The air in the Fae High Court was always cold—crisp as winter’s first breath, sharp with the scent of frost and forgotten oaths. But today, it was different. Not just cold. Brittle. Like the world had held its breath and was now waiting to shatter.
I stood at the edge of the grand dais, my silver hair spilling over my shoulders, my gown shimmering between frost and flame, my fingers curled around the second vial—*“For Power.”* The same label. The same dried blood. But this one wasn’t a lie. This one was a confession.
And I was ready to burn.
Behind me, the thrones of the ancient ones loomed—hollow, empty, their stone eyes watching. Before me, the Supernatural Council sat in their crescent formation, their faces unreadable, their silence heavier than any verdict. And at the center of it all—
Nyx.
She stood tall, regal, her gown rippling with ice and shadow, her eyes like shards of glass. She didn’t look afraid. Didn’t look guilty. Just… waiting. As if she already knew how this would end. As if she’d planned it.
And maybe she had.
But she hadn’t planned for me.
---
It had started with a whisper.
Not from the wind. Not from the shadows.
From the bond.
I’d felt it the moment Cordelia broke the vial in the ritual chamber—like a thread snapping in my chest, like a memory tearing free from its cage. And then—
I saw it.
Not the past.
The truth.
Me, last winter. Dying. Poisoned by a rival’s blade, my blood turning to ash in my veins. And Lysander—standing over me, his crimson eyes burning, his voice low. *“I can save you. But not with magic. Not with medicine. With blood.”*
I’d taken it.
Not because I loved him.
Not because I desired him.
Because I wanted to live.
And he’d given it to me.
Not in passion.
Not in possession.
In mercy.
And Nyx—
She’d known.
She’d seen the vial. She’d seen his blood in my veins. And instead of honoring the truth, she’d twisted it. Turned it into a weapon. Used it to frame him. To isolate him. To break the Accord.
And I—
I’d let her.
Because I was afraid.
Because I was weak.
Because I’d rather live a lie than die for the truth.
But now—
Now I was done.
---
The silence broke when Cordelia stepped forward.
She didn’t walk like a witch.
She walked like a queen.
Her storm-gray eyes burned, her dagger strapped to her thigh, her cloak pulled tight. At her side, Lysander—silent, lethal, his presence a storm. Between them, Elara—pale but steady, her fingers gripping the grimoire like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. And behind them—
The coalition.
Alpha Vex and his Betas. Kaelen, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Mira, her dark eyes scanning the room. Rogue witches. Human spies. The underground network, rising.
And me.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
Because I knew what was coming.
“You want proof?” Cordelia said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Then *see* it.”
She opened the grimoire.
And the truth spilled out.
Not words. Not lies.
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.
The Council gasped.
Even the ancient ones seemed to lean forward, their stone eyes flickering with something like recognition.
But Nyx—
She didn’t flinch.
Just smiled.
Slow. Cold. Calculated.
“You think this changes anything?” she said, her voice like wind through glass. “You think a cursed book and a vial of blood 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. Alpha Vex at their head, his broad frame filling the doorway, his scent laced with pine and iron.
“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—
Me.
I stepped into the light, my silver hair spilling over my shoulders, my gown shimmering between frost and flame. And in my hand—
The vial.
“I have lived by lies long enough,” I said, my 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—” I 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.
Not with magic.
With memory.
The vial shattered in my hand, the dried blood dissolving into a shimmering mist that curled through the air like smoke. And then—
I *spoke*.
The words came not from my lips, but from my blood. From the memory of his blood in my veins. From the truth I’d buried for too long.
“*Last winter,*” I said, my voice echoing through the hall. “*I was dying. Poisoned by a rival. My blood turned to ash. And Lysander came. Not to claim me. Not to control me. To save me. He gave me his blood—not in passion, not in desire—but in mercy. Because he is not a monster. He is a man who chose to save a life, even when it could be used against him.*”
The mist coiled around Nyx, wrapping her in a shimmering web of truth. She froze—mid-lunge—her eyes wide, her breath caught. The blade of frozen light flickered, then shattered.
And then—
The memory came.
Not mine.
Hers.
---
Nyx, three days before the massacre. The cathedral beneath Geneva. Malrik standing before her, his fangs bared, his aura flaring. “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.”
---
Nyx, the night it happened. The sanctum beneath the Charterhouse Academy. Lysander standing in the shadows, his hand hovering over the parchment. Elara’s blood in a vial. Her voice cold: “Sign it. Or she dies.”
He didn’t hesitate.
He signed.
And as the fire surged, as Cordelia’s mother fell, as Elara screamed—Nyx smiled.
“The Accord is safe,” she said. “And the truth is buried.”
---
The hall erupted.
Not in violence.
In truth.
Witches gasped. Vampires hissed. Fae envoys stumbled back, their glamours flickering. Even the ancient ones seemed to stir, their stone eyes glowing with something like judgment.
And Nyx—
She collapsed.
Not from magic.
From shame.
Her gown crumpled around her, the frost melting, the shadow dissolving. Her eyes—once like ice—were now wide, human, terrified.
“You,” she whispered, looking at me. “You betrayed me.”
“No,” I said, stepping forward, my voice steady. “I remembered the truth. And I chose to speak it.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked at Cordelia—really looked at her—and I saw it.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Because Cordelia wasn’t just a witch.
She was a Vale.
And the Vales had always been the keepers of truth.
---
The Council didn’t hesitate.
Twelve members rose as one, their voices echoing through the hall.
“Queen Nyx of the Fae High Court,” the lead vampire lord intoned, “you have violated the Bloodfire Accords. You have ordered the massacre of a neutral coven. You have blackmailed a Council heir. You have used forbidden magic to manipulate the truth. You have attacked a Council ward.”
Each accusation landed like a hammer.
And with each one, Nyx grew smaller.
“By the power vested in us by the Midnight Accord,” the lead Fae noble continued, “we strip you of your title. We sever your blood pacts. We exile you from the High Court. And we sentence you to eternal silence—no voice, no glamour, no magic—until such time as you atone.”
The ancient ones stirred.
One by one, their stone hands rose.
And then—
Light.
Pure, blinding, final.
It wrapped around Nyx, lifting her from the dais, her mouth opening in a silent scream, her body dissolving into mist. And then—
She was gone.
Not dead.
But erased.
---
The silence that followed was heavier than any sound.
And then—
Cordelia turned to me.
Not with triumph.
Not with vengeance.
With gratitude.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“No,” I agreed. “But I wanted to.”
She studied me—long, quiet, *searching*. Then, slowly, she nodded. “You’re not like the others.”
“Neither are you,” I said.
And then—
Lysander spoke.
Not to me.
To Cordelia.
But I felt it.
Like a blade to the heart.
“You were right,” he said, his voice low, rough. “She’s not your enemy.”
She didn’t answer.
Just reached for him—her fingers brushing the tear in his coat, the blood still staining the fabric. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” she said, pushing the coat aside. The wound below his 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 his 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 look away. Just watched.
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 him, her fingers tracing the scar across his abdomen, the curve of his hip, the edge of his trousers.
He didn’t stop her.
Just watched her, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
He caught her wrist.
Not to stop her.
To guide her.
His hand covered hers, his fingers interlacing with hers, his thumb brushing the pulse at her wrist. And then—he moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until her palm rested over the hard ridge of his arousal, pressing through the fabric.
Her breath caught.
“You want this,” he said, his voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time I touched you.”
“It’s the bond,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “It’s us.”
And then—
He let go.
Just stepped back, leaving her hand where it was, his body still hard, his breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” she breathed.
“But you want me to,” he 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 him, her chest rising and falling, her magic reaching for his like a drowning woman grasping for shore.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was the one who’d lost.
---
I left the High Court at dusk.
Not in silence. Not in shame.
In freedom.
The air was sharp with the scent of snow, the sky bleeding red with the dying light. I didn’t look back. Didn’t linger. Just walked—through the glens, past the frozen fountains, into the forest.
And then—
I stopped.
Because standing in the path—her gown shimmering with frost, her eyes like ice—was Nyx.
Not the queen.
The woman.
“You think you’ve won?” she asked, her voice raw, human. “You think speaking the truth will save you?”
“No,” I said. “But it saved me.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw it.
Not hatred.
Not vengeance.
Jealousy.
Because I had done what she never could.
Spoken the truth.
And walked away.
“Then may they destroy you,” she hissed.
And then—
She was gone.
Not in mist.
In shadow.
---
Later, as the moon rose over the Black Forest, as the first stars pierced the sky, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of my gown—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
I’d kept it.
Again.
And this time—
I wasn’t studying it.
Wasn’t using it.
Just… remembering.
Because the bond hummed between them, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t losing.
I was freeing.
And if they thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
They didn’t know me at all.
But I knew them.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.