His voice echoing in the stone.
“Morgana,” he calls. “Daughter of the traitor. Surrender. Break the bond. And we will spare you.”
I step forward, my back straight, my chin high. “I’m not your daughter,” I say. “Not anymore.”
“Then you are declared traitor,” he says. “And you will be branded. Hunted. Killed.”
“And Kael?”
“He will die,” Voss 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,” Voss 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!” Voss 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 Council stumbles 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.”
Voss doesn’t answer.
Just raises his staff.
And the Binding Chains move.
They slither across the stone like serpents, glowing with suppression magic, reaching for us—
But the temple—
It answers.
The runes on the floor ignite—golden light erupting across the stone, the air crackling with magic. The wind howls. The ash rises. The broken arches tremble, then lift, stone floating into the air like leaves on a storm. The magic crackles, the air hums, the ground trembles.
And then—
It destroys them.
The Binding Chains—cold, sharp, hungry—are sucked into the runes, devoured by the light, burned by the fire. They scream—high, sharp, laced with betrayal—but it’s too late. The temple doesn’t just reject them.
It annihilates them.
And then—
Silence.
Just the wind. The stone. The bond.
Voss doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches us—like he’s seeing the future.
And I know—
He’s afraid.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
“No,” I say. “It’s just beginning.”
He turns. The Council follows.
And we’re alone.
Kael 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 chin, 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—
I hear it.
Not hoofbeats.
Not footsteps.
A whisper.
From the mist.
From the stone.
From the magic.
“She’s coming.”
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.
“Who?” Kael asks.
“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.
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.