The air in the Chamber of Accord had turned to ice.
Not from the mountain winds howling beyond the Obsidian Spire’s black stone walls. Not from the blood-oath incense burning in silver braziers along the dais. But from the silence that followed the Speaker’s pronouncement—cold, heavy, final.
“The Council has spoken,” he intoned, his voice echoing through the vaulted chamber like a death knell. “To solidify the bond between Allied Signatories, a Blood Oath ritual must be performed. By dawn tomorrow, Cordelia Vale must drink from the vein of Lysander Duskbane. Should she refuse, the alliance is void. War between witches and vampires will follow.”
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Fae nobles exchanged glances, their glamours flickering with intrigue. The werewolf alpha bared his fangs in a silent snarl. Malrik leaned forward, his crimson eyes gleaming with triumph. And Nyx—Queen of the High Court, architect of the secret clause that had doomed Cordelia’s mother—smiled behind her veil of frost, her gaze sharp as a blade.
They wanted this.
They wanted her to refuse. To break the bond. To ignite the war they’d been plotting for decades.
And Cordelia?
She stood beside me, rigid, her storm-gray eyes blazing with fury. I could feel the bond humming between us—tense, coiled, alive with her rage. Her pulse pounded in my veins, her breath in my lungs. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to tear the Council apart with magic and vengeance.
But she didn’t move.
She just stared at the Speaker, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip.
“You’re forcing this?”
“We are enforcing the law,” the Speaker said. “The Blood Oath is tradition. A test of loyalty. A seal of unity. Without it, the bond is incomplete. And an incomplete bond is a threat to the Accord.”
“And if I die?” she asked, her voice low. “If your precious ritual kills me?”
“Then you die for the peace,” Nyx said, stepping forward. Her gown shimmered like frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice. “A noble end for a witch who came here to destroy us all.”
Cordelia turned to me, her gaze burning. “You knew this was coming.”
“I suspected,” I admitted. “But I didn’t confirm it. Not until now.”
“And you didn’t *warn* me?”
“Because I knew you’d run,” I said. “And if you run, they’ll call it defiance. They’ll call it war. And I won’t let that happen. Not while I draw breath.”
She stepped closer, her voice a blade. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”
“No,” I agreed. “But the bond does. And right now, it’s screaming that you’re two seconds from collapsing in this chamber.”
She flinched. The bond fever had been building since the garden—since the storm, since the kiss, since she’d started to believe in me. Every step away from me sent a fresh wave of pain through her skull, her muscles seizing, her vision blurring. And now, with the ritual demanded, the bond was tightening—pulling, demanding, *claiming*.
“You think this makes you powerful?” she hissed. “Forcing me to drink your blood like some obedient pet?”
“I don’t want obedience,” I said, stepping closer. “I want *survival*. Yours. Mine. The world’s. Because if you refuse, they’ll execute you. And if they execute you, I’ll burn this spire to the ground to get you back.”
Her breath caught. “You’d start a war.”
“For you?” I said. “In a heartbeat.”
She stared at me, stunned. And for the first time, I saw it—not just hate, not just fury, not just vengeance.
Doubt.
And something else.
Something dangerously close to *hope*.
---
We left the chamber in silence, the weight of the ritual pressing down on us like a tomb. The corridors of the spire were colder than usual, the runes on the walls pulsing with dormant magic. Guards stepped aside as we passed, their eyes downcast, their silence heavier than any whisper.
Back in the suite, Cordelia didn’t speak. She crossed to the hearth, where the blue flames danced in the black marble fireplace, and stood with her back to me, her arms wrapped around herself. The Duskbane sigil glowed faintly on her wrist, a brand of fire. The bite mark above her collarbone—fresh, raw—throbbed in time with her pulse.
She was afraid.
Not of the ritual.
Of what it meant.
Of what it would *do* to her.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, closing the door behind us. “Not if you don’t want to.”
She turned, her eyes blazing. “And let them execute me? Let them start a war? You said you’d burn the spire to the ground. Well, go ahead. Burn it. Let them see what kind of monster you really are.”
“I am a monster,” I said. “But I’m *yours*.”
She flinched. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” I stepped closer, the bond flaring—heat, tension, *need*. “You felt it in the storm. You felt it when I kissed you. You felt it when I lied for you in the Council. I’m not hiding anymore, Cordelia. I want you. I *need* you. And if drinking my blood is the price of keeping you alive, then I’ll make you do it.”
“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” she snapped. “I’ve tasted worse. I’ve bled for less.”
“Then do it,” I said. “Prove it.”
She stepped forward, her face inches from mine. “You think this is about fear? This is about *power*. About control. About you forcing me to submit to you in front of the entire Council.”
“No,” I said. “This is about *trust*. About proving to them—and to yourself—that we’re united. That we’re *real*. That you’re not here to destroy me, but to stand with me.”
“And what if I don’t want to?”
“Then you’ll die,” I said. “And I’ll spend the rest of my existence making sure everyone who had a hand in it burns with you.”
She stared at me, her breath unsteady. And then—softly—she smiled.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re mine,” I said. “Whether you admit it or not.”
She turned away, but I saw the shift in her posture—the way her shoulders relaxed, the way her fingers brushed the mark on her wrist. The bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew.
She would do it.
Not for the Council.
Not for the Accord.
But for *me*.
---
The ritual was set for dawn.
In the ancient chamber beneath the spire—where the first Blood Oaths had been sworn after the Bloodfire War—the Council would gather to witness the final sealing of our bond. A silver chalice would be placed on the altar. I would cut my wrist. She would drink.
And the world would see us as one.
But that night, as the storm still raged beyond the windows, something else happened.
She came to me.
I was standing at the window, watching the lightning split the sky over Geneva, when I felt her behind me. Not through the bond—though it pulsed between us, steady, watchful. But through something deeper. Something *real*.
I turned.
She stood in the center of the room, barefoot, dressed in nothing but a thin shift, her raven hair spilling over her shoulders, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. The firelight flickered across her skin, casting shadows over the curve of her collarbone, the fresh bite mark, the Duskbane sigil on her wrist.
And she was beautiful.
Not in the way the Fae were beautiful—artificial, perfect, cold.
But in the way fire was beautiful. Wild. Uncontrollable. *Alive*.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I said, my voice rough. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?” she asked, stepping closer. “Then tell me.”
“You’re thinking that if you drink my blood, it’s surrender. That it means you’ve lost. That you’ve become my obedient little witch.”
She didn’t deny it.
“And you’re wrong,” I said. “It’s not surrender. It’s *claiming*. You’re not submitting to me. You’re *taking* me. My blood. My power. My loyalty. My *life*. And when you drink from me, you’re not becoming mine.
You’re making me *yours*.”
She stopped just within reach, close enough that I could feel the heat of her body, close enough that the bond flared—fire pooling low in my belly, my fangs lengthening.
“You think I want your blood?” she whispered.
“I think you already have it,” I said. “In your veins. In your dreams. In the way your pulse jumps when I touch you.”
She lifted her hand, her fingers brushing the bite mark on her shoulder. “And this?”
“A promise,” I said. “One I intend to keep.”
She looked up at me, her eyes glistening. “And what if I don’t want your promises?”
“Then take my blood,” I said. “And make your own.”
For a long moment, she just stared at me. And then—slowly—she reached for the clasp of her shift.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
The fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood before me, bare, trembling—not from cold, but from something else. Something raw. Unfiltered. *Real*.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just about the ritual.
This was about *us*.
---
Dawn came like a blade.
The sky lightened to steel gray, the storm finally breaking, the city below emerging from the mist. We stood in the ancient chamber, the air thick with incense and the scent of old blood. The Council watched from the shadows, their auras shifting in the obsidian mirrors—fear, hunger, anticipation.
The altar stood between us, a slab of black stone etched with runes. On it, a silver chalice, polished to a mirror sheen.
And then—silence.
The Speaker raised his hand. “The Blood Oath shall now be performed. Lysander Duskbane, offer your blood.”
I stepped forward, my boots echoing on the stone. I drew the dagger from my belt—forged from blackened steel, its edge sharp enough to cut through magic. Without hesitation, I sliced my wrist.
Dark blood welled, thick and ancient, dripping into the chalice. One drop. Two. Three. The runes on the altar flared crimson, the magic in my blood awakening, responding to the ritual.
“Cordelia Vale,” the Speaker intoned. “Drink, and seal the bond.”
All eyes turned to her.
She stood at the edge of the dais, her gown of midnight silk shimmering, her face pale, her jaw clenched. The bond pulsed between us—stronger now, deeper, *inescapable*. I could feel her fear. Her hesitation. Her *need*.
And then she stepped forward.
Slow. Deliberate. Unafraid.
She took the chalice in both hands, her fingers brushing mine just long enough to send a jolt through the bond. Her storm-gray eyes locked onto mine.
And she drank.
The moment my blood touched her lips, the chamber exploded.
Not with sound. Not with light.
With *memory*.
Flashes. Fragments. Moments I’d buried deep—my mortal life, my sire’s death, the night I signed the order, the first time I saw her walk into the hall, the storm, the kiss, the way she’d looked at me when I said her name.
And her?
She gasped, her body arching, her free hand clutching my arm for balance. Her eyes widened, her breath coming fast. She was seeing it all. *Feeling* it all.
My grief. My guilt. My *love*.
And then—
She moaned.
Low. Deep. *Intimate*.
Her body trembled, her knees buckling, but I caught her, my arm locking around her waist, pulling her against me. The chalice slipped from her fingers, clattering to the stone, but the bond was sealed.
Complete.
Unbreakable.
And as she looked up at me, her lips stained with my blood, her eyes glistening with tears, I knew.
This wasn’t just a ritual.
This was a vow.
And she had just sworn it.
---
Later, back in the suite, she lay in my arms by the fire, her body warm, her breath steady. The bond hummed between us, no longer a threat, but a *connection*—deep, primal, undeniable.
She turned her head, her lips brushing the mark on my neck—the old scar from Seraphine’s bite.
“You taste like vengeance,” she whispered.
“And you taste like regret,” I said, my voice rough.
She smiled—soft, real, *hers*.
And for the first time, I let myself believe it.
That she was mine.
Not because of magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because she had chosen me.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.