The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the quiet of snowfall or still water. Not the hush of a sleeping city or the lull between heartbeats. This was different. A void. A tear in the fabric of sound, like the world had exhaled and forgotten to inhale. The Obsidian Spire—my home, my fortress, the seat of power for House Duskbane—had never been silent. Not even at dawn, when the undercity slumbered and the bloodwine fires dimmed. There had always been movement. Whispers in the halls. The scrape of boots on stone. The low hum of magic from the Chamber of Echoes.
But now—
Nothing.
Not even the wind.
---
I stood at the threshold of the war room, my hand on the doorframe, my fangs retracted, my aura calm. The room was as we’d left it—maps rolled, scrying mirrors dark, the Yule tree still glowing with warm white lights. But the air… the air was wrong. Thick. Heavy. Like it had been breathed too many times, like it remembered every secret whispered within these walls.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not with warmth. Not with desire.
With danger.
A jolt of magic tore through my veins, sharp as silver, hot as fire. Cordelia. She was close. I could feel her—her storm-gray magic, her heartbeat syncing with mine, her breath a whisper against my neck. But she was in pain. Not physical. Not magical.
Fear.
And it wasn’t for herself.
It was for me.
---
I moved.
Not with sound. Not with speed.
With inevitability.Through the halls. Past the thralls who bowed but didn’t speak. Past the sentinels who stood like statues, their eyes blank, their minds… elsewhere. The deeper I went, the heavier the silence became. No footfalls. No breath. No life. Just the pulse of the bond, growing stronger, more frantic, like a drumbeat counting down to something I couldn’t name.
And then—
I saw her.
Cordelia stood at the end of the corridor, her back to me, her dagger in hand, her storm-gray eyes locked on the shadow pooling in the archway ahead. She wore no cloak. No armor. Just her gown from Yule, the runes stitched into the fabric glowing faintly, like embers refusing to die. Her raven hair was unbound, her posture rigid, her breath steady.
But I felt it.
The tremor in her magic. The way her fingers tightened on the hilt. The way her pulse jumped when I stepped closer.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, not turning.
“Neither should you,” I replied, stopping beside her.
She didn’t look at me. Just kept her eyes on the shadow. “It’s in the bond,” she said. “Not breaking it. Not severing it. Twisting it. Using it to reach us. To feed.”
“And you came alone?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “It reached Elara. Left a vial on her windowsill. A page torn from her journal. And then—” she swallowed—“I felt it. In the bond. Like something was watching. Waiting.”
My fangs lengthened.
Not from hunger.
From fury.
“You should have woken me.”
“And if it used the bond to reach you?” she said, finally turning. Her eyes were sharp, burning, alive. “If it had already touched you? I couldn’t risk it. I had to cut it off. Isolate it.”
“You can’t isolate the bond,” I said. “Not from me. Not from us.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But I had to try.”
The bond flared—hot, insistent, alive—and I didn’t pull back. Just let it burn, let it coil around us, let it pull us closer until my breath grazed the nape of her neck, until my heat seeped through her gown, until my fangs grazed her pulse.
She didn’t flinch.
Just exhaled—slow, controlled.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I murmured.
“I’m not,” she said. “I have Elara. I have Mira. I have—”
“Me,” I said, cutting her off. “You have me. Not as a ruler. Not as a vampire lord. As a man who would burn the world for you. As a man who would die for you. As a man who loves you.”
She stilled.
Not from shock.
From recognition.
And then—
The shadow moved.
Not with sound. Not with form.
With hunger.It surged forward, not as a creature, not as a being, but as a wave of darkness, thick as oil, pulsing with something ancient and ravenous. The runes on Cordelia’s gown flared—gold, then crimson, then black—and she stepped in front of me, her dagger raised, her body a wall.
“No,” I growled, pulling her back.
“It wants you,” she said. “Not me. Not Elara. You. The bond is strongest with you. It’s using your guilt, your fear, your love—” her voice broke—“to get in.”
“Then let it try,” I said.
And then—
I stepped forward.
Not to fight.
To invite.
---
The shadow hesitated.
Not from caution.
From surprise.
And then—
It lunged.
Not at me.
At Cordelia.
I moved faster.
Not with magic. Not with speed.
With need.I threw myself between her and the shadow, my body a shield, my arms wide. The darkness struck me like a blade, tearing through my chest, searing my ribs, clawing at my spine. I didn’t scream. Didn’t fall. Just stood there, my fangs bared, my aura flaring crimson, my blood boiling in my veins.
And then—
I felt it.
The thing inside the shadow. Not a spirit. Not a demon. Not even a fae. Something older. Something that had existed before the Veil, before the Accord, before the first blood was spilled in the name of peace.
And it was hungry.
It fed on fear. On guilt. On the cracks in love. And it had found the deepest one—my fear of losing her. My guilt over the massacre. My shame for what I’d done to survive.
And it was devouring me.
---
“Lysander!”
Cordelia’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp as a blade. I felt her hands on my back, her magic flaring, her storm-gray power surging through the bond like lightning. She didn’t pull me back. Didn’t try to heal me. Just pressed herself against me, her body a second shield, her breath warm against my neck.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she whispered.
“I’m not,” I said, my voice raw.
And then—
I reached for her.
Not to push her away.
To pull her in.
My hand found hers, our fingers interlacing, our pulses syncing. The bond flared—hot, insistent, alive—and I didn’t pull back. Just let it burn, let it coil around us, let it pull us together until our breaths mingled, until her nails dug into my shoulders, until my fangs grazed her lower lip.
And then—
I spoke.
Not to the shadow.
To her.
“If I don’t make it—”
“Don’t,” she said, cutting me off. “Don’t you dare say goodbye.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m saying… if I fall, take Elara. Take the grimoire. Take the truth. And live. Not for me. Not for the bond. For you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just kissed me.
Not gentle. Not soft.
Hard. Deep. Claiming.
Her mouth crashed against mine, her tongue sweeping inside, tasting, devouring. I didn’t pull away. Just kissed her back—furious, desperate, electric—my hands sliding up her back, my fingers tangling in her hair, my body pressing hers against the wall.
The bond flared—fire, need, hunger—and I didn’t pull back. Just let it burn, let it coil around us, let it pull us together until our breaths mingled, until her nails dug into my shoulders, until my fangs grazed her lower lip.
And then—
I broke the kiss.
Just enough to speak.
“I love you,” I said. “Not because of the bond. Not because of magic. Because you’re you. The witch who came to destroy me. The woman who chose me anyway. The lover who fights for me even when I tell her not to. I love you, Cordelia. Every damn, infuriating, impossible inch of you.”
Her breath caught.
Not from magic.
From love.
And then—
The shadow screamed.
Not with sound.
With rage.
It tore through me, not as pain, but as rejection. It couldn’t feed on love. Not real love. Not the kind that chose, again and again, even when it hurt. Even when it burned. Even when it cost everything.
And so—
It fled.
Not with a retreat. Not with a whisper.
With a shriek.The darkness unraveled, tearing itself apart, dissolving into the air like smoke in a storm. The corridor stilled. The silence lifted. And then—
Sound returned.
Footsteps. Breathing. The distant hum of the city.
And then—
Elara.
She stood at the end of the hall, 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 was it?”
I didn’t lie.
Just told her the truth.
---
Later, in the war room, Cordelia knelt beside me, her fingers pressing to the wound in my chest. It wasn’t bleeding. Not with blood. With something darker—ink-black, shimmering, alive. She didn’t speak. Just chanted in the old tongue, her voice low, steady, her magic flaring with every word. The grimoire lay open on the table, its pages whispering secrets only witches could hear.
And then—
She leaned down.
Not to heal.
To kiss.
Her mouth pressed to the wound, her lips warm, her breath steady. I didn’t flinch. Just let her feel me, her touch burning, her breath unsteady, her storm-gray eyes dark with something I couldn’t name.
And then—
The darkness poured out.
Not as blood. Not as poison.
As smoke.It curled from the wound, thick and rancid, hissing as it touched the air. And then—
It vanished.
Not with a pop. Not with a whisper.
With a sigh.Like it had been defeated. Not by magic. Not by power.
By love.
---
Cordelia didn’t speak. Just pressed her forehead to mine, her breath warm, her body trembling. “You idiot,” she whispered. “You absolute, insufferable idiot. You could have died.”
“And if I had?” I asked.
“Then I would’ve brought you back,” she said. “Or died trying.”
The bond flared—warm, alive, ours—and I didn’t pull away. Just held her, my breath steady, my heart full.
“Worth it,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
Just kissed me—soft, reverent, real—and then let me go.
Just enough to pull the blankets over us, to turn off the fire, to whisper, “Good.”
---
Later, as the stars pierced the sky, as the first light of dawn bled through the windows, 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.