The printing press in the old cathedral basement hadn’t turned in over a century. Its gears were rusted, its rollers stiff, its inkwells dry as bone. But today, it breathed.
I stood over it, my fingers tracing the cold iron of the typeframe, the scent of old paper and forgotten magic thick in the air. The grimoire lay open on the workbench beside me, its pages whispering secrets only witches could hear. My mother’s handwriting—elegant, precise, laced with blood-rune flourishes—filled the margins, detailing the massacre, the blackmail, the truth the Midnight Accord had buried beneath centuries of lies.
And today, the world would know.
---
It had started three days ago—after the vision in the Chamber of Echoes, after the crack in the Veil, after Lysander crushed the vial and let the dust of Seraphine’s ambition scatter into the wind. I’d woken before dawn, my storm-gray eyes burning, my fingers clutching the sheets. The dream had been clear. Not a warning. Not a threat.
A command.
“Publish it,” my mother’s voice had whispered. “Let them see. Let them know. Let them burn.”
I hadn’t hesitated.
Just pulled on my boots, wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, and walked through the silent spire to the cathedral. The doors had been sealed since the Bloodfire War—warded with iron and oath-runes, guarded by silent thralls who bowed as I passed. I didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just pressed my palm to the lock, let my blood seep into the stone, and watched as the wards cracked and fell like dead leaves.
And then—
I began.
---
The first pages were the hardest.
Not because of the words. Not because of the pain.
Because of the truth.
I’d spent my life believing Lysander had signed the death warrant out of greed. Out of power. Out of a desire to control witch magic. But the grimoire told a different story. One of blackmail. Of a mortal child. Of a vampire lord who had chosen his daughter’s life over a coven’s.
And I’d been wrong.
Not about the massacre. Not about the blood. Not about the lies.
But about him.
I’d come to destroy him. To expose him. To make him pay.
And instead—
I’d found a man who had already paid.
---
The press groaned as I fed the first sheet into the rollers. The ink was thick—black as midnight, mixed with a drop of my blood, just as the old rites demanded. The type had been hand-set by Mira and Elara in the dead of night, their fingers stained with ink, their eyes sharp with purpose. Even Kaelen had helped—silent, lethal, his storm-gray eyes burning as he adjusted the pressure gauge.
“You’re sure about this?” Mira had asked, her dark eyes searching mine. “Once it’s out, there’s no taking it back. The Council will erupt. The Fae will retaliate. The humans will panic.”
“Let them,” I’d said. “The truth isn’t meant to be comfortable. It’s meant to be known.”
And now—
It was happening.
The first copy slid out—clean, crisp, the title embossed in silver: Blood and Truth: The Midnight Accord Exposed. I didn’t read it. Didn’t need to. I’d written it in blood, in grief, in fury. Every page a reckoning. Every chapter a resurrection.
And on the cover—
A photograph.
Not of Lysander. Not of the Council.
Of my mother.
Her face—sharp, proud, her storm-gray eyes burning with defiance—stared back at me from the page. She wore her ceremonial robes, her dagger at her hip, her hair unbound. And beneath it, a single line in delicate script:
“She was not silenced. She was not forgotten. She was avenged.”
My breath caught.
Not from sorrow.
From power.
And then—
The bell rang.
Not from the cathedral. Not from the spire.
From the city.
One. Then another. Then a dozen—ringing across Geneva, across London, across Prague. The signal. The call. The beginning.
They were coming.
---
I didn’t wait.
Just gathered the first stack of books, tucked them under my arm, and walked out into the dawn.
The streets were already stirring—humans on their way to work, witches in cloaks stitched with truth-runes, werewolves patrolling the undercity, fae envoys walking without glamour. The air was sharp with the scent of snow and spiced tea, the sky bleeding red with the dying night. And then—
They saw me.
Not with fear. Not with suspicion.
With recognition.
“Cordelia Vale,” a witch murmured, stepping forward. “You’re publishing it.”
“I am,” I said, handing her a copy.
She didn’t open it. Just clutched it to her chest, her eyes burning. “My sister was in the Veil coven. She died that night.”
“So did mine,” I said. “And today, the world will know why.”
And then—
The others came.
Not in silence. Not in fear.
In truth.
A werewolf took a copy, his fangs bared in a grim smile. “My mate’s sister was taken that night. They said she ran. She didn’t. She was killed.”
A Fae noble—no glamour, no mask—stepped forward, her eyes sharp. “My mother served the High Court. She knew. And she did nothing.”
“Now she will answer,” I said. “All of them will.”
And then—
They began to chant.
Not my name.
Not Lysander’s.
“Truth. Truth. Truth.”
Over and over, rising like a tide, until the streets trembled with it.
“Truth. Truth. Truth.”
And I didn’t stop. Just kept handing out the books, one by one, until the stack was gone, until the press behind me groaned again, spitting out another batch, until the cathedral doors were flanked with copies, free for anyone who wanted them.
And then—
I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the bond.
And then—
He stepped from the shadows.
Not with sound. Not with presence.
With inevitability.Lysander.
He wore no coat. No armor. Just a simple black shirt, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the Duskbane sigil etched into his wrist—crimson, pulsing, alive. His fangs were retracted. His aura was calm. But I felt it—the weight of every decision, every life he’d taken, every lie he’d lived.
And yet—
He didn’t look at me with anger.
With fear.
With pride.
“You published it,” he said, not a question.
“I did,” I said, handing him a copy.
He didn’t open it. Just held it, his fingers brushing the embossed title. “You could have used it to destroy me. To ruin me. To take everything.”
“I could have,” I said. “But I didn’t come here to destroy you. I came here to see you. And now I do.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—his crimson eyes burning, his breath unsteady. “And what do you see?”
“I see a man who made an impossible choice,” I said. “A man who chose his daughter over power. A man who lived with the guilt every day. A man who—” my voice broke—“deserves to be free.”
The bond flared—hot, insistent, alive—and I didn’t pull away. Just let it burn, let it coil around us, let it pull us closer until my breath grazed the nape of his neck, until my heat seeped through his shirt, until my fingers brushed the Duskbane sigil on his wrist.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I murmured.
“I’m not,” he said. “I have you. I have Elara. I have us.”
And then—
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hard. Deep. Claiming.
His mouth crashed against mine, his fangs nipping my lip, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting, devouring. I didn’t pull away. Just kissed him back—furious, desperate, electric—my fingers fisting in his shirt, my body arching into his, the bond flaring so hot it burned.
The city erupted.
Not in violence.
Not in fear.
In truth.
Witches gasped. Werewolves howled. Fae envoys stumbled back, their glamours flickering. Humans clapped, some cheering, others whispering, but none turning away.
And then—
They began to chant.
Not my name.
Not his.
“Us. Us. Us.”
Over and over, rising like a tide, until the streets trembled with it.
“Us. Us. Us.”
We didn’t stop. Just kept kissing, our bodies pressed together, our magic entwined, the bond screaming between us like a live wire. And then—
He pulled back.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak.
“Still hate me?” he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip, still swollen from his kiss.
I didn’t answer.
Just smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. Real.
“Every damn day,” I said.
He grinned—sharp, feral, alive—and then spun me, his hand low on my back, pulling me flush against him, our hips grinding, our breaths ragged.
And then—
The music shifted.
Not slower. Not softer.
But deeper.
A new rhythm—older, darker, laced with magic. The runes on my gown flared gold, then crimson, then black. The Duskbane sigil on my wrist burned, not with pain, but with power. And then—
The bond answered.
Not with fire.
With truth.
---
I saw it—not a vision, not a memory.
A future.
Me, standing at the head of the Council, my voice cutting through the silence. Lysander at my side, not in silver, but in black—his armor etched with the crest of House Duskbane, his fangs bared, his aura flaring crimson. Elara between us, her fingers gripping the grimoire, her storm-gray eyes burning. The coalition behind us—wolves, witches, Fae, humans—united, unbroken, alive.
And then—
A child.
Not Elara.
Another.
With raven hair. Storm-gray eyes. A dagger etched with runes.
Our child.
And then—
I snapped back.
Still in his arms. Still kissing. Still his.
“You saw it,” he said, his voice low, rough.
“I saw us,” I whispered.
“And if it’s real?”
“Then I’ll spend every damn day proving I deserve it,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
Just kissed me again—slow, deep, claiming—and then pulled me into a final spin, his hand low on my back, his body a wall, his breath warm against my neck.
And as the music faded, as the lanterns dimmed, as the first stars pierced the sky, I knew—
This wasn’t just a kiss.
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 city emptied, as the chanting faded into silence, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his shirt—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.