The summons came at midnight.
A single petal—black as ink, edged in frost—drifted through the cracked window of Mira’s safe house and landed on the table where the vial of Seraphine’s blood still sat, its dried contents catching the candlelight like a warning. No note. No voice. Just the petal, pulsing faintly with Fae magic, its surface etched with a single word in shimmering silver script:
Duel.
I didn’t need to ask who it was from.
Only one creature in this world would dare challenge me so openly, so theatrically, so personally.
Seraphine.
And I knew, with cold certainty, that this wasn’t just about Lysander.
This was about power.
About pride.
About proving who truly held the throne in this tangled web of lies and blood.
“She’s calling you out,” Lysander said, stepping into the room, his voice low, rough. He’d been on watch, a shadow in the corridor, his crimson eyes scanning the streets below. Now, he stood beside me, his presence a wall, his aura flaring with something I couldn’t name—fury? Fear? Protectiveness?
“And you’re going to let her?” I asked, not looking at him. My fingers brushed the petal, and the moment I touched it, a pulse of magic tore through me—cold, sharp, binding.
Not a threat.
A contract.
One I hadn’t signed.
But one I couldn’t ignore.
“I’m not letting her do anything,” he said, stepping closer. “But if you walk away, she wins. And if she wins, she’ll use it—against you, against me, against Elara.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
This wasn’t just a duel.
It was a trap.
And if I refused, I’d be branded a coward. A liar. A witch who couldn’t face the truth.
And in the world of the Fae, reputation was everything.
“What kind of duel?” I asked, my voice steady, though my pulse screamed beneath my skin.
Lysander exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Oaths. One question. One answer. If you lie, the magic punishes you. If you win, she serves you for a century. If you lose…”
“I serve her,” I finished.
He didn’t deny it.
Just watched me, his crimson eyes burning. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes,” I said, standing. “I do.”
Because this wasn’t just about me.
It was about my mother.
About Elara.
About the truth.
And if Seraphine thought she could use Fae law to destroy me—
She didn’t know who she was dealing with.
---
The duel was set for dawn in the Fae glen—a hidden grove deep in the Black Forest, where the trees grew in spirals and the air shimmered with ancient magic. No witnesses. No interference. Just the two of us, bound by Fae law, our words sealed by the weight of oath and consequence.
I arrived first, my boots silent on the moss-covered ground, my cloak pulled tight against the chill. The glen was beautiful in a deadly way—silver mist curling between the trees, bioluminescent flowers glowing faintly in the dark, the scent of moonbloom and iron thick in the air. And at the center—
A circle of black stones.
The dueling ring.
I stepped inside, the moment my foot touched the stone, a pulse of magic flared beneath me—cold, sharp, watchful. The rules were set. The contract was binding. And if I lied—
The Fae would make me pay.
“You’re early,” a voice purred from the shadows.
I didn’t turn. Just kept my eyes on the circle, my hand resting on the hilt of my dagger. “And you’re late.”
Seraphine emerged like smoke, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, her gown shimmering between frost and flame. Her glamour was down—no illusion, no beauty, just the raw, unfiltered truth of her. And when she stepped into the circle, her crimson eyes locked onto mine.
“You look tired,” she said, circling me like a predator. “Running from the Council. Hiding in safe houses. Playing nursemaid to a half-breed child. Is this what the great Cordelia Vale has become?”
“I’m not here to debate your insecurities,” I said, my voice cold. “Let’s begin.”
She smiled—slow, cruel, calculated. “Very well. By Fae law, I challenge Cordelia Vale to a Duel of Oaths. One question. One answer. If she lies, she will serve me for one century. If I lie, I will serve her. Do you accept?”
The magic flared—cold, binding—and I didn’t hesitate.
“I accept.”
And then—
It began.
---
“You claim,” Seraphine said, her voice like wind through glass, “that Lysander Duskbane never bedded me. That the blood he gave me was not for passion, but for survival. Is this the truth?”
The moment the words left her lips, the magic tightened—cold, sharp, testing.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just about Lysander.
This was about me.
About whether I believed him.
About whether I trusted him.
About whether I was still the avenger—or if I had become something else.
My breath caught.
But I didn’t flinch.
Just looked at her, my storm-gray eyes locking onto her crimson ones. “Yes,” I said. “It is the truth.”
And then—
The magic struck.
Not me.
Her.
A crack of ice split the air, wrapping around her wrist like a shackle, her breath catching as the magic punished her for the lie.
She gasped.
But didn’t break.
Just smiled—wider, crueler. “Then answer me this: Did Lysander Duskbane ever desire me? Did he ever crave my touch? Did he ever whisper my name in the dark?”
The magic flared again—cold, sharp, relentless.
And I knew.
This was the real question.
Not about blood.
Not about survival.
About desire.
About whether I could stand here and say, with absolute certainty, that he had never wanted her.
And gods help me, I could.
Because I’d seen the truth.
Not just in his words.
But in his eyes.
In his touch.
In the way his body moved toward mine, even when he tried to resist.
“No,” I said, my voice steady, sure. “He never desired you. He never craved your touch. He never whispered your name in the dark. The only name he whispers is mine.”
The magic struck again.
Ice wrapped around her throat this time, her breath catching, her glamour flickering. She staggered, her eyes wide with shock.
But I wasn’t done.
“Now it’s my turn,” I said, stepping forward. “Did you ever share Lysander’s bed? Did you ever feel his fangs on your skin? Did you ever taste his blood in passion?”
She didn’t answer.
Just stood there, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with hate.
And then—
“No,” she whispered.
The magic flared—cold, sharp, binding—and I knew she was telling the truth.
But it wasn’t enough.
“And the mark on your collarbone?” I asked, stepping closer. “Was it real?”
She didn’t speak.
Just lifted her hand, her fingers brushing the mark—and then, slowly, it faded.
Revealing unbroken skin.
“Glamour,” I said, my voice cold. “Fae illusion. You never had his bite. You never had his claim. You never had anything but a vial of blood and a lie.”
She didn’t deny it.
Just looked at me, her eyes burning. “And what about you? You wear his mark. You sleep in his bed. You let him carry you through the night. But do you really believe he loves you? Or are you just another pawn in his game?”
My breath caught.
Because that—
That was the question I hadn’t been ready for.
But I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” I said. “I believe he loves me. Not because of magic. Not because of the bond. Because he chose me. Even when it meant war. Even when it meant death. He chose me.”
The magic flared—bright, hot, pure—and this time, it didn’t punish.
It confirmed.
And then—
It was over.
---
Seraphine fell to her knees, the ice melting from her skin, her glamour flickering like a dying flame. The magic had spoken. The truth had been revealed. And she—
She had lost.
“You serve me now,” I said, stepping forward. “For one century. You will speak no lies about Lysander Duskbane. You will not interfere in our mission. And if you do—”
“I know,” she spat. “The magic will punish me.”
I didn’t gloat.
Didn’t smile.
Just looked at her—really looked at her—and saw what I hadn’t before.
Not a rival.
Not a seductress.
A woman who had spent her life clawing for power in a world that gave it to no one.
And for a moment—just a moment—I felt something I hadn’t expected.
Pity.
But I didn’t show it.
Just turned and walked away.
---
Lysander was waiting at the edge of the glen, his presence a storm, his crimson eyes burning. He hadn’t watched. Hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t broken the rules.
But I could feel him—his tension, his fear, his need—humming through the bond like a second heartbeat.
And when I stepped out of the circle, he didn’t speak.
Just pulled me into his arms.
Hard.
Fast.
Final.
His coat was cold, his body warm, his fangs grazing my neck as he buried his face in my hair. “You were magnificent,” he whispered, his voice rough, dangerous.
“I won,” I said, my voice steady, though my breath was unsteady.
“No,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at me. “You destroyed her.”
I didn’t answer.
Just looked at him, my storm-gray eyes searching his crimson ones. “And you? Did you ever—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off. “I never wanted her. Never craved her. Never whispered her name. The only name I’ve whispered since the night I met you is yours.”
My breath caught.
And then—
He lifted me into his arms.
Not gently. Not carefully.
Claiming.
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 pulse.
“You think this changes anything?” I whispered.
“No,” he said, his voice a growl. “I think it proves what I’ve known since the moment you lied to my face.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you’re mine,” he said. “Not because of magic. Not because of the bond. Because you chose me. Even when it meant war. Even when it meant death. You chose me.”
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 summons came at dawn.
A raven—its feathers black as midnight, its eyes glowing crimson—landed on the windowsill, a scroll tied to its leg. Mira took it, her dark eyes narrowing as she unrolled it.
“It’s from Kaelen,” she said. “The Council has declared war. Nyx has mobilized the Fae armies. Malrik is rallying the vampire houses. They’re coming for you.”
My breath caught.
Lysander didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, his presence a storm. “Then we meet them.”
“You can’t,” Mira said. “Not yet. The wards here are strong, but not strong enough to hold an army. You need time. Allies. A plan.”
“We have one,” I said. “The truth. The grimoire. The debt.”
“And if they don’t believe you?”
“Then we make them,” I said. “Because my mother didn’t die for nothing. And I won’t let her sacrifice be in vain.”
Lysander looked at me, his crimson eyes burning. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“I never was,” I said.
And then—
Elara stepped forward.
She stood between us, her face pale, her eyes wide. “I want to go with you.”
“No,” Lysander said, his voice sharp. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m already a target,” she said. “And if I stay, they’ll find me. But if I’m with you, I can help. I can fight.”
“You’re sixteen,” I said.
“And I’ve survived assassins,” she said. “I’ve lived in shadows. I’ve dreamed of fire. I’m not a child.”
Long silence.
Then—
Lysander exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Then you stay between us. You do what we say. No risks. No heroics.”
She smiled—soft, real, hers. “Yes, Dad.”
And then she turned to me.
“And you?”
“I’m not your mother,” I said.
“No,” she said. “But you’re the closest thing I have.”
My breath caught.
And then—
I pulled her into a hug.
Tight. Desperate. Real.
And when I let go, I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a vow.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.
---
Later, as the sun set over Lyon, as the city lights flickered to life, 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.
But I knew him.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.