The war room in the Obsidian Spire had never been so quiet.
Not the silence of tension. Not the silence of fear.
The silence of resolve.
It hummed in the air like a blade held at the edge of a throat—tense, inevitable, final. The scrying mirrors were dark. The maps were rolled. The bloodstained scrolls had been burned. There was nothing left to plan. Nothing left to debate.
Only action.
I stood at the center of the chamber, my coat open, my dagger sheathed at my hip, my crimson eyes scanning the faces around me. Cordelia was beside me—her storm-gray eyes burning, her fingers resting on the hilt of her dagger, her breath steady. She hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t flinched. Just stood there, a storm wrapped in silk, her presence a fire that refused to be extinguished.
Elara was behind her, her face pale but set, her fingers clutching the grimoire like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Mira stood at the door, her dark eyes sharp, her stance tense. Kaelen was at my back—silent, lethal, his wolf simmering beneath his skin. Alpha Vex and his Betas filled the far end of the room, their fangs bared, their scent laced with pine and iron. And behind them—
The coalition.
Rogue witches. Human spies. Shadow Court defectors. Even a few Nocturne thralls who’d broken their oaths and chosen truth over power. They didn’t wear banners. Didn’t carry flags. But they carried *purpose*. And in this world, that was more dangerous than any army.
And then—
Seraphine.
She stood in the shadows, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, her gown shimmering between frost and flame. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at Cordelia. Just stared at the floor, her fingers curled around the vial—*“For Power.”* The same one she’d used to expose Nyx. The same one that had cost her everything.
And yet—
She was still here.
Not for vengeance.
Not for glory.
For *truth*.
---
“It’s time,” I said, my voice low, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Every head turned to me. Not in deference. Not in fear.
In recognition.
“Malrik knows we’re coming,” I continued. “He’s fortified the cathedral. Nocturne thralls are guarding every entrance. He’s expecting us to strike from the front.”
“Then we don’t,” Cordelia said, stepping forward. Her voice was calm. Controlled. But I felt it—the fire beneath the ice, the fury beneath the stillness. “We go through the tunnels. The old coven routes. They’re unwarded. Unmonitored. And they lead straight to the crypt.”
“And if it’s a trap?” Mira asked.
“Then we walk into it,” Cordelia said. “But we don’t walk out alone.”
I looked at her—really looked at her.
Not the witch who’d come to destroy me.
Not the avenger.
The woman who had stood in the ritual chamber and broken the lies with nothing but blood and fire. The woman who had pulled my shirt up in the war room, 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 move,” I said. “Now.”
“Half to the cathedral,” Cordelia said. “Half to the Council. We end this. *Tonight*.”
Alpha Vex nodded. “I’ll lead the assault. My Betas are ready.”
“And I’ll go with you,” Kaelen said, stepping forward. “Malrik’s mine.”
“No,” I said, my voice final. “He’s *mine*.”
Kaelen didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Then I guard Elara.”
“No,” Elara said, stepping forward. “I go with them.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, my voice sharp. “You’re not a fighter.”
“And you think I want to stay here?” she shot back. “While you risk everything? While you face him? I’m not a child, Father. I’m your *daughter*.”
The room stilled.
Even Cordelia looked at me—really looked at me.
And I saw it.
Not defiance.
Love.
“She’s right,” Cordelia said quietly. “She’s not just a target. She’s a weapon. And Malrik knows it.”
“Then we protect her,” I said. “Not use her.”
“And if he attacks the spire?” Mira asked. “If he sends assassins while we’re gone?”
“Then we leave a guard,” Cordelia said. “Seraphine. You stay. Watch over the spire. If anything happens, you send the signal.”
Seraphine didn’t hesitate. Just nodded. “I’ll hold it.”
“And the Council?” Alpha Vex asked. “Who speaks for us?”
“I do,” Cordelia said. “I’ll go with Mira and the rogue witches. We present the evidence. We demand justice.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then we burn it down,” she said. “All of it.”
The room didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Just nodded.
Because they knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a reckoning.
And we were the fire.
---
We moved at midnight.
The streets of Geneva were silent—slick with rain, wrapped in fog, the air thick with the scent of old magic and blood-oath incense. The coalition split at the edge of the city—half vanishing into the tunnels beneath the spire, half moving toward the Council chamber in the heart of the undercity. I went with the assault team—Cordelia at my side, Elara between us, Kaelen and Alpha Vex at our backs.
The tunnels were narrow—stone walls slick with moisture, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and iron. We moved in silence, our boots barely making a sound, our breath steady. The bond between Cordelia and me hummed—warm, alive, *real*—a current of magic and desire that made the air crackle. I could feel her beside me, her heat seeping through my coat, her presence a storm.
And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the bond.
And then—
The crypt.
The entrance was hidden behind a false wall etched with runes only my bloodline could break. I stepped forward, my fangs lengthening, my blood flaring. I pressed my palm to the stone—once, hard—and the wall cracked open, revealing the dark passage beyond.
We didn’t hesitate.
We moved.
The crypt was vast—its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with ancient tombs, its floor carved with the sigil of House Nocturne. And at the center—
Malrik.
He stood on a raised dais, his black coat open, his fangs bared, his crimson eyes burning with something I’d never seen before—*fear*.
Not of death.
Of irrelevance.
“You’re late,” he said, not turning. “I expected you hours ago.”
“We’re right on time,” I said, stepping forward, my voice low, controlled.
He turned then, his gaze sharp, calculating. “You think you’ve won? You think exposing Nyx changes anything? The Accord is broken. The balance is gone. And without me, it will *stay* broken.”
“The Accord wasn’t broken by truth,” Cordelia said, stepping beside me. “It was broken by *you*. By your lies. By your greed. By your need to control.”
He smiled—slow, cruel, *calculated*. “And you think you’re any different? You’ve claimed him. Mated him. Bound him. You’re not saving the world, witch. You’re *owning* it.”
“No,” I said, stepping forward, my aura flaring crimson. “We’re *rebuilding* it.”
He didn’t move.
Just watched.
And then—
He laughed.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
With something like pity.
“You’ve always been weak, Lysander,” he said. “You had power. You had control. And you threw it away for a woman. For a *child*.”
“And you’ve always been afraid,” I said. “Afraid of love. Afraid of loss. Afraid of being *nothing*.”
His smile faded.
“Then let’s see who’s stronger,” he said.
And he moved.
Fast.
His dagger found my throat before I could react—cold steel pressing against my skin, his breath hot on my neck. Pain lanced through me, my vision blurring, my strength waning.
And then—
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 froze.
Mid-lunge.
His eyes wide. His breath caught.
And then—
I released him.
He collapsed—alive, but broken, his dagger clattering to the stone.
“You don’t get to touch her,” I said, my voice a growl. “You don’t get to touch *him*.”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at Elara—really looked at her.
And I saw it.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Because she wasn’t just a child.
She was the future.
And he was the past.
---
Cordelia stepped forward, her storm-gray eyes burning. “You wanted war,” she said. “You wanted fear. You wanted to break us.”
She held up the grimoire.
“But you forgot one thing.”
She opened it.
And the truth spilled out.
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 crypt erupted.
Not in violence.
In truth.
And when it was over—
Malrik was on his knees.
And Cordelia stood over him.
“You wanted us to burn,” she said. “But you forgot—we are the fire.”
---
I didn’t hesitate.
My dagger found his heart.
He didn’t scream.
Just looked at me—really looked at me.
And then—
He was gone.
---
The silence that followed was heavier than any sound.
And then—
Elara stepped forward, her fingers gripping the grimoire, her face pale but set. “It’s over,” she said.
“No,” I said, pulling her into my arms, my voice rough. “It’s just beginning.”
Cordelia stepped beside me, her hand finding mine, her storm-gray eyes burning. “Then we build it together.”
“Always,” I said.
And as the first light of dawn bled through the cracks in the crypt, as the city stirred beneath us, 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 rose 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 wasn’t studying it.
Wasn’t using it.
Just… remembering.
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 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.