The city of Prague at midnight was a creature of shadows and whispers. Cobblestone streets slick with rain reflected the flickering glow of gas lamps and bloodwine fires, their light warping in the mist that curled from the Vltava like breath from a sleeping beast. The undercity pulsed beneath the surface—hidden enclaves where vampires fed in velvet-lined parlors, where rogue witches traded spells for secrets, where fae slipped through alleyways wearing human faces like masks. I moved through it all like a ghost, my boots silent, my dagger hidden in the fold of my coat, my eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not officially.
Not as Cordelia’s confidante. Not as the woman who had once run the underground network that exposed the Midnight Accord’s darkest lies. Not as the human who had survived long enough to earn the respect of creatures who saw mortals as little more than blood bags or pawns.
I was here because I’d received a message.
Not through the usual channels. Not in code. Not even in blood.
In *dreams*.
And dreams, in this world, were never just dreams.
---
The note had come three nights ago—scrawled on a scrap of parchment tucked inside a hollowed-out book in my Geneva safe house. No seal. No signature. Just three words, written in a hand I didn’t recognize:
“She’s not safe.”
I’d burned it. Of course I had. But the words had already taken root.
And then—
The dreams began.
Not visions. Not prophecies. Not even nightmares.
Memories.
But not mine.
A child’s hand gripping a journal. Storm-gray eyes wide with terror. A dagger etched with runes, its blade cracked. A vial of blood, old and dried, labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And a name.
Seraphine.
Each night, the dream grew clearer. Each night, the dread coiled tighter in my chest. And each night, I woke with the same certainty:
Something was coming.
And it was targeting Cordelia.
---
I’d tried to reach her. Called through encrypted channels. Sent coded messages via the network. Even reached out to Kaelen, asking him to pass word through the Northern Pack’s scouts.
All silence.
Not rejection. Not dismissal.
Nothing.
As if the Obsidian Spire had been swallowed by a void.
So I came myself.
Not to confront. Not to accuse.
To warn.
---
The safe house in Prague’s Old Town was one of my oldest—beneath a defunct apothecary, its entrance hidden behind a false wall lined with jars of dried herbs and powdered bone. I slipped inside, the wards humming as I passed, the scent of old magic and iron sharp in the air. The room was small, lit by a single oil lamp, its flame steady despite the storm outside. Maps covered the walls—Geneva, London, Prague, the Black Forest—all marked with sigils only those in the network could read. A scrying mirror sat in the corner, its surface dark, its glass cracked from overuse.
I didn’t light more lamps. Didn’t sit. Just stepped to the mirror, my fingers brushing the frame, my breath steady.
“Show me,” I whispered. “Show me what’s coming.”
Nothing happened.
Just silence.
And then—
A pulse.
Not from the mirror.
From the bond.
Not mine—Cordelia’s. The one she shared with Lysander. I’d felt it before, faint and distant, like a heartbeat through stone. But now—
It was *wrong*.
Not broken. Not severed.
Twisted.
Like something had wrapped itself around it, feeding on it, *using* it.
And then—
The mirror flared.
Not with light. Not with fire.
With *shadow*.
Black tendrils crawled across the glass, thick as vines, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the bond’s distortion. And then—
A face.
Not human. Not vampire. Not even fae.
Something *else*.
Its features were indistinct—shifting, melting, reforming—but the eyes… the eyes were clear. Hollow. Endless. Like two voids staring into the world from the other side of a cracked mirror.
And around its wrist—
A vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
From *recognition*.
This wasn’t Seraphine.
This was what had worn her.
What had fed on her ambition. Her desire for power. Her envy of Cordelia and Lysander’s bond.
And now—
It wanted in.
---
The mirror shattered.
Not with a crash. Not with force.
With a *whisper*.
Glass turned to dust, falling like ash to the floor. The shadows receded. The bond’s pulse faded.
And then—
Silence.
I didn’t move. Just stood there, my fingers still on the frame, my breath steady, my mind racing.
It wasn’t just coming.
It was already *here*.
Not in Prague. Not in Geneva.
In the *bond*.
And if it could twist the connection between Cordelia and Lysander—
It could use it to reach them. To control them. To destroy them.
And if it had already touched the bond—
It might already know where they were.
Where Elara was.
Where the grimoire was.
And if it knew—
Then none of them were safe.
---
I moved fast.
Not with magic. Not with glamour.
With *action*.
I grabbed my pack—leather, worn, filled with emergency supplies: iron dust, blood vials, truth runes carved into bone. I strapped my dagger to my thigh, its blade etched with a warding sigil. I pulled on my coat—black, unmarked, designed to blend into shadows. And then—
I reached for the one thing I’d never used.
The blood vial.
Not mine.
His.
The vampire assassin who had once hunted me—before I turned the tables, before I made him my informant, before he died with a stake through his heart and a secret on his lips.
His blood was old. Dark. Still humming with the power of his line. And it carried a trace of the assassin’s last command—a whisper of loyalty, a thread of connection to the network he had once served.
I uncorked it. Didn’t drink.
Just let a single drop fall onto the floor, onto the warding sigil carved into the stone.
And then—
I spoke.
“*Reveal.*”
The sigil flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the room, the air crackling with power. And then—
Visions tore through the air.
---
A corridor beneath the Obsidian Spire—stone, slick with condensation, torches flickering with blue fire. A figure moving through it, cloaked in shadow, its hand brushing the wall, leaving a trail of black residue. The scent of decay. The sound of whispers—hollow, cold, not human.
---
Elara’s room—books scattered, journal open, a single page torn out. The window ajar. The scent of old magic and iron. And on the sill—
A vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
---
The war room—maps covered in blood, scrying mirrors shattered, the table cracked down the middle. Cordelia on her knees, her dagger at her throat, her storm-gray eyes wide with terror. Lysander standing over her, his fangs bared, his eyes black, his voice a chorus of whispers. And around his wrist—
A vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
---
I gasped, collapsing to my knees, my breath coming fast, my magic flaring. The visions faded, the sigil dimming, the room falling back into silence. But the truth—
It stayed.
It wasn’t just coming.
It was *here*.
And it had already begun.
---
I didn’t hesitate.
Just ran.
Out of the safe house. Into the rain. Through the streets. I didn’t take the underground routes. Didn’t use the network’s tunnels. Too slow. Too exposed.
I ran like a mortal.
Like a woman who had survived by being faster, smarter, more ruthless than the monsters who thought they could break her.
And I didn’t stop until I reached the edge of the Vltava, where the river curved beneath a stone bridge, where the scent of old magic was thickest.
The summoning point.
---
I knelt on the wet stone, my fingers pressing to the sigil carved into the bridge’s foundation—ancient, nearly worn away, but still humming with power. I didn’t speak. Didn’t chant.
Just let my blood seep into the stone.
One drop.
Then another.
And then—
It answered.
Not with fire. Not with light.
With *sound*.
A howl—deep, primal, echoing from the Black Forest. A chorus of wolves, their voices rising in a single, unified cry. And then—
Footsteps.
Not human. Not quiet.
Heavy. Deliberate. Lethal.
And then—
Kaelen.
He stepped from the shadows, his wolf simmering beneath his skin, his presence a storm wrapped in silence. His storm-gray eyes burned, not with anger, not with suspicion.
With *recognition*.
“You summoned me,” he said, his voice low.
“I did,” I said, pushing to my feet. “Because I couldn’t reach Cordelia. Because I couldn’t reach Lysander. Because something’s in the bond. Something that wore Seraphine’s name. And it’s already inside the spire.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—his gaze sharp, his breath unsteady. “Show me.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just pulled him to the sigil, our hands pressing to the stone together. The runes flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the bridge, the air crackling with power. And then—
The visions returned.
---
The corridor. The figure. The black residue.
Elara’s room. The torn page. The vial.
The war room. Cordelia on her knees. Lysander possessed. The vial.
---
We both gasped, stumbling back, our hands still linked. Kaelen’s fangs lengthened, his aura flaring storm-gray. “That’s not possible,” he said. “The spire’s warded. The bond’s protected. No one can touch it without triggering a thousand alarms.”
“It’s not *touching* it,” I said. “It’s *using* it. Feeding on it. And if it’s already reached Elara—”
“Then we’re too late,” he said.
“No,” I said. “We’re not. But we’re running out of time.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me onto his back—fast, possessive, mine—and ran.
Not toward the river. Not toward the city.
Toward the undercity.
Toward the Obsidian Spire.
Toward the war.
---
We didn’t speak.
Just moved.
Through tunnels slick with moss. Past thralls who bowed but didn’t stop us. Through wards that flickered but didn’t hold. Kaelen moved like a storm, his body a wall, his breath steady, his presence a force of nature. I held on, my fingers fisted in his coat, my heart pounding, my mind racing.
And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the bond.
And then—
Silence.
Not the silence of peace.
Of *death*.
---
We burst into the war room.
Not with force. Not with warning.
With *fury*.
The room was in ruins—maps torn, mirrors shattered, the table cracked. But no bodies. No blood.
And then—
A whisper.
From the shadows.
“Mira.”
I turned.
And there—
Elara.
She stood in the doorway, her journal in hand, her storm-gray eyes wide. Not with fear.
With *fire*.
“You’re back,” she said. “But you’re not alone.”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, my fingers brushing her cheek. “We’re never alone,” I said. “Not anymore.”
She didn’t smile. Just looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw it.
Not fear.
Trust.
“Then tell me,” she said. “What’s coming?”
I didn’t lie.
Just told her the truth.
---
Later, as the moon rose over the spire, as the stars pierced the sky, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of Kaelen’s 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.