I came here to kill the Wolf King.
And now I’m standing at the base of the Crimson Spire—the vampire stronghold rising like a jagged fang from the heart of Prague, its obsidian spires piercing the storm-laden sky, its windows glowing with blood-red light. The air is thick with the scent of old wine, iron, and something deeper—something rotten. Not decay. Not death. But stagnation.
Centuries of power. Centuries of lies. Centuries of blood.
And now—
It ends.
Kael stands beside me, silent, still, his presence a storm. He hasn’t spoken since we crossed the border into the vampire dominion. 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’ve become.
And he knows—
I don’t know if I can do this.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because I’m awake.
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 monsters don’t wear fangs.
They wear crowns.
And some betrayals—
They don’t come with a blade.
They come with a smile.
The gates of the Spire loom before us—wrought iron, twisted like bones, etched with runes that pulse faintly with dark magic. No guards. No sentries. Just silence. And the wind—whispering through the cracks, carrying the scent of wine and blood.
“They’re expecting us,” I say.
“Of course they are,” Kael growls. “Thorne doesn’t play games. He sets the board and waits.”
“And we’re walking right into it.”
“We’re not walking,” he says, stepping forward. “We’re storming.”
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.
The gates swing open—silent, slow, inviting.
Like a tomb.
Like a trap.
Like a challenge.
We step inside.
The hall stretches before us—endless, cathedral-like, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. The floor is polished black stone, reflecting the blood-red light like a still pool. Chandeliers hang from chains, their candles burning with unnatural blue flame. Along the walls, alcoves hold wine bottles filled with dark liquid—some clear, some thick, some that move.
And at the center—
Thorne.
He stands like a king on a dais of black marble, his crimson robes flowing like liquid fire, his silver hair cascading over one shoulder, his eyes—pale, ancient, hungry—locked onto me. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t bow. Doesn’t speak.
Just watches.
As if he’s been waiting for this moment his entire existence.
“Morgana,” he says, voice echoing in the stone. “Daughter of the High Priestess. You return with fire in your eyes and a beast at your side.”
I press my palm to the Key. It flares—golden light erupting across the hall, the air crackling with magic. The candles flicker. The wine trembles. The shadows recoil.
“I return,” I say, stepping forward, my bare feet silent on the stone. “Not as a daughter. Not as prey. But as a woman who has found her power. Her truth. Her mate.”
“And you bring the Key,” he says, tilting his head. “The heart of the Blood Moon Treaty. The balance of all species. And you think—” He smiles, slow, cruel. “—that it will save you?”
“It already has,” I say. “It showed me the truth. That my mother didn’t betray her people. That Kael didn’t kill her. That the Fae High Court framed her. Used him. And you—” I lift the Key. “—you knew.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just laughs—soft, low, dangerous. “Of course I knew. I’ve known for centuries. I’ve watched. I’ve waited. I’ve bled for it.”
“And why?” I ask. “Why help them? Why let them twist the Key? Why let them poison the treaty?”
“Because I wanted to be free,” he says, stepping down from the dais. “Because I was cursed to immortality—to live forever, never age, never die. But immortality is not a gift. It’s a prison. And the only way to break it—” His eyes lock onto the Key. “—is with the blood of a Guardian. Of a Queen. Of a woman who carries the heart of the Blood Moon.”
My breath stops.
Because I understand now.
He didn’t want to control the treaty.
He wanted to end it.
And he wanted my blood to do it.
“You used me,” I say, voice low. “You fed me lies. You played on my grief. You made me hate Kael—so I’d destroy him. So I’d weaken the bond. So I’d be vulnerable.”
“And it worked,” he says, stepping closer. “Didn’t it? You came here to kill him. You fought him. You distrusted him. You nearly destroyed yourselves.”
“But I didn’t,” I say, lifting my chin. “Because I chose truth. I chose love. I chose him.”
He studies me—ancient eyes calculating. “And now? You’ll destroy me? You’ll burn my Spire? You’ll spill my blood?”
“No,” I say. “I won’t destroy you.”
He smiles—slow, satisfied. “Then you’re weak.”
“No,” I say. “I’ll do something worse.”
His smile falters.
“I’ll pardon you.”
He freezes.
“You think death is the worst fate?” I ask, stepping forward. “You think I’d give you the mercy of an end? After everything you’ve done? After the lies? The manipulation? The blood?”
“You can’t—”
“I can,” I say. “Because I am the Guardian. Because I carry the Key. And because I have seen the truth—and I will not let it be buried again.”
“And what will you do?” he asks, voice low. “Imprison me? Chain me? Make me watch as you rebuild the world I tried to break?”
“No,” I say. “I’ll let you live. I’ll let you walk free. I’ll let you taste the wine, drink the blood, feel the sun on your skin—because I will not be like you. I will not be consumed by vengeance. I will not become the monster I fought.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just stares.
And in that silence—
I see it.
Not fear.
Not rage.
Defeat.
Because he thought I’d kill him.
He thought I’d burn him.
He thought I’d prove him right—that I was just another weapon, another pawn, another monster.
But I’m not.
I’m the fire that doesn’t destroy.
I’m the storm that doesn’t rage.
I’m the woman who chooses mercy—
And makes it a weapon.
“You’re not just my mate,” Kael says, stepping beside me, his presence a storm. “You’re my queen.”
“And you’re mine,” I say, pressing my palm to the mating mark on his chest. “And if they come again—” I lift my head, gold eyes burning. “—we’ll burn them together.”
Thorne doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches as we turn to leave.
And then—
“Wait.”
I stop.
Don’t turn.
“There’s one more thing,” he says. “One truth you don’t know.”
I turn—slow, deliberate. “Then speak it.”
He looks at me—ancient eyes filled with something I’ve never seen before.
Regret.
“The Blood Moon Key,” he says. “It doesn’t just control the treaty. It doesn’t just hold the balance. It holds the memory of every Guardian. Every Queen. Every woman who has carried it.”
I press my palm to the Key. It pulses—warm, alive, hungry.
“And?”
“Your mother,” he says. “She didn’t just refuse to hand it over. She sealed it. With her blood. With her magic. With her final breath. And she left a message—” He looks at me. “—for you.”
My breath stops.
“Then show it,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I can’t. Only you can. Only a Guardian can unlock it. Only a woman who carries her blood, her magic, her truth.”
I press my palm to the Key.
And I pull.
Not from my magic.
Not from my blood.
From the bond.
From the love.
From the fire.
Golden light erupts—bright, fierce, unstoppable—flooding the hall, the air crackling with magic. The candles blaze. The wine trembles. The shadows scream.
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 found it.”
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.”
“I have it,” I say, holding it out. “I have the truth. I have the power. I have the war.”
“And what will you do with it?” she asks.
“Destroy them,” I say. “Burn their courts. Break their chains. End their lies.”
She smiles—soft, sad. “And then? What comes after the fire?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
“Power without mercy is tyranny,” she says. “Vengeance without justice is madness. And a queen who rules through fear—” Her voice softens. “—is no queen at all.”
“Then what do I do?” I ask, tears falling. “How do I fight them without becoming them?”
“By choosing,” she says. “By remembering who you are. Not just my daughter. Not just a witch. Not just a queen. But a woman who loves. Who forgives. Who chooses.”
“And if I spare them?”
“Then you win,” she says. “Not by fire. Not by blood. But by truth.”
“And if they come back?”
“Then you stand,” she says. “And you burn them again. But this time—” She steps closer. “—you do it with love in your heart, not hate.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper.
“You already have,” she says. “You spared Thorne. You forgave Kael. You chose truth over revenge. And now—” She reaches out, her hand brushing my cheek. “—you choose peace.”
“Is that weakness?”
“No,” she says. “It’s strength. The hardest kind.”
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.
Kael steps beside me, his heat searing through the cold. “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 Crimson Spire at dawn.
The gates swing shut behind us—silent, final, sealed. The sky is pale, the air crisp, the wind whispering through the streets of Prague. The city stirs—humans waking, unaware of the war that raged in the shadows, unaware of the truth that now walks among them.
But I know.
And I will not be silent.
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.