The dream began in fire.
Not the slow, creeping burn of betrayal, but the sudden, roaring inferno of magic gone wrong. I stood in the heart of my mother’s sanctum—the Veil Coven’s hidden chamber beneath London’s oldest cathedral—its stone walls etched with truth-runes now glowing crimson, its air thick with the scent of blood and burnt sage. My mother was there, her silver hair wild, her hands raised in defense, her voice sharp with warning: *“The Stone remembers, Cordelia. It knows the truth.”*
And then the shadows moved.
Not vampires. Not fae. Not even the Council’s enforcers.
A child.
Small. Human. Curled beneath the altar, her face pale, her breath shallow. She couldn’t have been more than ten. Her eyes—wide, terrified—locked onto mine. And in that moment, I knew her.
Elara.
Lysander’s daughter.
Before I could reach her, the roof exploded inward. A blade of frozen light—Nyx’s doing—pierced the sanctum, and my mother screamed. Not in pain. In sacrifice. She threw herself in front of the girl, taking the blow meant for her. Blood sprayed across the runes. The fire surged. And then—darkness.
I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, my fingers clawing at the black silk sheets. The suite was silent, the fire in the hearth burned low, casting flickering blue shadows across the vaulted ceiling. Dawn had not yet broken. The storm had passed, but the air still carried the chill of rain-soaked stone.
And then I felt it.
The bond—no longer a dull throb, but a deep, resonant hum, like a bell that had been struck and would not stop ringing. It pulsed through my veins, warm and insistent, a constant reminder of what I’d done the night before. What I’d *tasted*.
Lysander’s blood.
I sat up slowly, my body still humming from the ritual. The memory of it flooded back—his wrist, slashed open, dark blood welling into the silver chalice. The way my hands had trembled as I lifted it. The way his crimson eyes had held mine, unflinching, as I drank.
And then—*the visions*.
Not just images. Not just memories.
Emotions. Sensations. A flood of *him*—his grief, his guilt, his quiet, unrelenting love for a child he’d never been able to hold in the light. I’d seen her face. Felt his fear for her. Known, with terrifying clarity, that he hadn’t signed the order for power.
He’d done it to save her.
And I’d *felt* it. Not through logic. Not through argument.
Through his blood.
My fingers brushed the bite mark above my collarbone. It still throbbed faintly, a fresh wound layered over the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. Two brands. Two claims. Two truths I could no longer deny.
“You saw her,” a voice said.
I froze.
Lysander stood in the doorway to the sleeping chamber, shirtless, his torso a sculpted landscape of muscle and old scars. His black hair was tousled from sleep, his crimson eyes sharp, watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. Just waited.
“I saw *her*,” I whispered. “In the ritual. In the blood. I saw Elara.”
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath, and stepped forward. “And?”
“And she was in my mother’s sanctum,” I said, my voice breaking. “She was hiding. And my mother—she protected her.”
His jaw tightened. “She did.”
“You never told me that.”
“I couldn’t,” he said. “If anyone knew she’d been there, if anyone knew your mother had hidden her, Nyx would have come for her again. For both of them.”
I stared at him. “You think I wouldn’t have protected her?”
“I think you came here to destroy me,” he said quietly. “And I couldn’t risk it. Not with her life on the line.”
The bond flared—heat, tension, *need*—and I looked away, pressing my palms to my temples. The dream still clung to me, vivid, raw. My mother’s voice echoed in my skull: *“The Stone remembers.”*
And then it hit me.
“The Contract Stone,” I said, lifting my head. “It didn’t just bind us. It *knew*. It knew about Elara. It knew about my mother. It knew about the truth.”
He didn’t deny it. Just watched me, his expression unreadable.
“You think it was random?” he asked. “That the bond activated by chance? The Stone doesn’t choose lightly. It doesn’t bind enemies for sport. It binds those who are meant to *see*.”
“See what?”
“The truth,” he said. “The debt. The reason we’re here. Together.”
I swallowed hard. “And what debt is that?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I think your mother did.”
The words landed like a blade.
My breath caught. “You think she *wanted* this? That she sent me here knowing the Stone would bind us?”
“I think she knew the Stone remembers,” he said. “And that one day, it would call in its debt. Maybe she knew it would be you. Maybe she hoped it would be.”
I wanted to scream. To throw something. To claw the calm certainty from his face. But the bond hummed in my veins, a constant, living thing, and I couldn’t deny what I’d seen. What I’d *felt*.
My mother hadn’t just died for her defiance.
She’d died to protect a child.
And not just any child.
Lysander’s.
---
The morning briefing was scheduled for 7:00 a.m. in the Chamber of Accord, but I didn’t go.
Neither did Lysander.
We stayed in the suite, the bond thrumming between us like a second heartbeat, the weight of the night’s ritual pressing down on us like a vow. He moved to the window, watching the city below emerge from the mist, his silhouette sharp against the dawn light. I sat by the hearth, my fingers tracing the Duskbane sigil on my wrist, the mark warm beneath my touch.
“You should rest,” he said, not turning. “The Blood Oath takes its toll. Even on witches.”
“I’m not tired,” I lied.
“You’re trembling.”
I looked down. My hands were shaking. Not from fear. Not from anger.
From *connection*.
The ritual had deepened the bond. Not just in strength, but in intimacy. I could feel him more clearly now—his pulse, his breath, the quiet ache in his chest when he thought of Elara. And he could feel me. My doubt. My grief. My *doubt*.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “With me. Not anymore.”
“I’m not pretending,” I said. “I’m just… thinking.”
“About your mother.”
“About *us*,” I said. “About what this means. If the Stone bound us for a reason, then what happens when the debt is known? When the truth is revealed?”
He turned, his crimson eyes locking onto mine. “Then the bond is fulfilled. And we’re free.”
“And if we don’t want to be?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped closer, the bond flaring—heat, awareness, *need*—as he closed the distance. He knelt in front of me, his hands covering mine where they rested on my knees. His touch was cool, controlled, but I felt the shift in him—the way his breath hitched, the way his fangs grazed his lower lip.
“You think I don’t want this?” he asked, his voice rough. “You think I don’t want *you*? Not because of magic. Not because of the bond. But because you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me and seen the man beneath the monster?”
My breath caught.
“You hate me,” he said. “Good. Hate me. Fight me. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t lie to me. Because I can *feel* it. The way your magic reaches for mine. The way your body responds when I’m near. The way you didn’t pull away when I kissed you.”
“It’s the bond,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “It’s *us*.”
I looked up at him, my chest tight, my pulse racing. And for the first time, I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a man.
A man who had signed an order to save his daughter.
A man who had carried grief like armor.
A man who, despite everything, still looked at me like I was the only light in his darkness.
And I hated him.
But gods help me, I was starting to *believe* him.
---
The summons came at noon.
A servant—pale, silent, eyes downcast—knocked once, then slipped a black envelope beneath the door. I picked it up, my fingers brushing the wax seal of the Supernatural Council. Inside, a single line of script:
Allied Signatories are required to attend the emergency session. Chamber of Accord. 1:00 p.m.
I glanced at the clock. 12:47.
Thirteen minutes.
Lysander was already dressed—black coat, silver cuffs, hair combed back into ruthless order. He looked like a king ready for war. And maybe he was.
“You’ll need this,” he said, tossing me a dark cloak lined with silver thread. “The chamber is warded. Iron burns. Silver protects.”
I caught it, frowning. “Why help me?”
“Because if you collapse in there, it reflects poorly on me,” he said. “And because I don’t want you hurt.”
“Liar,” I muttered, but I put the cloak on anyway.
We walked in silence through the spire’s winding corridors, guards stepping aside as we passed. Whispers followed us.
“Look at her—she drank his blood.”
“The bond is sealed.”
“She’s truly his now.”
“He’ll ruin her.”
“She’ll ruin him first.”
I kept my head high, my expression blank. Let them talk. Let them think what they wanted. I wasn’t his. Not really. Not yet.
But when my fingers brushed the mark on my wrist, I felt it—warm, alive, *his*.
The Chamber of Accord was colder than I remembered, the obsidian mirrors reflecting not our faces, but our auras—shifting colors of power, emotion, intent. The Council sat in their ring of thrones, twelve figures shrouded in shadow. At the center, the Contract Stone stood once more, dormant, waiting.
We stepped forward together.
The Speaker raised a hand. “An emergency session has been called by Lord Malrik of House Nocturne. He claims to possess evidence that Cordelia Vale has conspired with rogue witches to sabotage the Midnight Accord.”
Gasps. Murmurs. Nyx leaned forward, her eyes gleaming.
Malrik stood, his crimson eyes burning with triumph. “I have intercepted coded messages,” he said, holding up a scroll sealed with black wax. “Proof that Cordelia Vale has been in contact with the remnants of the Veil Coven. That she plans to expose the secret clause, to incite war, to destroy the balance we’ve fought so hard to maintain.”
My breath caught.
It was a lie.
But it was *convincing*.
Because I *had* contacted Mira.
Just once. Just to let her know I was alive.
And now Malrik had twisted it into treason.
All eyes turned to me.
I felt the weight of the moment—the expectations, the danger, the bond pulling me toward him, demanding my answer.
And then—
Lysander stepped forward.
“The messages are real,” he said, his voice calm, controlled. “But their intent is not treason. Cordelia Vale contacted her ally to confirm her survival. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Malrik’s smile faltered. “And you expect us to believe that?”
“I expect you to believe the truth,” Lysander said. “Because I don’t lie. Not in this chamber. Not about this.”
“And what if I have more evidence?” Malrik said. “What if I can prove she met with a known witch extremist last week? That she received forbidden texts on blood magic?”
“Then produce them,” Lysander said. “Or be silent.”
Malrik hesitated. And in that hesitation, I saw it—the bluff. He had nothing. Just rumors. Just lies.
“The Council will reconvene in twenty-four hours,” the Speaker said. “Until then, Cordelia Vale is to remain under the supervision of her Allied Signatory. No contact with external parties. No access to restricted texts. Is that understood?”
Lysander inclined his head. “Understood.”
All eyes turned to me.
I met their gazes—cold, defiant, unbroken.
“I understand,” I said.
The bond flared—bright, hot, *final*—and I knew, with cold certainty, that there was no going back.
Not from this.
Not from him.
And when he turned to me, his crimson eyes burning with something I couldn’t name, I realized the truth:
This wasn’t just a contract.
This was a vow.
And I had just sworn it.
Again.
Later that night, alone in the suite, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his coat—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
He’d lied.
Again.
And this time, I wasn’t sure I could forgive him.
But the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I was losing.
Not just the war.
My heart.