The first snow of winter fell on Geneva like ash from a dying fire—silent, weightless, settling over the Obsidian Spire and the city beneath in a hush that felt almost sacred. I stood at the edge of the moonlit garden, my breath curling in white plumes, my wolf simmering beneath my skin, restless. The war was over. The Council had been reborn. Nyx was gone. Malrik was dead. And yet—
I wasn’t at peace.
Something was coming.
Not war. Not betrayal. Not another coup.
Her.
And I didn’t know whether to brace for battle… or surrender.
---
The dreams had started a week ago—flickers at first, half-remembered fragments of a woman with eyes like storm-lit embers and hair the color of midnight smoke. She moved like shadow, spoke in riddles, touched me with fingers that burned and soothed at once. I’d wake with my heart pounding, my fangs lengthened, the scent of frost and iron clinging to my skin.
At first, I thought it was the bond—Cordelia and Lysander’s, humming through the spire like a live wire. But this was different. Deeper. Older. A pull that didn’t come from magic, but from blood.
And then—
Yesterday.
I’d been reviewing patrol routes in the undercity when I saw her.
Not in a dream.
Real.She’d been standing in the mouth of an alley, wrapped in a cloak stitched with runes I didn’t recognize—ancient, fae, but not of the High or Shadow Courts. Her face was half-hidden, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—locked onto mine with a knowing so sharp it felt like a blade between my ribs.
And then she was gone.
Vanished into the fog like she’d never been there.
I’d searched the tunnels for hours. Found nothing. No scent. No trace. Just a single black feather, its edges shimmering with trapped moonlight, resting on the cobblestones where she’d stood.
I kept it.
Now it burned in my coat pocket like a secret.
---
“You’re brooding again.”
Mira’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and familiar. I didn’t turn. Just kept my gaze on the fountain, its surface frozen, the cracks in the ice glowing faintly with old magic.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
“Same thing,” she said, stepping beside me. She was paler than usual, her dark eyes shadowed, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of spiced tea. “You’ve been like this since the Unity Ball. Since you saw her.”
My jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” she said. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you scan the shadows. The way you flinch at sudden movements. The way you’ve been asking about rogue fae—wildkin, exiles, dream-walkers.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached into my coat and pulled out the feather.
She went still.
“Where did you get that?” she asked, her voice low.
“An alley near the old cathedral,” I said. “She left it.”
“She?”
“The woman in my dreams,” I said. “The one who’s been watching me.”
Mira didn’t flinch. Just studied the feather, her fingers hovering over it like it might burn her. “This isn’t just fae magic. It’s dream-forged. Bound to a bloodline older than the Accord. If she left this for you, she’s not just watching. She’s calling.”
“And if I don’t answer?”
“Then she’ll come to you,” Mira said. “And when she does, you won’t have a choice.”
I exhaled—slow, controlled. “I don’t need this. Not now. Not when things are finally—”
“Stable?” she interrupted. “Fragile, you mean. The Council’s still holding its breath. Lysander’s still proving himself. Cordelia’s still healing. And you—” she turned to me, really looked at me—“you’re not just a Beta anymore. You’re a guardian. And if she’s tied to the old bloodlines, she could be a threat.”
“Or an ally,” I said.
“Or a weapon,” she countered. “And if she’s been sent to test you—”
“Then let her,” I said, my voice low. “I’ve faced worse than dreams.”
She didn’t argue. Just handed the feather back, her fingers brushing mine. A spark flared—fire, need, hunger—and I didn’t pull away. Just let it burn, let it coil around us like the bond between Cordelia and Lysander, but different. Wilder. Free.
And then—
She was there.
Not in the garden.
Behind me.
I felt her before I saw her—the shift in the air, the drop in temperature, the way the snow stopped falling in a perfect circle around us. The bond flared, not between mates, but between predators. Between secrets.
And then—
“You took your time,” I said, not turning. “I’ve been waiting.”
“And I’ve been watching,” a voice replied—soft, melodic, laced with something ancient. “You’re stronger than they said. Fiercer. More… awake.”
I turned.
And there she was.
Taller than I remembered. Slender, but coiled with power. Her cloak fell open, revealing a gown of woven shadow and frost, its hem trailing like smoke. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, black as a starless sky, threaded with silver. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—burned with the light of a thousand winters, sharp and knowing and hungry.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, her boots silent on the snow, her presence a storm wrapped in silence. Mira moved instinctively, placing herself between us, her dagger drawn, her breath steady.
“Stay back,” she said. “He doesn’t need your games.”
The woman smiled—slow, dangerous, real. “I’m not here to play games, little spy. I’m here to wake him.”
“Wake me from what?” I asked, stepping around Mira. “I’m not asleep.”
“Aren’t you?” she said, tilting her head. “You serve a vampire lord. You guard a witch who once wanted him dead. You stand beside a human who was never meant to live. And yet—” she stepped closer, her breath warm against my skin—“you dream of me. You ache for a touch you’ve never felt. You bleed for a bond you’ve never named.”
My fangs lengthened.
Not from hunger.
From recognition.
“You’re one of the Wildkin,” I said. “The ones who walk between worlds. The ones who don’t answer to courts or kings.”
“I am,” she said. “And I am yours.”
The words hit me like a blade to the heart.
Not a claim.
A truth.
“You don’t know me,” I said, my voice rough.
“I’ve known you since before you were born,” she said. “Since before your sire died. Since before the Northern Pack marked you as Beta. I’ve walked in your dreams. I’ve tasted your blood in the wind. I’ve felt your wolf howl for me in the dark.”
Mira stepped forward. “If you’re his mate, prove it.”
The woman didn’t flinch. Just reached into her cloak and pulled out a vial—old, dried, labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
Not because of the vial.
Because of the blood.
It wasn’t Seraphine’s.
It was mine.
“I took this from your last fight,” she said. “When you bled for your king. When you chose loyalty over instinct. When you denied the call of the wild.”
“And why keep it?” I asked.
“Because it’s not just blood,” she said. “It’s a key. A vow. A promise. And now—” she stepped closer, her hand rising, her fingers brushing my cheek—“it’s time to claim what’s yours.”
The touch burned.
Not with pain.
With fire.
The bond exploded—heat, need, hunger—and I didn’t pull back. Just let her touch me, her fingers tracing the scar across my jaw, the curve of my neck, the edge of my collar.
And then—
I caught her wrist.
Not to stop her.
To guide her.
My hand covered hers, my fingers interlacing with hers, my thumb brushing the pulse at her wrist. And then—I moved it.
Lower.
Deeper.
Until her palm rested over the hard ridge of my arousal, pressing through the fabric.
Her breath caught.
“You want this,” I said, my voice a growl. “You’ve wanted it since the first time you saw me.”
“It’s the bond,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “It’s us.”
And then—
I let go.
Just stepped back, leaving her hand where it was, my body still hard, my breath unsteady.
“Don’t,” she breathed.
“But you want me to,” I said. “And you know I’ll never stop.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pulled her hand back, her cheeks flushed, her storm-lit eyes burning. But she didn’t look away. Just stared at me, her chest rising and falling, her magic reaching for mine like a drowning woman grasping for shore.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a meeting.
It was a reckoning.
And I was losing.
---
We didn’t speak.
Just walked—through the garden, past the frozen fountain, into the heart of the spire. Mira followed, silent, watchful, her dagger still in hand. The woman—my woman—walked beside me, her presence a storm, her silence heavier than any words.
And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the blood.
And then—
The summons.
A raven—its feathers black as midnight, its eyes glowing crimson—landed on the windowsill, a scroll tied to its leg. Mira took it, her dark eyes narrowing as she unrolled it.
“It’s from the Council,” she said. “Emergency session. Tomorrow at dawn. They’ve accepted your demand.”
My breath caught.
They were afraid.
Not of me.
Of the truth.
“And the assassin?” Mira asked.
“Gone,” I said. “And the throne is mine.”
“Then we move,” the woman said, her voice low, dangerous. “We end this. Tonight.”
I didn’t argue.
Just nodded.
Because 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 moon rose over the spire, as the first stars pierced the sky, 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.