The Fae High Court wasn’t built—it was grown.
Twisting roots of blackened oak spiraled into the sky, forming arches that pulsed with trapped moonlight. Vines thick as serpents coiled around pillars carved from ice, their thorns dripping with liquid shadow. The air smelled of frost and old magic, of forgotten oaths and blood spilled in silence. And at the heart of it all—
The dais.
Where Nyx had ruled for centuries.
Where she would fall today.
We arrived at dawn—me in front, Lysander at my side, Elara between us, Kaelen and Alpha Vex at our backs. The coalition followed—rogue witches, human spies, Shadow Court defectors, even a few Nocturne thralls who’d broken their oaths for truth. We didn’t march. Didn’t roar. We just walked—through the glens, past the frozen fountains, into the heart of the court—our presence a storm wrapped in silence.
And the court felt it.
The glamours flickered. The shadows trembled. The ancient ones—the stone thrones that had watched over the Fae for millennia—leaned forward, their hollow eyes glowing with something like recognition.
They knew.
The balance had shifted.
And I was the one who’d broken it.
---
Nyx stood on the dais, her gown shimmering with frost 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.
“You have no right to be here,” she said, her voice like wind through glass. “This is Fae law. Fae justice. Not a witch’s crusade.”
“Then why did you break it?” I asked, stepping forward, my storm-gray eyes burning. “Why did you order the massacre of my coven? Why did you blackmail Lysander into signing the death warrant? Why did you threaten his daughter?”
She didn’t flinch. Just smiled—slow, cold, calculated. “Because the Accord must be preserved. Because power requires sacrifice. Because someone had to make the hard choices.”
“And you thought that someone was you?” I asked.
“I knew it was me,” she said. “I am not a witch playing at justice. I am a queen who rules.”
“No,” I said. “You’re a murderer.”
The hall stilled.
Even the ancient ones seemed to lean forward.
“You have no proof,” she said, her voice sharp.
“Oh, I have proof,” I said, stepping forward, my hand going to the inner seam of my cloak. “But I don’t need it.”
I raised my other hand—palm open, fingers splayed—and the grimoire flew into it, its pages whispering, its ink glowing faintly. “This is not just a book. It is a bloodline artifact. A record of truth. And it will show you—beyond doubt—what you’ve done.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked.
“Then we make you,” I said. “The coalition stands with us. The Northern Pack. The Shadow Court. Even your own defectors. And if the Council won’t act—”
“Then we will,” a voice boomed from the back.
Seraphine stepped forward—her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, her gown shimmering between frost and flame. She didn’t look at Nyx. Didn’t look at me. Just walked to the center of the hall and placed a vial on the ground—“For Power.”
“I’ve 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 me, really looked at me—“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 my 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 Lysander—really looked at him—and I saw it.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Because he wasn’t just a vampire lord.
He was a father.
And I—
I wasn’t just a witch.
I 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—
Lysander stepped forward.
Not to me.
To the dais.
He didn’t look at the throne. Didn’t reach for it. Just stood there, his presence a storm.
And then—
He turned to me.
Not with pride.
With recognition.
“You were right,” he said, his voice low, rough. “She wasn’t your enemy.”
“Neither are you,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me—his fingers brushing the tear in my coat, the blood still staining the fabric. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “A scratch.”
“Liar,” he said, pushing the coat aside. The wound on my arm 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,” he said.
And then he did the one thing he’d sworn he’d never do.
He pulled my sleeve up.
His fingers were cool, precise, gentle as he poured salve over the wound, his breath unsteady, his magic humming beneath his skin. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stood there, my breath ragged, my fangs grazing my lower lip.
And then—
His 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 him touch me, his fingers tracing the scar across my shoulder, the curve of my collarbone, the edge of my bodice.
He didn’t stop.
Just kept going, his breath catching, his crimson eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
I caught his wrist.
Not to stop him.
To guide him.
My hand covered his, my fingers interlacing with his, my thumb brushing the pulse at his wrist. And then—I moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until his palm rested over the hard peak of my breast, pressing through the fabric.
His 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,” he whispered.
“No,” I said. “It’s us.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving his hand where it was, my body still hard, my breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” he breathed.
“But you want me to,” I said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled his hand back, his cheeks flushed, his crimson eyes burning. But he didn’t look away. Just stared at me, his chest rising and falling, his magic reaching for mine like a drowning man grasping for shore.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a war.
It was a surrender.
And I was winning.
---
We 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 cloak—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 us, 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.