The air beneath the Obsidian Spire was thick with old magic—damp stone, iron dust, the faint metallic tang of blood long dried into the cracks of the floor. The ritual chamber had been sealed for over a century, its entrance hidden behind a false wall in the archives, its runes etched in forgotten tongues only my bloodline could read. But now the door stood open, its obsidian frame pulsing with a low, crimson light, the wards flaring as we stepped across the threshold.
I went first.
Dagger in hand. Grimoire clutched to my chest. Storm-gray eyes scanning the shadows.
Lysander followed—silent, lethal, his crimson gaze burning in the dim light. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me. Just stayed close, his presence a storm at my back. The bond between us hummed, warm and alive, a second heartbeat beneath my skin. It had been like this since the fever broke. Since the night we’d claimed each other. Since I’d stopped fighting what I was becoming.
Not just a witch.
A Vale.
Elara came next, her fingers gripping Kaelen’s arm, her breath shallow. She didn’t look afraid. Not exactly. But the weight of this place pressed on her—this was where it had begun. Where Nyx had come. Where my mother had died. And now—now we were bringing the truth back.
Mira brought up the rear, her dark eyes sharp, her dagger drawn. Behind her, the rest of the coalition waited in the corridor—Alpha Vex and three of his Betas, Seraphine cloaked in shadow, a handful of rogue witches from the underground network. They didn’t enter. This ritual wasn’t for them.
It was for us.
And the dead.
---
The chamber was circular—walls lined with ancient runes, the floor carved into a massive sigil, its center dominated by a black stone altar. At its base, a dried stain of blood—dark as ink, older than memory. The same stain that had marked the night of the massacre. The same stain that had soaked into my mother’s robes as she shielded Elara, as she chanted the last words of the Rite of Unveiling.
And failed.
I stepped forward, my boots silent on the stone, my fingers trembling as I placed the grimoire on the altar. The moment it touched the surface, the runes flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the chamber, the air crackling with power.
“It remembers you,” Lysander said, his voice low.
“It remembers her,” I corrected. “And it’s waiting.”
He didn’t argue. Just stepped beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, his heat seeping through my cloak. “Then give it what it wants.”
“It wants blood,” I said. “Not just mine. The blood of those who lied. The blood of those who killed.”
“And do you have it?”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached into the inner seam of my cloak.
And pulled out the vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
But this wasn’t the only one.
From my other pocket, I pulled a second vial—this one filled with dark, swirling liquid, its surface shimmering with trapped magic. Malrik’s blood. Taken from the assassin he’d sent to kill Elara. Drawn while he slept, stolen by Mira’s spies in the Nocturne barracks.
And from my wrist, I unclipped the Duskbane sigil—a silver cuff etched with the House crest. Not just a mark. A vessel. A conduit. And inside it, a single drop of Lysander’s blood, drawn the night he’d bitten me.
Three vials.
Three lies.
Three debts.
And now—
They would pay.
---
“The Rite of Unveiling requires skin-to-skin contact,” I said, my voice steady. “The magic flows through touch. Through connection. Through *truth*.”
Lysander didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, his coat falling open, his shirt already unbuttoned at the collar. “Then touch me.”
“Not just you,” I said. “All of us.”
Elara stiffened. “You want *me* to participate?”
“You’re part of this,” I said. “You’re the reason it happened. The reason it matters.”
She looked at Lysander.
He nodded. “Do it. For her. For us.”
She exhaled—slow, controlled—and stepped forward.
Kaelen moved next. “I’ll stand with her,” he said, stepping into the sigil. “As guard. As witness.”
I didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Then form the circle. Hands linked. Hearts open. No lies. No fear.”
They did as I said.
Elara took my left hand, her fingers small but strong. Kaelen took her other, his grip firm. I reached for Lysander—my right hand finding his, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. And then—
We stepped into the sigil.
The moment our feet touched the carved lines, the chamber exploded with light.
Not fire. Not flame.
Memory.
Visions tore through the air—shattered glass, screaming witches, the roof caving in, my mother’s body shielding Elara beneath the altar. Lysander in the shadows, his crimson eyes burning with grief. Nyx appearing in a swirl of frost, her voice cold: *“Sign the order, or she dies.”*
And then—
Malrik.
Standing behind her, his fangs bared, his hand on her shoulder. Her ally. Her weapon.
“They were working together,” I whispered.
“They still are,” Lysander growled.
“Then we break them,” I said.
And I began the chant.
The words came not from memory, but from blood. From lineage. From the magic that had been passed down through centuries of Vales. The runes flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the chamber, the air crackling with power. I raised the vials, one by one, and broke them over the grimoire.
Seraphine’s blood—shimmering, alive—curled through the air like smoke.
Malrik’s—thick, dark, laced with poison—dripped onto the pages.
And then—
Lysander’s.
I sliced my palm with my dagger and let my blood drip onto the sigil, mixing with his, binding us not just by magic, but by choice.
And then—
The vision came.
Not mine.
Theirs.
---
Seraphine, last winter. The Shadow Court. A rival’s poison in her veins. Weak. Bleeding. Dying. And then—
Lysander. Standing over her, his crimson eyes burning, his voice low. “I can save you. But not with magic. Not with medicine. With blood.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked.
“Then you die,” he said. “And your death starts a war I don’t need.”
She didn’t hesitate.
Just nodded.
And he gave her the vial.
Not in passion.
Not in desire.
In mercy.
---
Malrik, three days before the massacre. The cathedral beneath Geneva. Nyx standing before him, her gown shimmering with frost. “You will ensure Lysander signs the order,” she said. “Or I will expose your treason. I will tell the Council you conspired with the rogue werewolves. I will have you executed.”
He didn’t flinch. Just bowed. “And if he refuses?”
“Then remind him,” she said. “Of his daughter.”
---
Lysander, the night it happened. The sanctum beneath the Charterhouse Academy. His hand hovering over the parchment. Elara’s blood in a vial. Nyx’s voice cold: “Sign it. Or she dies.”
He didn’t hesitate.
He signed.
And as the fire surged, as my mother fell, as Elara screamed—I saw it.
Not betrayal.
Sacrifice.
---
I gasped, collapsing to my knees, my breath coming fast, my magic flaring. The grimoire glowed—its pages shimmering with truth, its ink burning with power.
“You saw it,” Lysander said, kneeling beside me, his hand on my back.
“I saw everything,” I whispered. “The truth. The lie. The debt.”
“And now?” Elara asked, her voice small.
I looked up, my storm-gray eyes burning. “Now we go to the Council. And we make them see it.”
---
We left the chamber at midnight.
The coalition waited in silence, their eyes sharp, their weapons drawn. They didn’t ask what we’d seen. Didn’t demand answers. They just looked at me—really looked at me—and saw the truth in my eyes.
And they believed.
“The ritual is complete,” I said. “The evidence is real. The memories are unaltered. And by dawn, the entire Council will know.”
Alpha Vex nodded. “Then we move.”
“Half to the Council,” I said. “Half to Malrik. We end this. *Tonight*.”
No one argued.
No one hesitated.
They just moved.
But before I could follow, Lysander caught my wrist.
Not to stop me.
To *touch*.
His hand slid up my arm, warm and solid, his fingers brushing the Duskbane sigil on my wrist. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“It’s the magic,” I said. “It takes something from me every time.”
“And if it takes too much?”
“Then it takes,” I said. “But I’ll still stand.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, his body a wall, his breath warm against my neck. The bond flared—heat, awareness, *need*—and I didn’t pull away. Just leaned into him, my fingers fisting in his coat, my breath unsteady.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured.
“I’m not,” I said. “I have you.”
“And if I’m not enough?”
“Then we fall together,” I said. “But we don’t fall *apart*.”
He kissed my temple—soft, reverent, *real*—and then let me go.
---
The Council session began at dawn.
The grand hall was packed—twelve members of the Supernatural Council seated in their crescent formation, their robes pristine, their faces unreadable. Behind them, envoys from every faction—vampire lords, Fae nobles, werewolf sentinels, human observers. And at the center of it all—
The dais.
Where Nyx stood, her gown shimmering with frost, her eyes like ice. Malrik stood beside her, his black coat open, his fangs bared, his aura flaring with power.
And then—
We entered.
Cordelia in front. Lysander at my side. Elara between us. Kaelen and Alpha Vex at our backs. The coalition filing in behind us, their presence a storm.
The whispers began instantly.
But I didn’t listen.
I walked to the center of the hall, the grimoire in my hands, the vials in my cloak. And when I reached the dais, I didn’t bow.
I raised the book.
“You want proof?” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Then *see* it.”
I opened the grimoire.
And the truth spilled out.
---
Later, as the sun rose over Geneva, 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.