MORGANA

I came here to kill the Wolf King.

And now I’m standing in the heart of the Iron Court’s inner sanctum—the chamber where the Supernatural Council once ruled, where lies were crowned as law, and where my mother’s death was justified with cold words and colder magic. But it’s not a throne room anymore.

It’s a temple.

The obsidian floor, once etched with fading runes of deception, now pulses with golden light—our sigil, our bond, our truth. The air hums with power, thick with the scent of iron, pine, and something deeper—something alive. Not magic. Not memory. But claiming.

Kael stands before me, bare-chested, his gold eyes burning, his fangs just visible, his claws retracted but ready. His presence is a storm, a wildfire, a force of nature I no longer fight. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me—like I’m the only thing in the world worth seeing.

And maybe I am.

Behind us, the children we freed from the Hollow Throne sit in a circle, silent, small, free. They don’t speak. Don’t cry. Just watch, their wide eyes reflecting the golden light. They’ve seen enough death. Enough lies. Now they bear witness to something new.

Something true.

The Blood Moon Key rests on the central sigil, pulsing in time with our heartbeats, with the bond, with the truth that now burns brighter than any lie. It’s not just an artifact anymore.

It’s a promise.

I press two fingers to the mating mark on my shoulder. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed. But it’s not enough.

It’s never been enough.

The bond has been a war, a fever, a curse. It’s torn us apart, burned us alive, nearly destroyed us. But now—

Now it’s ready to be whole.

And so am I.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kael says, voice rough, low. “Not like this. Not in front of them.”

“Yes, I do,” I say, stepping forward. My bare feet are silent on the stone. My dagger is sheathed. My magic hums beneath my skin, not in warning—but in welcome. “This isn’t just about us. It’s about the world. About truth. About what comes after the fire.”

He studies me—gold eyes burning, fangs just visible in the torchlight. “And if I hurt you?”

“You already have,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I forgave you. Now it’s your turn.”

He stills.

Lifts his head.

Looks at me—like he’s seeing me for the first time.

Not as a weapon.

Not as a queen.

But as his mate.

As his equal.

As his home.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

I don’t hesitate.

“I’m yours,” I whisper. “Only yours. Always yours. Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. But because I want to be.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just steps forward, his heat searing through the cold, his hand finding my waist, pulling me against him. His other hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing my pulse. I don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. Just tilt my head—exposing my neck, offering it, claiming it.

And then—

The bond flares.

Golden light erupts between us, the runes on the floor igniting, the air crackling with magic. The torches blaze. The children gasp. The Key pulses—once, twice, alive.

And Kael—

He moves.

Not with violence.

Not with dominance.

With reverence.

His fangs graze my neck—slow, deliberate, a question, not a demand. I shiver, not from fear, but from need. From truth. From the fire that’s been burning inside me since the first time our hands touched.

“Now,” I whisper. “Do it now.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just bites.

Not deep.

Not cruel.

But sure.

His fangs sink into my neck—sharp, clean, perfect—and the world explodes.

Pleasure rips through me—white-hot, electric, unstoppable. My back arches, my hands fist in his coat, my core clenches. I don’t scream. Don’t cry out. Just feel—every nerve alive, every breath a prayer, every heartbeat a vow.

The bond roars.

Golden light floods the chamber, the air crackling with magic. The runes on the floor ignite—brighter than the Blood Moon, fiercer than the forge of the first king. The Key pulses—once, twice, three times—and then—

It sings.

A sound like wind through silver vines, like fire in the heart of winter, like a thousand voices whispering yes. The children rise—not in fear, but in awe. One by one, they press their palms to the floor, to the sigils, to the light.

And then—

Their magic answers.

Not fae. Not witch. Not wolf.

But all of it.

Golden light erupts from their hands, their hearts, their souls, flooding the chamber, weaving into ours, into the bond, into the Key. It’s not just a mating.

It’s a consecration.

Kael doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop. Just holds me—his fangs still in my neck, his arms locked around me, his heartbeat steady against my ear. I don’t fight it. Don’t resist. Just let go—of the past, of the pain, of the vengeance that once defined me.

And in its place—

Love.

Pure. Fierce. Unstoppable.

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 mine—

Then I’m his.

Not because of fate.

Not because of magic.

But because I choose to be.

And that—

That changes everything.

The bite ends—slow, gentle, like a kiss. Kael licks the wound, sealing it with magic, with heat, with love. I don’t pull away. Just press my forehead to his, my breath ragged, my fangs bared, my heart pounding.

“You’re not just my mate,” he murmurs, voice rough, broken. “You’re my queen.”

“And you’re mine,” I say, lifting my head, gold eyes burning. “And if they come again—” I press my palm to the mating mark on his chest. “—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.

The chamber hums with power. The golden light doesn’t fade. It grows—brighter, fiercer, alive. The children don’t move. Don’t speak. Just watch, their hands still on the floor, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow.

And then—

The Key moves.

Not with magic.

Not with force.

With choice.

It rises—slow, deliberate—floating into the air, its veins of fae gold pulsing in time with our heartbeats. The light from the runes wraps around it, weaving into its core, feeding it, awakening it.

And then—

It speaks.

Not in words.

Not in sound.

In memory.

Golden light floods the chamber, the air humming with power. And above the central sigil—

I see it.

Not a vision.

Not a prophecy.

A promise.

A world where truth is not silenced.

Where power is not hoarded.

Where love is not a weapon.

And where the throne—

Is not a crown.

But a choice.

The girl with silver hair steps forward. She looks at the Key. Then at me. Then at Kael.

“Will you take it?” she asks. “Will you be our queen?”

I press my palm to the mating mark on my chest. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.

“I’m not your queen,” I say. “I’m your sister. Your protector. Your fire.”

She doesn’t smile.

Just nods.

And I know—

I’ve passed their test.

Not because I proved my power.

But because I proved my heart.

The Key descends—slow, gentle—landing in my palm. It doesn’t burn. Doesn’t sear. Just hums—warm, alive, hungry.

And then—

It changes.

The solidified moonlight shifts—rippling like water, reforming into something new. Not a key.

A crown.

But not of ice.

Not of silver.

Of fire.

Forged from golden light, threaded with veins of fae gold, humming with ancient power. It’s not just a crown.

It’s a heart.

“The Blood Moon Crown,” I whisper.

“The heart of the new world,” Kael says, stepping beside me. “The balance remade. The truth restored.”

I press my palm to the crown. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.

“We don’t need a throne,” I say. “We need a home.”

He studies me—gold eyes burning, fangs just visible in the torchlight. “Then let’s build one,” he says. “Together.”

“Not here,” I say. “Not in their ruins. Not in their lies. But in the light. In the truth. In the fire.”

He nods. “Then let’s go.”

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 Ashen Circle. We go to the Crimson Spire. And we build a world where no child is silenced. Where no truth is buried. Where no one has to fight alone.”

The children gather around me—small, trembling, alive. Some hold hands. Some clutch my robes. Some just stand there, staring at the crown like they’ve never seen freedom before.

And then—

The girl with silver hair looks up at me.

“Will you take us?” she asks. “Will you be our queen?”

I press my palm to the mating mark on my chest. It pulses—warm, alive, claimed.

“I’m not your queen,” I say. “I’m your sister. Your protector. Your fire.”

She doesn’t smile.

Just nods.

And I know—

I’ve passed their test.

Not because I proved my power.

But because I proved my heart.

We leave the sanctum at dawn.

The children walk beside us—silent, small, free. The air is crisp, the sky pale, the wind whispering through the fortress. The obsidian doors swing shut behind us—silent, final, sealed.

But I don’t look back.

Kael at my side.

The Crown in my hand.

The children at my back.

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.