The first thing I feel is the cold.
Not the chill of stone or winter wind—but the deep, ancient cold of fae magic, the kind that seeps into your marrow and whispers lies in a voice that sounds like your own. It coils around my spine as I step through the blood-ritual gate, my boots meeting the floating marble of Elarion’s grand promenade. Above me, the sky is a fractured illusion—London’s skyline shimmering beneath a dome of enchanted twilight, stars frozen in silver constellations that pulse like living veins.
I adjust the hood of my midnight-blue cloak, fingers brushing the hidden dagger strapped to my forearm. My heart hammers, not from fear, but from focus. Every breath is measured. Every step deliberate. I am not Zara of the Wildbloods. I am Lysa Veyra, minor envoy from the Northern Coven. A nobody. A ghost.
And I am here to kill a king.
The High King of the Seelie Court—Riven Ashthorne—has ruled for eight centuries on blood, lies, and glamour. He signed the order that wiped my mother’s bloodline from existence. He called us abominations. He had her executed in silence, her name erased from every archive, her body burned beneath the black thorn trees of the Unseelie Wastes.
And now, I stand in his court.
The Solstice Accord stretches before me—a vast, open-air amphitheater carved from living crystal, where the leaders of the supernatural world gather to pretend peace is possible. Fae in gilded silks, vampires draped in velvet and shadow, werewolves in leather and steel, witches in ink-stained robes. The air hums with restrained power, a thousand scents clashing—jasmine and iron, blood and pine, magic thick as fog.
I keep my head down, but my senses are wide open.
A vampire noble passes, his fangs just visible beneath a smirk as he inhales the scent of a passing wolf sentinel. Two fae courtiers whisper behind fans, their eyes flicking to me with disdain. “She smells like a kennel and a spellbook,” one murmurs. I don’t flinch. I’ve heard worse. I’ve survived worse.
My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless. Silver fur prickles along my spine, just beneath the surface. I push it down. Not yet. Not here.
I came to burn this place to the ground. But first, I need proof. I need access. And the only way into the High King’s inner sanctum is through the Accord’s rituals.
Today’s centerpiece: the Bond-Signing Ceremony. A symbolic act of unity—fae magic binding representatives of each species in a temporary pact. Harm one, and the bond retaliates. Simple. Lethal. And, for me, a perfect cover.
I take my place among the witch envoys, standing just behind the delegation’s leader, Elder Mirelle. She’s old, her magic brittle with age, her eyes milky with cataracts. She won’t remember my name by dawn. Perfect.
The ceremony begins with a hymn—a haunting melody sung in Old Fae, the words curling through the air like smoke. Then, the High King rises.
And the world stops.
Riven Ashthorne stands at the edge of the dais, tall and lethal in black armor edged with silver thorns. His hair is night-dark, falling just past his jaw, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—are the color of storm-lit ice, sharp enough to cut. He moves like a predator, every step silent, deliberate. The crowd parts for him, not out of respect, but fear.
He is power incarnate.
And he is the man who murdered my mother.
I feel my wolf snarl inside me, a feral, desperate thing. My fingers twitch toward my dagger. One throw. One clean strike to the throat. I could do it. I could end him right now—
But then the guards would tear me apart. The bond wouldn’t be signed. The archives would remain locked. And my mother’s name would stay buried.
No. I need patience. I need access. I need to be close.
The ritual proceeds. A vampire lord steps forward, offers his hand. Riven takes it, their palms sealing with a golden sigil that flares and fades. A werewolf chieftain follows. Then a fae ambassador. Each bond lasts only until dawn—symbolic, not binding.
Then Elder Mirelle stumbles forward.
“Representative of the Wildbloods,” the High Chancellor announces, voice echoing through the amphitheater. “Step forward.”
My breath catches.
Wildbloods.
The name hits me like a blade to the gut. My bloodline—erased, outlawed, hunted. The last known Wildblood died five hundred years ago. Or so they think.
My mother.
Mirelle turns, blinking. “I… I didn’t bring a—”
“The Wildbloods must be represented,” the Chancellor insists. “It is tradition.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
This is not part of the plan.
But I see the way the fae nobles are watching. The way Riven’s gaze has sharpened, scanning the witch delegation. He’s looking for a lie. For weakness.
And if I don’t step forward, they’ll find one.
I move before I can think.
“I stand for the Wildbloods,” I say, stepping forward, voice steady.
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
Mirelle turns to me, confused. “Child, what are you—”
“Silence,” I say, low, firm. “Let me do this.”
She hesitates—then nods, stepping back.
I walk to the dais.
Every step feels like walking into fire. The air thickens. My skin prickles. The bond-magic in the air recognizes something in me—something ancient, something wrong.
Riven watches me approach, his expression unreadable. But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. The slight flare of his nostrils as he inhales.
He smells me.
And he knows.
Not who I am. Not yet. But he knows I’m not what I seem.
My hybrid scent—wolf musk and wild magic, laced with the forbidden blood of the Wildbloods—is unmistakable to a fae of his power.
But the ritual demands completion.
He extends his hand.
So do I.
The moment our skin touches—
—the world explodes.
Fire and ice tear through my bones. My vision whites out. A scream rips from my throat, but it’s drowned by a deafening, otherworldly crack that splits the sky. Lightning forks across the dome, and the ground trembles.
Our palms are fused.
Not by flesh—but by magic.
A sigil burns between us, searing into our skin: two thrones entwined by thorned vines, a crown of stars above them. The Mark of Twin Thrones.
Impossible.
It hasn’t appeared in five hundred years.
It’s a myth. A prophecy. A fated mate bond between two royals of opposing bloodlines—meant to either unite the realms… or destroy them.
And it’s on my hand.
The crowd is silent. Then—chaos.
“The prophecy,” someone whispers.
“She’s his fated consort!”
“The Wildbloods are alive?”
I yank my hand back, but the mark remains, glowing faintly on my palm, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. My skin burns. My blood sings.
Riven stares at his own hand, then at me. His expression is unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes are alive. Not with anger. Not with suspicion.
With hunger.
“You,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “You’re not who you say you are.”
I lift my chin. “No,” I say. “I’m not.”
And then, because I am done pretending, because my mother’s ghost is screaming in my ears, I lean in and whisper the truth—just for him.
“I came here to bury you.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he smiles.
Slow. Cruel. Beautiful.
And then he leans in, his breath hot against my ear.
“Then you’ll die in my bed.”
The mark on my palm flares.
And for the first time in my life—
—I feel the bond.
Not just magic.
Desire.
Raw. Unstoppable. Wrong.
It coils in my stomach, hot and heavy, spreading through my limbs like poison. My breath hitches. My skin burns where his fingers touched me. My wolf howls, not in rage—but in recognition.
Mate, it whispers.
King.
Ours.
I stagger back, bile rising in my throat. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I came to kill him, not—
“The bond is real,” the High Chancellor announces, voice trembling. “By the laws of the Accord, they are bound. Fated. To deny it is treason.”
My blood runs cold.
If I deny it, I’ll be executed.
If I accept it, I’m his.
Riven steps down from the dais, his gaze locked on me. The crowd parts like water. He stops inches away, close enough that I can smell him—storm and cedar, power and something darker, something primal.
“You have two choices,” he murmurs, so only I can hear. “Play the role of my consort… or die before dawn.”
I want to spit in his face. I want to draw my dagger and carve his heart out right here.
But I see the guards. The nobles. The way the vampires are already circling, eager for blood.
I am outmatched.
For now.
So I do the only thing I can.
I smile.
“Then I suppose,” I say, voice cool, “you’ll have to teach me how to be a queen.”
He laughs—low, dark, promising.
And then he takes my hand, the one marked with his sigil, and pulls me toward the palace.
The crowd watches. Whispers rise.
And the bond—
—burns.
Not just on my skin.
But in my soul.
I came here to destroy him.
But as his fingers tighten around mine, I realize—
—the most dangerous thing in this palace isn’t the king.
It’s the way my body aches for his.
And I haven’t even kissed him yet.