The summons came at dawn—silent, unannounced, but felt like a blade to the spine.
Not a raven this time. Not a scroll. Not even a whisper in the dark.
A broadcast.
It crackled to life across every scrying mirror in the Obsidian Spire, every enchanted screen in Geneva’s undercity, every Fae glen and vampire enclave from Prague to Paris. A pulse of magic, cold and sharp, tore through the air—and then, in a voice like frozen roses, she spoke.
Queen Nyx.
Her image filled the screens—tall, regal, her gown shimmering with frost and shadow, her eyes like shards of ice. She stood in the heart of the Fae High Court, the thrones of the ancient ones rising behind her, their hollow sockets watching. And at her feet—
A bloodstained contract.
The Pact of Ashes.
And beside it—
Cordelia.
Or rather, the lie of her.
“People of the Midnight Accord,” Nyx began, her voice smooth, deadly. “You have been deceived. The witch Cordelia Vale—accused of treason, sentenced to execution—was not apprehended by Council law. She was rescued. By Lysander Duskbane. In defiance of our laws. In violation of the Bloodfire Accords.”
My blood turned to ice.
Not because it was a lie.
Because it was the truth—twisted into a weapon.
The screen shifted. A recording—crisp, clear, damning. Me, in the prison beneath the spire, my fangs bared, my dagger in hand, shattering the lock. Cordelia, her wrists bound in silver, her storm-gray eyes burning. And then—
Our hands touching.
The Duskbane sigil on her wrist flaring crimson. The bond pulsing between us like a live wire. And me—
Kissing her.
Not in passion. Not in defiance.
In claiming.
The recording cut to black. Then back to Nyx, her smile slow, cruel. “They are not allies. They are mated. Bound by blood, by oath, by forbidden union. And this—” she held up the Pact of Ashes, its seal broken, “—is the price of their treason.”
My breath caught.
They’d framed her. Again. But this time—this time, they’d framed us.
And the world was watching.
---
I was already moving before the broadcast ended.
My coat tore as I lunged through the war room door, my fangs lengthening, my aura flaring crimson. The scrying mirror above the table flickered, Nyx’s image still burning in the air, her words echoing: “They are mated. Bound by blood. A threat to the Accord.”
Cordelia was already there—standing at the center of the room, her dagger drawn, her storm-gray eyes blazing. Elara was behind her, pale but steady, her fingers clutching the grimoire. Mira stood by the window, her dark eyes scanning the streets below, her stance tense.
“They’re coming,” Mira said, not turning. “Thralls. Fae envoys. The Council’s enforcers. They’ll be here by nightfall.”
“Let them come,” Cordelia said, her voice low, dangerous. “We’re not hiding.”
I stepped beside her, my presence a wall. “They’ll try to separate us. To break the bond. If they do—”
“They won’t,” she said, cutting me off. “Because we’re not letting them.”
I looked at her—really looked at her.
Not the avenger. Not the witch. The woman who had stood in the Fae glen and destroyed Seraphine with nothing but truth and fire. The woman who had pulled my shirt up in the safe house, her fingers tracing my scars, her breath unsteady. The woman who had let me bite her, who had let me claim her, who had whispered, “I want you,” before I made her mine.
And I knew—
She wasn’t afraid.
She was ready.
“Then we face them together,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Not to fight. Not to push me away.
To touch.
Her fingers brushed the tear in my coat, the blood still staining the fabric from the ambush. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” she said, 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 my 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 didn’t wait for them to come.
We went to them.
The Obsidian Spire’s grand hall was packed—Council members in their ceremonial robes, vampire lords in black armor, Fae envoys cloaked in illusion, werewolf sentinels standing at the edges, their eyes sharp. The air was thick with tension, the scent of blood-oath incense and forbidden magic humming beneath the surface. And at the center—
The dais.
Where the Pact of Ashes should have been.
Where Nyx now stood, her gown shimmering with frost, her eyes like ice.
We entered together—Cordelia in front, her dagger strapped to her thigh, her cloak pulled tight, her storm-gray eyes burning. Elara between us, her hand gripping mine, her face pale but steady. Mira at the rear, her presence a wall. And me—
At Cordelia’s side.
Not behind her.
Not in front.
Beside her.
The moment we stepped into the hall, the whispers began.
Not from the crowd.
From the bond.
It flared—hot, insistent, alive—a current of magic and desire that made the air hum. The Duskbane sigil on her wrist glowed, warm and crimson. And when I reached for her—
I didn’t take her hand.
I gripped it.
Hard.
Final.
And she didn’t pull away.
Just looked up at me, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice low. “You could walk away. Save your throne.”
“And lose you?” I said. “Then I’d have nothing worth ruling.”
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, her presence a storm.
“Queen Nyx,” she said, her voice cutting through the whispers like a blade. “You accuse me of treason. But you are the one who broke the Pact. You are the one who ordered the massacre. And you are the one who blackmailed Lysander into signing it—on pain of his daughter’s death.”
The hall fell silent.
Even Nyx stilled.
Then—
She laughed.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
With something like pity.
“You have no proof,” she said. “Only lies. Only rage. And now, you stand here, mated to the very man who signed your mother’s death warrant. How convenient.”
“Proof?” Cordelia said, stepping forward. “You want proof?”
She reached into the inner seam of her cloak.
And pulled out the vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“Fae blood carries memory,” Cordelia said, her voice cold. “And if I perform the Rite of Unveiling, I will show you exactly what happened last winter. I will show you how Lysander gave Seraphine his blood—not in passion, not in desire—but in mercy. Because she was dying. Because he chose to save a life, even when it could be used against him.”
“And the massacre?” Nyx asked, her voice sharp.
“That,” Cordelia said, “is in the grimoire.”
She turned to Elara, who stepped forward, holding the book like it was a weapon. “This is not just a spellbook. It is a bloodline artifact. And it will show you the truth—about the Accord, about the lies, about the debt that has been paid in blood.”
Nyx didn’t move.
Just watched her, her eyes like ice.
And then—
She smiled.
Slow. Cruel. Calculated.
“You think this changes anything?” she said. “You think a vial of blood and a cursed book will save you? You are bound to him. Mated. A threat to the balance. And if the Council does not act—”
“Then we will,” a voice boomed from the back.
Kaelen stepped forward—tall, silent, his presence a storm. Behind him—
The Northern Pack.
Beta wolves, their eyes sharp, their fangs bared. And at their head—
Alpha Vex.
“The werewolves do not bow to Fae lies,” Vex said, his voice like gravel. “We see the truth. And we stand with them.”
Another voice—
From the shadows.
“And so do we.”
Mira stepped forward, and behind her—
Human spies. Blood donors. Rogue witches. The underground network, rising.
And then—
From the upper balcony—
Seraphine.
She stepped into the light, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, her gown shimmering between frost and flame. And in her hand—
A second vial.
“I have lived by lies long enough,” she said, her voice clear. “Lysander saved my life. Not for power. Not for control. Because he is not the monster you paint him to be. And Cordelia—” she looked at her, really looked at her—“she is not your enemy. The truth is.”
The hall was silent.
Not a whisper. Not a breath.
And then—
Nyx moved.
Fast.
Her hand shot out, a blade of frozen light forming in her palm. She lunged—
For Elara.
I didn’t think.
I pulled.
Blood Dominion—my power, my curse, my gift.
I reached into her veins, felt the pulse of her heart, and stopped it.
She froze.
Mid-lunge.
Her eyes wide. Her breath caught.
And then—
I released her.
She collapsed—alive, but broken, her glamour flickering, her blade shattering on the stone.
“Touch her again,” I said, my voice a growl, “and I will rip your heart out and feed it to the crows.”
The Council didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
And then—
Cordelia stepped forward.
Not to me.
Not to Elara.
To Nyx.
She knelt beside her, her storm-gray eyes burning. “You wanted war,” she said. “You wanted fear. You wanted to break us.”
She held up the vial.
“But you forgot one thing.”
She crushed it in her hand.
Blood—dark, rich, alive—dripped between her fingers. And then—
She began to chant.
The runes flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the hall, the air crackling with power. And then—
The memory came.
Not mine.
Hers.
Seraphine. Last winter. Dying. Lysander saving her.
And then—
The grimoire.
Elara opened it, her fingers tracing the runes. And the truth spilled out—visions of Nyx, of the massacre, of the blackmail, of my hand, signing the order, my voice raw: “I’m sorry.”
The hall erupted.
Not in violence.
In truth.
And when it was over—
Nyx was on her knees.
And Cordelia stood over her.
“You wanted us to burn,” she said. “But you forgot—we are the fire.”
---
Later, as the sun set over Geneva, as the city lights flickered to life, 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 kept it.
Again.
And this time—
She hadn’t destroyed it.
She’d used 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.
But I knew her.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.