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 in the shadows, who taught me to survive, to fight, to bleed. The air is thick with the scent of old earth, bone dust, and the faint metallic tang of blood magic. The wagons are drawn in a tight circle, their wooden sides carved with protective sigils that pulse faintly with power. The fire in the center burns low, its embers glowing like dying stars. The elders sit in silence, their hoods drawn, their eyes sharp, their silence heavier than any accusation.
They know why I’m here.
They know what I’ve become.
And they know—
I don’t belong anymore.
Kael stands beside me, silent, still, his presence a storm. He hasn’t spoken since we crossed the border into the Balkans. 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 I left behind.
And he knows—
I don’t know if I can do this.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because I’m home.
The Blood Moon Key pulses in my hand, warm, alive, hungry. It knows what’s coming. It knows the war is not over. It knows—
Some battles aren’t fought with fire.
They’re fought with truth.
And some truths—
They cut deeper than any blade.
The eldest witch, Mother Veyra, rises. Her face is lined with age, her eyes milky white, but they see more than sight. She leans on her staff, carved from the root of a hanged man, and her voice echoes in the silence like wind through bones.
“Morgana,” she says. “Daughter of the Coven. Heir to nothing. You return with fire in your eyes and a king at your side.”
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 return,” I say, stepping forward, my bare feet silent on the packed earth. “Not as a daughter. Not as an heir. But as a woman who has found her power. Her truth. Her mate.”
“You have forsaken us,” another elder says, her voice sharp as flint. “You have taken their mark. You have bound yourself to the beast who killed your mother.”
“He didn’t kill her,” I say, my voice steady. “The Fae High Court did. They framed her. They used Kael to carry out their sentence. And he—” My voice breaks. “—he let the world believe he was the monster so I could survive.”
A murmur ripples through the circle. Not of disbelief.
Of recognition.
They know.
They’ve always known.
Mother Veyra lifts a hand. Silence falls.
“And the Key?” she asks. “You carry the heart of the Blood Moon Treaty. You carry the balance of all species in your hands. And yet—you bring it here. To us. Why?”
“Because you taught me,” I say, stepping closer. “You taught me that magic is not in blood. Not in birth. But in choice. In sacrifice. In truth.”
I press my palm to the Key. It flares—golden light erupting across the circle, the air crackling with magic. The sigils on the wagons ignite. The fire roars. The elders stumble back.
And then—
I show them.
Not with words.
With memory.
Golden light floods the circle, the air humming with power. And above the fire—
I project it.
The truth.
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 crackle of the fire. The pulse of the Key. The weight of centuries.
And then—
Mother Veyra lowers her staff.
“You have done what we could not,” she says. “You have uncovered the lie. You have claimed your power. And you have chosen your path.”
“And what path is that?” I ask.
She studies me—milky eyes unblinking. “The path of the Guardian. The path of the Queen. The path of the woman who will not kneel.”
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.
“Then I ask you,” I say, stepping forward. “Not as a daughter. Not as an heir. But as a witch who has walked through fire and emerged whole. Will you stand with me?”
The elders exchange glances. Silent. Still.
And then—
One by one, they rise.
Not to kneel.
To fight.
“We are the Ashen Circle,” Mother Veyra says. “We do not bow. We do not break. And we do not forget.”
She steps forward, her staff striking the earth. “We will stand with you. Not because you are one of us. But because you are more than us.”
I press my palm to the Key. It pulses—warm, alive, hungry.
“Then we go to war,” I say. “Not for vengeance. Not for power. But for justice. For truth. For the future.”
“And if we die?” one of the younger witches asks, her voice trembling.
I turn to her—gold eyes burning. “Then we die as free women. As witches. As warriors. And if we fall—” I lift the Key. “—the next will rise. And the next. And the next. Until the lie is burned to ash.”
The circle erupts—not in cheers, but in chants. Low, steady, relentless. The sigils on the wagons flare. The fire roars. The ground trembles.
And then—
Kael steps forward.
His presence a storm. His voice a growl.
“You have seen her truth,” he says. “You have seen her power. And now—” He looks at me. Gold meets gold. “—you will see her fire.”
I press my palm to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.
“We leave at dawn,” I say. “We go to the Iron Court. We go to the Fae Enclave. We go to the Crimson Spire. And we burn every lie, every chain, every throne that stands in the way of the truth.”
Mother Veyra steps forward, her hand on my shoulder. “Then go, daughter. Not as one of us. But as our fire. As our fury. As our future.”
I don’t flinch.
Just press my palm to the mating mark on my chest. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.
“I am not yours,” I say. “I am mine. And I will not be silenced.”
She doesn’t smile.
Just nods.
And I know—
I’ve passed their test.
Not because I proved my loyalty.
But because I proved my freedom.
We leave the Ashen Circle at dawn.
The witches stand in silence, their hoods drawn, their staffs raised. The fire still burns in the center, its embers glowing like watchful eyes. The wagons are drawn tight, their sigils pulsing faintly with power. They do not wave. Do not call out.
They simply watch.
As we walk away.
Kael at my side.
The Key in my hand.
And the wind—
It whispers.
“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.