The cathedral beneath Geneva was silent—but not the silence of peace.
No. This was the silence of a blade drawn. Of breath held. Of blood waiting to spill.
We stood in the crypt, the sigil of House Nocturne carved into the stone beneath our feet, its edges stained black with old magic. The air was thick with the scent of iron and decay, the torches flickering with blue fire, casting long, wavering shadows across the tombs. And at the center—Malrik’s body, crumpled at my feet, his crimson eyes wide, his mouth frozen in a final, silent scream.
Dead.
But the war wasn’t over.
Because the bond—steady now, pulsing between Lysander and me—was no longer screaming.
It was answering.
And I was listening.
---
I didn’t feel triumph.
Not yet.
Just exhaustion. The kind that seeped into your bones, that made your hands tremble, your breath come shallow. The Rite of Unveiling had taken something from me—something deeper than magic. Something older than blood. And now, standing over Malrik’s body, I could feel it—the weight of every choice, every lie, every death.
But I didn’t look away.
Because this wasn’t just vengeance.
It was justice.
“It’s over,” Elara whispered, her fingers gripping the grimoire, her face pale but set.
“No,” Lysander said, pulling her into his arms, his voice rough. “It’s just beginning.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my boots silent on the stone, my dagger still in hand. The grimoire trembled in Elara’s grip, its pages whispering, its ink glowing faintly. And then—
I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A pull.
Deep in the earth. Deep in the magic. Deep in my blood.
“We’re not done,” I said, my voice low. “The bond—it’s not quiet. It’s… *waiting*.”
Lysander turned to me, his crimson eyes burning. “Waiting for what?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it’s not just about Malrik. It’s about the Accord. About the lie. About the debt.”
He didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Then we finish it.”
“Now?” Kaelen asked, stepping forward, his wolf simmering beneath his skin. “The Council session—”
“Will wait,” I said. “Because if we don’t break the lie at its source, it’ll just grow back. Stronger. Darker. *Deadlier*.”
Alpha Vex grunted. “And where is this source?”
I exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Beneath the Fae High Court. In the heart of the Black Forest. Where the Veil between worlds is thinnest. Where the first blood was spilled.”
“The Bloodfire Shrine,” Lysander said, his voice low. “No one’s been there in centuries. It’s warded. Cursed. Forbidden.”
“Then we’re the first in centuries who don’t care,” I said. “Because we’re not going to negotiate. We’re not going to debate. We’re going to *burn* it.”
Long silence.
Then—
Elara stepped forward. “I’m coming with you.”
“No,” Lysander said, his voice sharp. “You’ve done enough. You’re not a fighter.”
“And you think I want to stay behind?” she shot back. “While you face whatever’s down there? While you risk everything? I’m not a child, Father. I’m your *daughter*.”
The room stilled.
Even Kaelen looked at me—really looked at me.
And I saw it.
Not defiance.
Love.
“She’s right,” I said quietly. “She’s not just a target. She’s a weapon. And the bond—it’s tied to her too.”
Lysander didn’t answer.
Just looked at her—really looked at her—and I saw the war in his eyes. The father. The ruler. The man who had signed a death warrant to save her life.
And then—
He nodded.
“Then we move now,” he said. “Before they can regroup. Before they can send reinforcements.”
“And Seraphine?” I asked.
“She’ll hold the spire,” Kaelen said. “Guard the coalition. If anything happens, she’ll send the signal.”
“Then we go,” I said. “No more waiting. No more fear. We end this. *Tonight*.”
---
We left the crypt at dawn.
The streets of Geneva were wrapped in fog, the cobblestones slick with rain, the air thick with the scent of old magic and blood-oath incense. The city was quiet—too quiet. No birds. No wind. No rustle of leaves. Just the crunch of snow beneath our boots and the low hum of the bond between us, steady, watchful, *alive*.
We traveled fast—Lysander in front, his coat pulled tight, his crimson eyes scanning the shadows, his aura flaring with every flicker of movement. Elara between us, her fingers gripping the grimoire, her breath shallow. Kaelen and Alpha Vex at our backs, their fangs bared, their scent laced with pine and iron. And me—
At Lysander’s side.
Not behind him.
Not in front.
Beside him.
The bond flared—hot, insistent, alive—a current of magic and desire that made the air hum. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist glowed, warm and crimson. And when I reached for him—
I didn’t take his hand.
I gripped it.
Hard.
Final.
And he didn’t pull away.
Just looked at me, his crimson eyes burning. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low. “You could walk away. Save yourself.”
“And lose you?” I said. “Then I’d have nothing worth saving.”
He didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, his presence a storm.
---
The Black Forest loomed ahead—its trees tall and twisted, their branches clawing at a sky heavy with storm, their roots buried deep in ancient magic. The Veil was thin here—so thin you could see the shimmer between worlds, like heat rising from stone. And beneath it—
The Bloodfire Shrine.
A crumbling stone circle, its altar cracked down the middle, its runes etched in forgotten tongues. It had been built after the Bloodfire War, a monument to the dead, a warning to the living. But now—now it was a tomb. A prison. A *weapon*.
We reached it just after midday.
The air was sharp with the scent of snow and old magic, the ground slick with frost. And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the bond.
And then—
They came.
Not Fae. Not vampires. Not werewolves.
Shadows.
Twisted, writhing things—born from the lies, fed by the blood, given form by the broken oaths. They poured from the cracks in the stone, their eyes glowing with stolen magic, their claws sharp with betrayal.
“They’re guardians,” I said, my voice tight. “The Accord’s last defense.”
“Then we break them,” Lysander growled, stepping forward, his dagger in hand.
“No,” I said, stepping in front of him. “This is *my* fight.”
He didn’t argue. Just nodded. “Then I’ll watch your back.”
I didn’t answer.
Just raised the grimoire.
And began to chant.
The words came not from memory, but from blood. From the 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 shrine, the air crackling with power. The shadows screamed—high, keening sounds, like dying children—and lunged.
I didn’t flinch.
Just kept chanting.
The grimoire glowed—its pages shimmering with truth, its ink burning with power. And then—
The Rite of Unveiling.
I reached into their minds, felt the pulse of their magic, and *shattered* it.
They exploded—into mist, into ash, into nothing.
But then—
A flicker.
From the altar.
Another shadow—taller, stronger, its eyes burning with something darker than magic. It moved fast—too fast—its claws slicing through the air, aiming for Elara.
I didn’t hesitate.
I *pulled*.
Not with my hands.
With my magic.
The bond flared—fire, need, *hunger*—and I *ripped*.
It screamed.
Its form unraveled.
And then—
Lysander was on it.
His fangs found its throat. He tore it out.
It 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 us.”
And then—
She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “Cordelia… what’s *that*?”
My breath caught.
Because beneath the altar—its surface cracked and blackened—was a single word, carved into the stone:
Vale.
My breath caught.
Because this wasn’t just a shrine.
It was a birthplace.
“This is where your coven performed the Rite of Unveiling,” Kaelen said, his voice hushed. “The last one was the night they died.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my fingers brushing the altar, the runes flaring beneath my touch. The grimoire trembled in my hands, its pages whispering, its ink glowing faintly.
And then—
I saw it.
Not a vision.
A memory.
My mother—standing here, her storm-gray eyes burning, her dagger raised, her voice chanting the incantation. The air crackling with magic. The sigil flaring with light. And then—
Nyx.
Appearing in a swirl of frost and shadow, her gown shimmering like frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice. “You cannot break the Accord,” she said. “It is law.”
“It is lies,” my mother said. “And I will burn them all.”
And then—
The fire.
The roof caving in.
Elara screaming.
Lysander in the shadows, his crimson eyes burning with grief.
And my mother—
Throwing herself in front of the altar.
Shielding the grimoire.
Dying.
“Cordelia.”
Lysander’s voice cut through the memory like a blade.
I turned to him, my vision blurred with tears, my breath unsteady. “She didn’t die for nothing.”
“No,” he said. “She died to protect you.”
“No,” I said. “She died to protect this.”
I placed the grimoire on the altar.
And then—
I took 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 blood,” I said, my voice steady. “Not just mine. Theirs.”
“And if it kills you?” Lysander asked, stepping closer.
“Then it kills me,” I said. “But if I don’t do it, the lies win. And I won’t let that happen.”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded.
And then—
I broke the vials.
The glass shattered in my palm, the dried blood dissolving into a shimmering mist that curled through the air like smoke. I raised my hand, my dagger in the other, and sliced across my palm.
Blood welled—dark, rich, alive—and I let it drip onto the grimoire, onto the altar, onto the sigil.
And then—
I began to chant.
The words came not from memory, but from blood. From the 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 shrine, the air crackling with power.
And then—
The memory came.
Not mine.
Hers.
Seraphine. Last winter. Dying. Lysander saving her.
Malrik. Three days before the massacre. Nyx blackmailing him.
Lysander. The night it happened. Signing the order to save Elara.
And then—
The truth.
The Accord wasn’t just broken.
It was *built* on lies.
And now—
It would burn.
---
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.
I looked up, my storm-gray eyes burning. “Now we go to the Council. And we make them see it.”
“And if they don’t believe us?” Kaelen asked.
“Then we burn it down,” I said. “All of it.”
---
Later, as the sun set over the Black Forest, as the first stars pierced the sky, 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.