The war room in the Lyon safe house was silent, but the air wasn’t.
It crackled—thin, sharp, alive—with the weight of what we’d just learned. The raven’s message had been clear: Malrik had allied with Queen Nyx. They were coming. Not in days. Not in hours.
Now.
And they weren’t just coming for me.
They were coming for *us*.
I stood at the head of the table, my fingers pressed into the worn wood, my crimson eyes scanning the scrying mirror that hovered above it—its surface flickering with fragmented visions of Geneva, of the Obsidian Spire, of vampire thralls moving in formation beneath the cover of night. Kaelen’s scouts had confirmed it: House Nocturne was mobilizing. Bloodwine stockpiles were being broken open. Fae gliders were assembling in the glens, their wings shimmering with illusion. This wasn’t just an attack.
It was an eradication.
And at the center of it—Malrik.
My cousin. My sire’s murderer. The man who had spent centuries clawing his way to power by any means necessary. He’d always wanted my throne. But now—now he wanted more.
He wanted my blood on the stone.
“They’ll come through the northern tunnels,” I said, my voice low, controlled. “They know the spire’s wards are weakest there during the eclipse. They’ll bring Fae illusionists to mask their approach. Vampires to breach the inner sanctum. And Nyx…”
“Will be waiting for you,” Cordelia finished, her storm-gray eyes sharp. She sat at the edge of the table, her dagger resting on the wood, her fingers tracing the Duskbane sigil on her wrist. The mark still glowed faintly, warm beneath her touch, a brand of fire. “She’ll use the bond. Try to sever it. If she can break it, she breaks *us*.”
“And if she breaks you,” Elara said quietly from the corner, where she sat with my mother’s grimoire open in her lap, “she wins.”
I turned to her. My daughter. My reason. My *weakness*.
And for the first time in centuries, I didn’t try to hide it.
“Then we don’t let her,” I said. “We don’t give her the chance.”
Mira stood by the window, her dark eyes scanning the street below, her stance tense. “You can’t fight them head-on. Not yet. You’re outnumbered. Outgunned. And if they take Cordelia—”
“They won’t,” I said, the words a vow.
“You can’t promise that,” she snapped. “You can’t control the battlefield. You can’t control *her*.”
“No,” I agreed, stepping toward Cordelia. “But I can stand beside her.”
She looked up at me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “And if I fall?”
“Then I fall with you,” I said. “And if we burn, we burn together.”
The bond flared between us—hot, insistent, *alive*—a current of magic and desire that made the air hum. She didn’t flinch. Just reached for me, her fingers brushing the tear in my coat, the blood still staining the fabric from the prison fight.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” she whispered, pushing the coat aside. The wound below my ribs was shallow, but it was still bleeding, dark blood seeping through the fabric. “Let me see it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” she said.
And then she did the one thing she’d sworn she’d never do.
She pulled my shirt up.
Her fingers were cool, precise, gentle as she poured salve over the wound, her breath unsteady, her magic humming beneath her skin. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, my breath ragged, my fangs grazing my lower lip.
And then—
Her hand slipped.
Just a brush. Just a whisper of contact.
But it was enough.
The bond exploded—fire, need, *hunger*—and I didn’t pull back. Just let her touch me, her fingers tracing the scar across my abdomen, the curve of my hip, the edge of my trousers.
She didn’t stop.
Just kept going, her breath catching, her storm-gray eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
I caught her wrist.
Not to stop her.
To *guide* her.
My hand covered hers, my fingers interlacing with hers, my thumb brushing the pulse at her wrist. And then—I moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until her palm rested over the hard ridge of my arousal, pressing through the fabric.
Her breath caught.
“You want this,” I said, my voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time I touched you.”
“It’s the bond,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “It’s *us*.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving her hand where it was, my body still hard, my breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” she breathed.
“But you want me to,” I said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pulled her hand back, her cheeks flushed, her storm-gray eyes burning. But she didn’t look away. Just stared at me, her chest rising and falling, her magic reaching for mine like a drowning woman grasping for shore.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was winning.
---
We planned through the night.
Cloaked in silence, bathed in candlelight, we mapped the battlefield like a lover’s body—every weakness, every strength, every point of penetration. Cordelia was fierce, her mind sharp, her instincts unrelenting. She didn’t just want to survive.
She wanted to *win*.
“Malrik will expect us to defend,” she said, her finger tracing the northern tunnels on the map. “He’ll think we’re trapped. That we’ll wait for him to come.”
“And we won’t,” I said.
“No,” she agreed. “We’ll hit *him*. Before he can breach the spire. Before he can rally the houses. We’ll strike at the heart of his alliance—Nyx.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Mira asked. “She’s guarded. Immortal. Bound by Fae law.”
“Then we break the law,” Cordelia said, her voice cold. “We expose her. We show the Council what she really is. A murderer. A blackmailer. A traitor to the Accord.”
“With what?” Mira pressed. “A grimoire? A vision?”
“With *this*,” Cordelia said, pulling a vial from the inner seam of her cloak.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
She’d kept it.
Again.
And this time—
She wasn’t studying it.
She was *using* it.
“Seraphine’s blood,” she said. “Not just a vial. A *record*. Fae blood carries memory. If I perform the Rite of Unveiling, I can extract the truth of what happened last winter. I can prove Malrik and Nyx have been working together for months. I can prove *he* didn’t order the massacre. That *she* did.”
“And if the Council doesn’t believe you?” I asked.
“Then they’re fools,” she said. “But I’ll make them believe. Because my mother died for this truth. And I will *not* let her sacrifice be in vain.”
I looked at her—really looked at her.
Not the avenger.
Not the witch.
The woman.
And for the first time, I saw it.
Not just the fire.
The *future*.
“Then we move now,” I said. “Before they can act.”
“And Elara?” Mira asked. “You can’t take her into battle.”
“I’m not leaving,” Elara said, standing. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, but her voice was steady. “I’m not a child. I’ve survived assassins. I’ve lived in shadows. I’ve dreamed of fire. If you go, I go.”
“No,” I said, my voice sharp. “It’s too dangerous.”
“And if I stay, they’ll find me,” she said. “But if I’m with you, I can help. I can *fight*.”
Long silence.
Then—
I 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 Cordelia.
“And you?”
“I’m not your mother,” Cordelia said.
“No,” she said. “But you’re the closest thing I have.”
Cordelia’s breath caught.
And then—
She pulled her into a hug.
Tight. Desperate. *Real*.
And when she 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.
---
We left at dawn.
The city was still wrapped in fog, the cobblestone streets slick with rain, the air thick with the scent of old magic. We moved through the tunnels like shadow—Cordelia in front, her dagger drawn, her storm-gray eyes scanning the darkness; Elara between us, her hand gripping mine; Mira at the rear, her presence a wall. The bond hummed between Cordelia and me—warm, alive, *real*—a current of magic and desire that made the air hum.
And then—
A pulse.
Not from the bond.
From ahead.
“Ambush,” Cordelia whispered, dropping into a crouch.
I nodded, pulling Elara behind me, my fangs lengthening, my aura flaring crimson. The first wave came fast—vampire thralls, armed with silver blades, their eyes gleaming with Malrik’s mark. They lunged from the shadows, silent, precise.
But they weren’t fast enough.
I moved like shadow, my dagger finding the first’s throat, severing the spinal cord before he could react. Cordelia spun, her dagger slicing across the second’s abdomen, her magic flaring as she whispered a binding spell. He fell, screaming, his blood black on the stone.
The third came from the left.
I didn’t hesitate.
I *pulled*.
Blood Dominion—my power, my curse, my *gift*.
I reached into his veins, felt the pulse of his heart, and *stopped* it.
He collapsed.
Dead.
But then—
A flicker.
From the ceiling.
Fae gliders—three of them, their wings shimmering with illusion, their blades of frozen light gleaming. They dropped like vultures, silent, deadly.
Cordelia reacted first.
Her hand shot out, a pulse of magic tearing through the air, shattering the lead glider’s wing. He screamed, falling, his body crashing into the stone. The second lunged for Elara.
I intercepted.
My body became a wall, my fangs finding his throat. I tore it out.
He fell.
Dead.
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 glider 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.
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.