The emergency session had ended in stalemate, but I knew it wasn’t over. Malrik had retreated, yes—but like a wolf circling wounded prey, he’d only paused, scenting the air for weakness. The Council’s verdict—twenty-four hours to produce evidence—was a reprieve, not a victory. And Lysander’s defense of me? It wasn’t loyalty. It was strategy. A calculated move to protect the bond, the Accord, *his* power.
Or so I told myself.
But the truth—like the blood still humming in my veins—was harder to deny.
He’d stood in front of them. For *me*. Not because I was his ally. Not because the bond demanded it. But because he *believed* me.
And that terrified me more than any lie.
Back in the suite, I paced the length of the room, my bare feet silent on the cold marble. The fire had been relit, its blue flames casting long, wavering shadows across the vaulted ceiling. Lysander stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the fading light, his presence a wall between me and the world. He hadn’t spoken since we left the chamber. Hadn’t looked at me. Just stood there, still as stone, his crimson eyes scanning the city below like he expected an attack at any moment.
Maybe he did.
“You think Malrik has proof?” I asked, breaking the silence.
He didn’t turn. “No. He has rumors. Lies. A desperate play to fracture the bond.”
“And if he finds real evidence?”
“He won’t.”
“Because you’ll destroy it first?”
Finally, he turned. “Because you didn’t commit treason.”
I flinched. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said, stepping closer. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—as he closed the distance. “I feel it. In the bond. In your magic. You came here for vengeance, not war. You want *me* to pay. Not the world.”
“And that makes me noble?”
“It makes you honest,” he said. “Even when you lie.”
I looked away, my fingers brushing 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 ignore.
And then—
A whisper.
Not in my ears.
In my *mind*.
The truth is a blade. And you are its sheath.
I froze.
My mother’s voice.
Not a memory. Not a dream.
A *presence*.
“What is it?” Lysander asked, his voice sharp with concern.
“I—” I pressed my palms to my temples. A pressure was building behind my eyes, sharp and insistent, like a dam about to break. My vision blurred at the edges, dark smoke curling into the corners, twisting like ink in water.
And then I saw it.
Not with my eyes.
With my *sight*.
Truth-Sight.
It had been dormant since childhood, sealed by grief, by fear, by the weight of what I’d seen the night my mother died. But now—now it was *awake*.
And it was *hungry*.
I turned to Lysander, my breath catching.
His aura—usually a deep, shifting crimson—was now streaked with black. Lies. Secrets. Pain. And at the center, a single, searing thread of white—*truth*.
He saw it too. Felt it. His jaw tightened. “Your power.”
“It’s back,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I can see it. The lies. The secrets. The—”
“Don’t,” he said, stepping back. “Not here. Not now.”
“Why?” I demanded, moving toward him. “Because you’re afraid I’ll see what you’re hiding? That I’ll finally know the truth about Seraphine? About the blood? About why you kept that vial?”
“Because it will destroy you,” he said, his voice low, raw. “Some truths are meant to stay buried.”
“Not mine,” I said. “Not after what I’ve lost.”
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Then look. But don’t say you weren’t warned.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I reached for him—not with my hands, but with my magic. The bond flared, a surge of heat and power, and then—
I *saw*.
Not just his aura.
His *thoughts*.
Memories. Fears. Desires.
And then—
The lie.
Not about Seraphine.
Not about the blood.
But about the massacre.
He hadn’t ordered it.
He’d been *blackmailed*.
Queen Nyx had threatened Elara’s life. Had sent proof—photos, recordings, a vial of the girl’s blood—proving she knew where she was hidden. And if Lysander refused to sign the order, she would have her killed.
So he’d signed.
Not for power.
Not for control.
For *her*.
And as the vision unfolded—his hand trembling as he signed the parchment, his fangs bared in silent rage, his voice raw as he whispered, *“I’m sorry”*—I felt it.
Not just the truth.
The *weight* of it.
My breath came fast, my chest tight, my fingers digging into his arms. The bond screamed between us—fire, need, *recognition*—and I knew, with terrifying clarity, that he wasn’t the monster I’d painted him to be.
He was a father.
And I had spent months hating him for doing what I would have done in his place.
“Say it again,” I demanded, my voice breaking. “Say it so I can hear it with my own ears.”
He looked at me, his crimson eyes burning with something raw, something *vulnerable*.
“I didn’t order the massacre,” he said, his voice low, rough. “I was forced. Blackmailed. Nyx threatened my daughter. If I refused, she would have killed her. So I signed. Not for power. Not for control. To save a child.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I *saw* it.
The truth, glowing like a beacon in his aura, pure and unbroken.
He wasn’t lying.
He’d never lied about this.
And I—
I had.
Not with words.
But with silence. With hatred. With the refusal to see him as anything but a killer.
“Now believe me,” he whispered.
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because the bond—steady now, pulsing between us like a second heartbeat—was no longer a chain.
It was a bridge.
And I was crossing it.
---
The summons came at dawn.
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 morning session. Chamber of Accord. 7:00 a.m.
I glanced at the clock. 6:42.
Eight 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—her eyes are different.”
“Truth-Sight. She’s seen something.”
“She’ll expose him.”
“Or destroy herself.”
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. “The Council is in session. We begin with faction concerns. Witch delegation, you have the floor.”
My breath caught.
There *was* no witch delegation. Not anymore. Not since the massacre.
But they were looking at *me*.
Because I was the last.
And now, I had a voice.
I stepped forward, my boots echoing on the stone. The bond hummed between us, steady, watchful. Lysander didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood beside me, a silent wall, his presence a weight against my back.
“I rise to address the Fae land rights proposal,” I said, my voice clear, steady. “Article Four of the Midnight Accord states that no species shall claim territory without mutual consent. Yet the Fae High Court has seized control of the Blackthorn Glen—a sacred witch burial ground—under the false pretense of ‘neglected stewardship.’”
Murmurs. Gasps. Nyx leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.
“This is not a matter for you,” she said, her voice like wind through glass. “You are not a representative of your coven. You are an Allied Signatory. Bound to *him*.” She gestured to Lysander, her lip curling. “Your voice carries no weight here.”
“It does now,” I said, turning to face her. And then—I *saw*.
Her aura—usually a shimmering cascade of frost and shadow—was now streaked with black. Lies. So many lies.
And at the center—
A single, searing thread of white.
The truth.
She had ordered the massacre.
Not Lysander.
She had used him. Manipulated him. Threatened his daughter to force his hand.
And now—now she was afraid.
Because I could *see* it.
“You lie,” I said, my voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. “The Blackthorn Glen was not neglected. It was *protected*. By my mother. By her blood. By her magic. And you took it. Not for stewardship. For *power*. To bury the truth beneath Fae glamour.”
She didn’t flinch. “You have no proof.”
“I don’t need proof,” I said. “I have *truth*.”
And then I stepped forward—into her space, into the bond, into the fire.
My hand lifted, my fingers brushing the air just above her chest, where her heart beat beneath the ice.
“You ordered the massacre,” I said, my voice low, deadly. “You threatened Lysander’s daughter. You used him to do your dirty work. And now you sit here, pretending to uphold the Accord, while your hands are stained with innocent blood.”
The chamber froze.
Every head turned. Fae nobles leaned forward, their glamour flickering. The werewolf alpha bared his fangs. Malrik’s smile faltered.
And Lysander?
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning with something I couldn’t name—pride? Fear? *Love*?
Nyx stood, her gown shimmering like frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice. “You dare accuse me? A queen? In this chamber?”
“I dare,” I said. “Because I can *see* it. The black smoke in your aura. The lies you’ve woven. The blood you’ve spilled. And I will not be silent anymore.”
She stepped forward, her voice a whisper. “You think your little magic frightens me? You think the Council will believe a witch who came here to destroy us all?”
“They’ll believe the truth,” I said. “Because I am its voice.”
And then—
I reached for her.
Not with my hands.
With my *sight*.
The bond flared—fire, need, *power*—and I *pulled*.
And the chamber *screamed*.
Not in sound.
In *light*.
A pulse of raw magic tore through the room, shattering the obsidian mirrors, sending the Council members reeling. And in that moment—just one, fleeting second—I saw it.
The truth.
Not just in Nyx.
In *all* of them.
Malrik—his aura streaked with black, his lies about the coded messages, his plot to frame me.
The werewolf alpha—his secret alliance with the Shadow Court.
Even the Speaker—his hidden debt to the vampire elders.
And Lysander?
His aura—still crimson, still scarred—was now streaked with white.
Truth.
Pure. Unbroken.
And at the center—
A single, glowing thread.
Me.
Not as his enemy.
Not as his prisoner.
As his *equal*.
The pulse faded. The chamber stilled.
And then—
Nyx lunged.
Her hand shot out, claws of ice forming at her fingertips, aimed at my throat.
But Lysander was faster.
He moved like shadow, his body a blur, his arm locking around her wrist before she could strike. His fangs were bared, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Touch her,” he growled, “and I will end you.”
The chamber held its breath.
And then—
I stepped forward.
Close to Nyx. Close to the edge.
“You think you can silence me?” I said, my voice quiet, deadly. “You think I’ll let you bury the truth again? My mother died to protect it. And I will *not* let her sacrifice be in vain.”
She glared at me, her eyes burning with hate. “You’re just like her. Stubborn. Foolish. *Dead*.”
“Then let me die,” I said. “But not before the world knows what you are.”
And then I turned—back to the Council, back to the light, back to the bond that pulsed between us like a vow.
“The debt is known,” I said.
The Contract Stone flared—bright, hot, *alive*—and the bond *screamed*.
Not in pain.
In *recognition*.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a contract.
This was a reckoning.
And I had just begun.
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.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I was no longer losing.
I was *winning*.