The silence after the Council session was heavier than any scream.
It pressed down on the Obsidian Spire like a tombstone, thick with unspoken threats and fractured alliances. The mirrors were cracked, their obsidian surfaces webbed with fissures from the pulse of my Truth-Sight. The air still hummed with residual magic, sharp and electric, like the aftermath of a storm. And the Council—twelve figures who had ruled the supernatural world for centuries—sat in stunned silence, their auras flickering with fear, disbelief, and something darker: *recognition*.
I had shown them the truth.
And they didn’t like what they saw.
Nyx had been dragged from the chamber by her own guards, her frost-gown torn, her eyes burning with hate. She hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t cursed. Hadn’t threatened. But I’d seen it—the flicker of panic beneath the ice. Because for the first time in centuries, someone had looked her in the eye and *known*. Not suspected. Not accused. *Known*.
And now, as Lysander and I walked back through the spire’s winding corridors, the weight of what I’d done settled over me like a shroud.
I hadn’t just exposed a lie.
I’d declared war.
“You were magnificent,” he said, his voice low, rough. We were alone now—no servants, no guards, no whispers. Just the echo of our footsteps on cold stone and the steady, pulsing hum of the bond between us.
I didn’t answer. Just kept walking, my hands clenched at my sides, my breath still unsteady. My Truth-Sight had flared like a wildfire, burning through the lies in the chamber, revealing the rot beneath the Accord. But now, it was quiet. Dormant. And in its absence, doubt crept in.
Had I gone too far?
Had I just signed my death warrant?
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not proud,” he said, stepping beside me. His presence was a wall—solid, unyielding, *dangerous*. “I can feel it. In the bond. You *wanted* to do that. You *needed* to.”
“I needed to expose the truth,” I said, my voice tight. “Not play hero.”
“Same thing,” he murmured. “To you.”
I turned to him, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his crimson ones. “You didn’t stop me.”
“Should I have?”
“You could have. You’re stronger than me. Faster. You could have silenced me before I spoke.”
He didn’t flinch. Just watched me, his expression unreadable. “And what would that prove? That I’m still the monster you thought I was? That I’d rather protect a liar than stand with the truth?”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
He could have stopped me. Could have pulled me back, whispered in my ear, used the bond to dampen my magic. But he hadn’t. He’d let me speak. Let me *see*. Let me *burn*.
And that terrified me more than any lie.
“You’re not what I thought you were,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“No,” he agreed. “But you’re not what I thought you were either.”
“And what’s that?”
“Mine,” he said. “Not because of magic. Not because of the bond. But because you *chose* to stand with me. In front of the entire Council. After everything I’ve done. After everything you’ve lost.”
I looked away, my fingers brushing the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. It still glowed faintly, warm beneath my touch. The bite mark above my collarbone throbbed—fresh, raw, *real*. Two brands. Two claims. Two truths I could no longer deny.
And then—
A pulse.
Not from the bond.
From my pocket.
I froze.
Reaching into the inner seam of my cloak, I pulled out the small, silver device Mira had given me before I left London—a modified burner phone, warded against supernatural detection, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light.
One message.
They’re coming. Malrik has the Pact. He’s framing you. Run.
My breath caught.
The Pact of Ashes.
The sacred document that required all leaders to attend the Midnight Summit. The only thing holding the Accord together. If it was stolen, if it was *framed* as stolen by me—
War.
“What is it?” Lysander asked, his voice sharp.
I didn’t answer. Just turned the screen toward him.
His jaw tightened. “Malrik.”
“He’s setting me up,” I said, my voice low. “If the Pact is missing and they find it in my possession, they’ll execute me. And if they execute me, you’ll have no choice but to retaliate. The Accord collapses. The war begins.”
“And he gets what he wants,” Lysander said. “Control. Power. Your death.”
I looked up at him. “You’d retaliate.”
“In a heartbeat,” he said. “But not because of the bond. Because you’re *mine*. And no one takes what’s mine.”
My chest tightened.
Not from fear.
From *something else*.
“Then we stop him,” I said. “Before he can frame me.”
“We?” he asked, stepping closer. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—as he closed the distance. “You don’t have to do this. You could leave. Disappear. I’d cover for you. Say you fled. Say the bond broke. You’d be safe.”
“And let you face Malrik alone?” I said, stepping into his space. “After everything? After what I saw in the Council? After what I *know*?”
“You think I need you?” he asked, his voice a growl. “You think I can’t handle him?”
“I think you *want* me,” I said. “And that’s why you won’t let me go.”
He didn’t deny it.
Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning with something raw, something *vulnerable*.
And then—
He pulled me against him.
Not gently. Not carefully.
*Hard*.One hand fisted in my hair, the other locked around my waist, pulling me flush against his body. The bond screamed between us—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t fight it. Didn’t push him away. Just arched into him, my hands gripping his coat, my breath catching as his fangs grazed my lower lip.
“You think this is about want?” he said, his voice rough, dangerous. “You think I’d risk the Accord, my throne, *my life* just because I *want* you?”
“Then why?” I whispered.
“Because you’re the only one who sees me,” he said. “Not the vampire lord. Not the ruler. The man. And if I lose you, I lose *everything*.”
My breath hitched.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not desperate. Not furious.
Slow.
Deep.
Claiming.
His mouth moved against mine, soft and sure, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before I opened for him. The bond exploded—fire pooling low in my belly, my magic reaching for his, my body *aching*—and I kissed him back, my fingers fisting in his hair, my nails scraping his scalp.
He broke it first, pulling back just enough to look at me, his breath unsteady, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
“You’re not leaving,” he said. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
“Then we stop Malrik,” I said. “Together.”
He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Then we move now. Before he can act.”
---
The Pact of Ashes was kept in the Vault of Oaths—a sublevel chamber beneath the spire, warded with ancient runes and guarded by four vampire thralls sworn to silence. Only the Council Speaker and the heads of each house had access. And Malrik—power-hungry, ruthless, *ambitious*—had just enough influence to forge a key.
Or so he thought.
We moved through the spire like shadows, Lysander leading, me following, the bond humming between us like a second heartbeat. No words. No hesitation. Just the silent understanding that if we failed, everything burned.
At the vault’s entrance, two thralls stood guard, their eyes blank, their movements precise. Lysander didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, his presence a wall, his aura flaring crimson.
“Stand down,” he said, his voice low, commanding.
They didn’t move.
Not until he flashed the Duskbane sigil on his wrist—its glow brighter now, fed by the bond, by *us*.
They bowed.
Stepped aside.
The door opened with a hiss of ancient mechanisms, revealing the vault—a circular chamber of black stone, its walls lined with sealed scrolls, enchanted relics, and the Pact of Ashes, resting on a pedestal of fused silver and bone.
And it was gone.
The pedestal was empty.
My breath caught.
“He’s already taken it,” I whispered.
Lysander didn’t react. Just stepped inside, his crimson eyes scanning the room. Then—
A flicker.
On the floor. Near the pedestal.
I moved first, crouching down, my fingers brushing the cold stone. A single thread—black silk, torn, *familiar*.
Malrik’s coat.
“He was here,” I said. “Recently.”
Lysander knelt beside me, his hand covering mine where it rested on the thread. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *recognition*—and then—
He *pulled*.
Not with his hands.
With his blood.
His power—Blood Dominion—reached into the thread, tracing the residual magic, the scent, the *intent*. And then—
“He’s in the lower cells,” Lysander said, standing. “With Seraphine.”
My breath caught. “Why?”
“Because she’s useful,” he said. “And because he thinks I won’t look there.”
“You imprisoned her.”
“Yes,” he said. “But Malrik doesn’t know I visit her. Doesn’t know I use her to gather information.”
I stared at him. “You *trust* her?”
“I don’t,” he said. “But I know how to make her talk.”
---
The lower cells were a labyrinth of damp stone and iron bars, hidden beneath the spire’s foundations, accessible only by a narrow staircase guarded by silence wards. The air was thick with the scent of blood and decay, the walls lined with runes that pulsed faintly in the dark.
And at the end of the hall—her.
Seraphine.
She sat on the edge of her cot, barefoot, draped in a thin shift, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders. Her glamour was down—no illusion, no beauty, just the raw, unfiltered truth of her. And when she saw us, she smiled.
“Lysander,” she purred. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, his presence a storm. “Where is the Pact of Ashes?”
She tilted her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie,” I said, stepping beside him. “Malrik was here. We found his thread. He took the Pact. And you know where it is.”
She laughed. “And why would I tell you? You hate me. He hates me. The world hates me. Why should I care if Malrik starts a war?”
“Because if he does,” Lysander said, “you die with the rest of us.”
She studied him—long, cold, calculating. Then, slowly, she smiled. “I’ll tell you. But not for you. For *her*.”
Her gaze slid to me.
“He’s hidden it in the catacombs beneath the Fae glen,” she said. “Where the old bloodlines are buried. He’s going to plant it on you during the next Council session. Say you stole it to expose the Accord. Say you tried to burn it.”
My breath caught.
It was perfect.
No proof. No defense. Just a witch—already accused of sabotage—caught with the stolen heart of the Accord.
And I’d be executed.
“Why tell us?” I asked.
She stood, stepping forward until the bars separated us. “Because I want to see you win. Because I want to see him *break*. And because,” she said, her voice dropping, “Nyx has already sent assassins. They’re coming for Elara.”
The bond screamed.
Lysander went still. “When?”
“Tonight,” she said. “While you’re distracted by Malrik’s game.”
My chest tightened.
Elara.
His daughter.
Hidden in London.
And now—
Targeted.
Lysander turned to me, his crimson eyes burning. “We split up. You go after the Pact. I’ll get to Elara.”
“No,” I said. “We go together.”
“You can’t,” he said. “The bond won’t let you leave the spire. Not yet. Not without pain.”
“Then I’ll suffer it,” I said. “Because if Elara dies, it’s on both of us.”
He stared at me—long, hard, *searching*.
And then—
He kissed me.
Fast. Fierce. *Final*.
“Don’t die,” he said.
“Neither do you,” I whispered.
And then he was gone.
Vanishing into the shadows like smoke.
I turned back to Seraphine.
“You’re coming with me,” I said.
She smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
---
Later, back 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 wasn’t losing.
I was *winning*.
And if he thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
He didn’t know me at all.