The first thing I feel is the weight of the truth.
Not in my hands—though the silver-bound grimoire sits heavy on the obsidian desk, its runes pulsing faintly with dormant magic. Not in my chest—though my heart hammers like a caged thing, caught between fury and something dangerously close to hope. No, the weight is deeper. It settles in my bones, in my blood, in the very core of me. It’s the weight of a lie unraveling. The weight of a mission fracturing. The weight of a man I came to destroy standing before me, offering me a book that could restore everything I’ve lost.
And I don’t know what to do with it.
I stare at the grimoire—Wildblood Restoration Ritual—its spine etched with Old Fae script that hums beneath my fingertips. The air around it shivers, thick with power, with promise, with something that feels like home. I press my palm to the cover, and the bond flares—just a flicker, deep in my palm, like a spark catching flame. It recognizes this. It wants this.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because if this is real, if Riven truly spent three hundred years trying to undo what was done, then everything I thought I knew about him—about my mother’s death, about the High King’s cruelty, about the man who signed the execution order—is a lie.
And if it’s not?
Then this is the most elaborate trap of all.
“You expect me to believe this?” I ask, voice low, my eyes lifting to meet his. “That the High King of the Seelie Court—you—has spent centuries trying to resurrect the very bloodline you purged?”
Riven stands by the window, his back to me, his silhouette sharp against the glowing city of Elarion. The morning light catches the silver thorns on his coat, casting long shadows across the floor. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the spires rise into the enchanted sky, his storm-lit eyes unreadable.
“No,” he says finally. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I expect you to see.”
“Then show me.”
He turns.
And for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks… vulnerable. Not weak. Not broken. But open. Like the walls he’s spent centuries building have cracked, just enough for me to glimpse what’s beneath.
“The ritual isn’t complete,” he says, stepping closer. “The magic is unstable. The cost—” He hesitates. “It’s high.”
“What cost?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his gaze dark, intense.
And I know—
It’s him.
The cost is him.
My breath catches.
“You’d die for this?” I whisper. “For us?”
“I’ve already lived for it,” he says, voice rough. “For three hundred years, I’ve searched for a way to undo what was done. To bring back what was lost. To honor her.”
“My mother?”
He nods. “She wasn’t just a Wildblood. She was my friend. My ally. The only one who ever saw me—not as a king, not as a monster, but as a man.”
My chest tightens.
“And you let her die.”
“I didn’t,” he says, stepping closer. “I was forced to sign the order. The Council threatened me. They said if I didn’t comply, they’d execute me instead. And if I died, there’d be no one left to protect her legacy. No one to fight for her bloodline. So I signed it. And I spent every day since trying to fix it.”
I want to believe him.
Gods help me, I want to.
But the bond—
—is silent.
No pulse. No hum. No flare. Just stillness. And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because the bond doesn’t lie.
And if it’s not reacting…
Then he’s telling the truth.
My hands tremble as I reach for the grimoire again. “If this is real, then the signature on the execution order—”
“Was forged,” he says. “By Lord Vexis. He wanted the Council to believe the Wildbloods were a threat. He wanted me weak. And he used your mother’s death to do it.”
My breath stops.
“Vexis?”
“He’s been waiting for this moment,” Riven says. “Waiting for you to return. Because if the Wildbloods rise again, if the Mark of Twin Thrones is fulfilled, his power crumbles. The balance shifts. And he loses everything.”
I stare at him.
And for the first time—
—I wonder.
Was I wrong?
Was I so focused on revenge that I never questioned who truly held the knife?
“Then prove it,” I say, voice low. “Show me the truth.”
He studies me. “Are you ready for it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I can’t keep living in the dark. Not anymore.”
He nods. “Then come with me.”
He leads me through the palace, down twisting staircases, past guarded doors, until we reach a hidden chamber beneath the archives. The air is thick with old magic, the walls lined with sealed scrolls, enchanted mirrors, and blood-locked tomes. At the center of the room stands a single pedestal, its surface etched with glowing sigils.
“This is the Truth Mirror,” he says. “It shows what was. Not what’s remembered. Not what’s believed. But what was.”
My pulse kicks.
“And you’re sure?” I ask. “You’re sure you want me to see this?”
He turns to me, his storm-lit eyes dark, intense. “I’ve spent centuries waiting for you. For the truth to be known. For justice to be served. If you’re ready to see it… then I’m ready to show you.”
I nod.
He steps to the pedestal and presses his palm to the sigil. The mirror shimmers, its surface rippling like water. Then—
—it clears.
And I see it.
The past.
Three hundred years ago.
The Council Chamber. The High King’s throne. The Supernatural Council—fae, vampire, witch, and werewolf elders—gathered in judgment. And in the center of it all—Riven. Younger. Harder. His eyes colder, his expression unreadable. But I see it now—the flicker of fear beneath the ice, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers clench around the arm of the throne.
And then—
—Vexis steps forward.
Tall. Sharp. Smiling.
He holds a scroll—the execution order. He unrolls it, presents it to the Council. “The Wildbloods are a threat,” he says, voice smooth, convincing. “Their magic could unravel the realms. Their blood is poison. And if we do not act now, we will all pay the price.”
The Council murmurs. Nods. Agrees.
Then Vexis turns to Riven. “You will sign this. Or you will die in your throne.”
My breath stops.
Riven doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the scroll, his face a mask.
“You have until dawn,” Vexis says. “Sign it. Or be replaced.”
The scene shifts.
Dawn.
The throne room, empty except for Riven and Vexis. The scroll lies on the desk. Riven’s hand hovers over it. His jaw is tight. His eyes are closed. And then—
—he signs.
Not with pride. Not with cruelty.
With grief.
And as his pen lifts, Vexis smiles.
Because he knows.
He knows Riven didn’t want this.
He knows Riven was forced.
And he knows—
—the real killer stands in the shadows, pulling the strings.
The mirror goes dark.
I can’t breathe.
My vision blurs. My hands tremble. My wolf whimpers—wrong, wrong, wrong—and I hate myself for it.
“He lied,” I whisper. “All this time… he lied.”
“Yes,” Riven says, voice low. “And I let him. Because if I’d fought, if I’d refused, they would’ve killed me. And then there’d be no one left to protect you. No one left to wait for you.”
I turn to him.
And for the first time—
—I see him.
Not as a monster.
Not as a tyrant.
But as a man.
A man who signed a death warrant to survive.
A man who spent centuries trying to fix it.
A man who waited for me.
“Why?” I ask, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because I didn’t know if you’d believe me,” he says. “Because I didn’t know if you’d still want to kill me. And because—” He steps closer, his hand lifting to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I didn’t want to lose you before I had you.”
My breath hitches.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
And then—
—the bond screams.
Not in pain.
Not in conflict.
In recognition.
Because for the first time—
—I believe him.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of his touch, the burn of the bond, the traitorous beat of my heart.
And I whisper the truth to the silence.
“You’re not the one who killed her.”
He shakes his head. “No. But I let it happen. And for that, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I stare at him.
And for the first time—
—I wonder.
Was I wrong about everything?
Was I so focused on revenge that I never saw the real enemy?
“Then who do I kill?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his storm-lit eyes full of something dark, deep, and true.
And in that silence—
—I know.
It’s not him.
It’s Vexis.
My wolf snarls.
Not in rage.
In purpose.
“I need proof,” I say, voice low. “Not just the mirror. Not just your word. I need something they can’t deny. Something that will bring him down.”
Riven nods. “There’s a grimoire. Blood-locked. Hidden in Vexis’s chambers. It contains the truth—the forged signature, the ritual to erase the Wildbloods, the proof that he orchestrated it all.”
“And you know where it is?”
“I do,” he says. “But it’s guarded. Warded. And if you’re caught—”
“Then I’ll die,” I finish. “But not before I burn his world down with me.”
He studies me. “You’re dangerous when you’re angry.”
“You have no idea,” I say, stepping closer. “But this time, I’m not fighting for revenge.”
“Then what are you fighting for?”
I look at him—really look at him—and for the first time, I see the man beneath the crown, the king beneath the ice, the one who waited for me in the dark.
“For the truth,” I say. “For my mother. For my bloodline.” I lift my chin. “And for the man who never stopped believing in us.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just reaches out, takes my hand, and presses it to his chest.
His heartbeat thunders beneath my fingers.
Strong.
Steady.
Mine.
“Then let’s get it,” he says.
And for the first time—
—I don’t pull away.
I follow him through the palace, my boots silent on marble, my breath steady. The corridors blur. The torches flicker. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the weight of what we’re about to do.
We reach Vexis’s chambers—deep in the Unseelie wing, where the shadows stretch too long and the walls whisper secrets. The door is sealed with blood magic, the sigils glowing crimson.
“Only his blood can open it,” Riven says.
I don’t hesitate.
I pull out the silver dagger from my sleeve—the one he took from me, the one I stole back—and slice my palm. My blood drips onto the sigil. The magic hums. The door clicks open.
We step inside.
The room is cold. Dark. Filled with relics of power—enchanted weapons, cursed tomes, vials of blackened blood. And in the center—
A chest.
Bound in iron. Sealed with a lock that pulses with dark magic.
“The grimoire is inside,” Riven says. “But it’s blood-locked. Only Vexis’s blood can open it.”
I look at him.
And for the first time—
—I smile.
“Then we’ll just have to get some.”
And as the bond hums beneath my skin, I know—
The real war has just begun.
But this time, I’m not fighting alone.
This time, I’m fighting with him.
And together—
—we’ll burn it all down.