The call came at 3:17 a.m.
A single ring, then silence. The encrypted line Mira had set up between Cordelia and her—burner to burner, warded against tracking. But it wasn’t Cordelia who answered.
It was me.
I’d taken the device from her coat when she’d collapsed in the corridor an hour earlier, her body wracked with bond fever after refusing to stay within the spire’s wards. She’d fought me—scratched, kicked, screamed that she’d rather die than let Elara die alone—but the bond had punished her anyway. Ten feet past the threshold, and her vision blurred, her muscles seized, her breath came in short, panicked gasps. I’d carried her back, furious, helpless, terrified.
And when the phone rang, I answered.
“Who is this?” Mira’s voice was sharp, cautious. “Where’s Cordelia?”
“She’s alive,” I said, my voice low. “But she’s burning. The bond won’t let her leave. Not without breaking her.”
A pause. Then: “Then you’re already too late.”
My blood turned to ice. “What do you mean?”
“The assassins hit Elara’s school twenty minutes ago. They got past the wards. Cordelia’s protection spells—her mother’s sigils—they held, but just barely. The headmistress is dead. Elara’s in hiding. But they’ll find her. They’re Fae. Shadow Court. They don’t stop.”
I closed my eyes. The bond screamed between me and Cordelia—pain, fear, *need*—but I couldn’t go to her. Not yet. Not until I knew Elara was safe.
“Send me the location,” I said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You can’t fly,” she said. “The sun rises in ninety. You’ll burn.”
“Then I’ll run,” I said. “Or die trying.”
She exhaled. “Coordinates sent. And Lysander?”
“Yes.”
“If you let her die, Cordelia will never forgive you. And I’ll make sure you don’t live to regret it.”
I didn’t answer.
I just ended the call, grabbed my coat, and vanished into the night.
---
London was a graveyard at dawn.
The city still slept beneath a shroud of fog, the streets slick with rain, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old magic. Elara’s school—a discreet academy for gifted human children, hidden behind layers of illusion and warding in the heart of Camden—was a crumbling Gothic building, its spires clawing at the sky, its windows dark.
But the wards were broken.
I felt it before I saw it—a tear in the air, a flicker of corrupted energy where the protective runes had been shattered. Blood stained the steps. A body—female, human, throat slit—lay sprawled at the entrance. The headmistress.
My fangs lengthened.
And then I heard it.
A whisper.
From the bell tower.
Not words.
A hum.
Elara’s lullaby.
The one I’d sung to her when she was a child, before the Accord forced me into silence, before I had to let her believe I was dead.
I moved like shadow.
Up the stairs, past the bodies, past the splintered doors. The tower was cold, the air thick with the scent of fear and old iron. And there, curled beneath the great bronze bell, was my daughter.
Elara.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror, her hands clutching a small leather-bound journal—my mother’s grimoire, the one I’d hidden for her. The one Cordelia’s mother had entrusted to me.
She looked up as I entered.
And for the first time in sixteen years, she saw me.
Not a ghost.
Not a memory.
Her father.
“Dad?” she whispered, her voice breaking.
I dropped to my knees, pulling her into my arms. She trembled, her breath coming fast, her fingers clutching my coat like she was afraid I’d vanish.
“I’m here,” I said, my voice rough. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
“They killed Mrs. Holloway,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “They said… they said I had to come with them. That you were dead. That you didn’t want me.”
“I want you,” I said, my fangs bared in silent rage. “More than anything. And I will *never* let them take you.”
She buried her face in my chest, sobbing. I held her, rocking her gently, my mind already racing. I couldn’t stay. Not with the sun rising. Not with the assassins still out there. I had to get her to safety. To Cordelia.
But the bond—
I felt it before I saw it.
A flicker of pain in my chest. A tightening in my throat.
Cordelia.
She was awake. Fighting. The bond was screaming.
And then—
A pulse.
From the journal in Elara’s hands.
I pulled back, frowning. “What is that?”
She looked down. “It… it glowed when they came. Like it knew. Like it was protecting me.”
I took it, flipping through the pages. Blood magic. Ancient wards. And then—
A name.
Cordelia.
Written in my mother’s hand.
And beneath it: She will come. She will know. She will save us.
My breath caught.
Not coincidence.
Not chance.
Fate.
And then—
Elara gasped.
“Dad—look!”
I turned.
The window.
A shadow moved—fast, silent, *deadly*.
A Fae assassin.
Blades of frozen light in hand.
And he wasn’t alone.
Two more emerged from the stairwell, their glamours shifting like smoke, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
They weren’t here to capture.
They were here to kill.
I moved without thinking.
Shoving Elara behind me, drawing the blackened steel dagger from my belt, my fangs bared, my aura flaring crimson. The first assassin lunged—fast, precise—but I was faster. My blade found his throat, severing the spinal cord before he could react. He fell, his glamour dissolving, revealing the face of a young fae noble—Malrik’s spy.
The second came from the left.
I dodged, but not fast enough. A blade of ice grazed my shoulder, burning through fabric and flesh. I snarled, driving my elbow into his face, feeling bone crunch, then slashed across his abdomen. He fell, screaming, his blood black on the stone.
The third—
He didn’t attack.
He *smiled*.
And then he threw something.
A vial.
It shattered at my feet, releasing a cloud of shimmering dust—Fae glamour, designed to disorient, to blind.
I held my breath, lunging forward, but he was ready. A blade of ice pierced my side, just below the ribs. Pain lanced through me, my vision blurring, my strength waning.
And then—
Elara screamed.
I turned.
The assassin had her by the throat, a dagger to her neck, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror.
“Drop the weapon,” he said, his voice like wind through glass. “Or I slit her throat.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I dropped the dagger.
It clattered to the stone.
“Good,” he said. “Now, kneel.”
I didn’t move.
Just watched him, my crimson eyes burning.
And then—
I *pulled*.
Not with my hands.
With my blood.
Blood Dominion—my power, my curse, my *gift*.
I reached into his veins, felt the pulse of his heart, the flow of his magic, and *twisted*.
He gasped.
His grip on Elara faltered.
And I was on him.
My hands closed around his throat, my fangs bared, my voice a growl. “You touch her again,” I said, “and I will rip your heart out and feed it to the crows.”
He didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because I crushed his windpipe.
He fell.
Dead.
I turned to Elara, pulling her into my arms. “You’re safe,” I said. “You’re safe.”
She clung to me, sobbing. “I want to go home.”
“You are home,” I said. “With me.”
And then—
The bond screamed.
Not pain.
*Betrayal*.
I looked down at my phone.
A news alert.
BREAKING: Pact of Ashes stolen. Cordelia Vale apprehended at scene. Council declares witch treason. Execution at dawn.
My blood turned to ice.
No.
Not possible.
She’d gone after the Pact. She’d been with Seraphine. She’d been *framed*.
And now—
They were going to kill her.
Before I could move, before I could call, before I could *think*—
Elara looked up at me, her eyes wide. “Dad… who’s Cordelia?”
I didn’t answer.
Just held her tighter, my mind racing.
I had to get her to safety.
And then I had to save the woman I loved.
---
The Obsidian Spire was in chaos.
By the time I arrived—carrying Elara through the back tunnels, cloaked in shadow, my wounds still bleeding—the Council had already convened. The Chamber of Accord was packed, the air thick with tension, the obsidian mirrors reflecting not faces, but fury.
And at the center—her.
Cordelia.
They’d stripped her of her cloak. Bound her hands with silver chains. Dragged her to the dais like a criminal. Her face was pale, her storm-gray eyes blazing with defiance, her lips cut, her cheek bruised. But she didn’t break. Didn’t beg. Just stood there, unyielding, *alive*.
And when she saw me—
Her breath caught.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
“So are you,” I said, stepping forward.
Malrik stood at the head of the chamber, his crimson eyes gleaming with triumph. “Lysander Duskbane,” he said. “You dare enter this chamber after aiding a traitor? After *harboring* her?”
“She’s not a traitor,” I said, my voice low, controlled. “She’s been framed.”
“The Pact was found in her quarters,” he said. “With her fingerprints. With her magic residue. The evidence is undeniable.”
“And where is it now?” I asked. “Let me see it.”
“It’s been secured,” he said. “But the Council has already ruled. Cordelia Vale is guilty of high treason. By the Bloodfire Accords, the punishment is execution. At dawn.”
Gasps. Murmurs. Nyx smiled behind her veil of frost.
Cordelia didn’t flinch. Just looked at me, her eyes searching mine. “You got her out?”
“She’s safe,” I said. “Because of you. Because your mother’s wards held. Because *you* prepared for this.”
She exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Then I did my job.”
“No,” I said. “You did *ours*.”
Malrik stepped forward. “Enough. The vote is final. She dies at dawn.”
“Then I vote against it,” I said.
“You have no authority,” he snapped. “The Council has spoken.”
“I am Lord of House Duskbane,” I said. “And I will not let you execute my bonded.”
“She’s not your bonded,” Malrik said. “She’s a traitor. And the bond dies with her.”
“No,” I said. “The bond dies with *me*.”
And then I stepped forward—onto the dais, into the light, into the fire.
“If you execute her,” I said, my voice echoing through the chamber, “then I will burn this spire to the ground. I will tear the Accord apart. I will declare war on every house, every court, every species that stands in my way. And I will not stop until every last one of you is *ash*.”
Silence.
Then—
“You’d destroy the peace?” Malrik asked, his voice shaking. “For *her*?”
“For *us*,” I said. “Because she’s not just my bonded. She’s my *equal*. My *truth*. And if you take her from me, you take everything.”
Cordelia looked at me, her eyes glistening. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
And then—
The Speaker raised his hand. “The Council will reconvene. In one hour. Until then, Cordelia Vale remains in custody. Lysander Duskbane—do not leave the spire.”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned to Cordelia, my voice low, rough. “I’ll get you out.”
“No,” she said. “You’ll get Elara out. That’s what matters.”
“You matter,” I said. “Both of you.”
She smiled—soft, real, *hers*. “Then believe in me. Like I believe in you.”
And as they led her away, I knew—
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a vow.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.
---
Later, back in the suite, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of her cloak—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
She’d found it.
Again.
And this time—
She hadn’t destroyed it.
She’d *kept* it.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that she wasn’t losing.
She was *winning*.
And if she thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
She didn’t know me at all.