The first thing I notice is the way he looks at her.
Not like a king. Not like a predator. Not even like a man who’s finally claimed what he’s spent centuries waiting for. No—Riven looks at Zara like she’s something alive. Like she’s the first real thing he’s seen in three hundred years of ruling, of bleeding, of burying his grief beneath layers of ice and thorns.
And that terrifies me.
I stand at the edge of the arena, my hands clasped behind my back, my face unreadable, my golden eyes scanning the pit. The Council has already dispersed—murmuring, whispering, already spinning the fight into legend. The Unseelie warriors are gone, dragged off with their pride in tatters. The servants are clearing the blood from the stone. But I don’t move. Just watch.
Watch as Riven pulls her into his arms.
Watch as she doesn’t pull away.
Watch as his hand slides to the small of her back, possessive, claiming, soft.
And gods help me, I’ve never seen him like this.
Not after wars. Not after betrayals. Not even after the Blood War, when the High King’s chambers ran red and the sky burned for weeks. He’s always been a storm—cold, controlled, relentless. A blade without a sheath. But now?
Now he’s… human.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Because love is a weakness. And weakness gets you killed.
“They’re unstoppable,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“He’s never smiled like that.”
And I’ve known him since we were cubs. Before the crown. Before the war. Before the lies. We grew up in the same den, trained under the same master, bled for the same throne. I’ve seen him win. I’ve seen him lose. I’ve seen him kill without blinking, lie without flinching, rule without mercy.
But I’ve never seen him smile.
Not like this.
Not with warmth. Not with relief. Not with something that looks—gods help me—like joy.
And I don’t know if I want to.
Because if he’s happy… then he’s vulnerable.
And if he’s vulnerable… then she’s dangerous.
I don’t follow them as they leave the arena. Don’t bow as they pass. Just stand there, my boots silent on the blood-slick stone, my mind racing. The bond is strong. Stronger than I thought. The fight proved it—how they moved together, how their blades synced, how she didn’t hesitate when he was injured. She fought for him. Not because of duty. Not because of the bond. But because she wants to.
And that’s worse.
Because duty can be broken. Oaths can be undone. But desire?
Desire is a fire that doesn’t stop until it burns everything down.
I turn and walk through the palace, my path taking me through the shadowed corridors, past the guarded doors, toward the war chamber. I don’t need an invitation. Riven knows I’ll come. He knows I’ll watch. He knows I’ll protect him—even from himself.
The war chamber is quiet when I enter—fire low, maps spread across the obsidian desk, silver pins marking territories, threats, alliances. Riven stands at the window, his back to me, his silhouette sharp against the glowing city. Zara is beside him, her storm-dark eyes scanning the spires, her fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, her spine straight, her chin high, her presence like a blade drawn from its sheath.
And I hate that I respect her.
“You fought well,” I say, stepping into the room.
She turns. Her eyes flash—dark, intense, alive. “I didn’t do it for praise.”
“No,” I agree. “You did it for him.”
Her jaw tightens. “I did it because it needed to be done.”
“And if it hadn’t?” I ask, stepping closer. “If the Council hadn’t demanded proof? Would you have still fought at his side?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me, her breath coming too fast, her pulse fluttering at her throat.
And I know—
—she would have.
Not because of duty.
Not because of the bond.
But because she wants to.
“You don’t trust me,” she says, voice low.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“And yet you serve him.”
“I serve the crown,” I correct. “Not the man. Not the bond. And certainly not the woman who came here to kill him.”
Her eyes narrow. “That was before.”
“Before what?” I ask. “Before you saw the truth in the Mirror? Before he took a blade for you? Before you started sleeping in his bed?”
“Before I knew he didn’t kill my mother,” she snaps. “Before I saw what he’s been carrying. Before I realized he’s been waiting for me.”
“And now?” I ask. “Now that you know? What then?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at Riven, her storm-dark eyes searching his, her breath coming too fast.
And he sees it.
Of course he does.
“Malrik,” he says, voice low. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?” I ask, turning to him. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re forgetting who you are. Who she is. What this bond could cost.”
“I know what it costs,” he says, stepping toward me. “I’ve paid it for three hundred years.”
“And now?” I ask. “Now that you have her? Now that you’re happy?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his storm-lit eyes dark, intense. “I’m not happy. I’m alive.”
And gods help me, I believe him.
But that doesn’t make it safe.
“You’re the High King,” I say. “You don’t get to be alive. You get to be strong. You get to be ruthless. You get to be the monster they all think you are.”
“And if I’m not?” he asks. “If I’ve spent three centuries pretending to be a monster so I could wait for her? If I’ve bled for her, fought for her, died for her in silence?”
My breath hitches.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
“Then you’re a fool,” I say, voice rough. “And if you’re a fool, you’ll get us all killed.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his eyes storm-dark, intense.
And then—
—she steps between us.
Not to fight. Not to threaten. But to protect.
“You don’t know what he’s done,” she says, voice low. “You don’t know what he’s carried. You don’t know what he’s sacrificed.”
“I know what he is,” I say. “I know what this court is. And I know what happens when a king lets his heart rule his crown.”
“Then you don’t know him at all,” she says, stepping closer. “Because he’s not ruling with his heart. He’s ruling with his truth. And if you can’t see that—”
“Zara,” Riven says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Stop.”
She doesn’t move. Just glares at me, her storm-dark eyes blazing. “I won’t let you turn him back into a monster.”
“I’m not trying to,” I say. “I’m trying to keep him alive.”
“And if he’s not alive?” she asks. “If he’s just a king? A crown? A weapon? Then what’s the point?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
And that terrifies me.
Riven steps around her, his hand still on her shoulder, his storm-lit eyes locked on mine. “Malrik. You’ve stood by me through wars. Through betrayals. Through the death of everyone we’ve ever loved. You’ve bled for this throne. You’ve killed for it. You’ve sacrificed everything for it.”
“And I’d do it again,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “But this isn’t about the throne. This is about me. About her. About the truth we’ve been waiting for.”
“And if the truth gets you killed?” I ask.
“Then let it,” he says. “As long as it’s with her.”
My breath stops.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
“You’ve always protected me,” he says, voice low. “But this time, I don’t need protection. I need you to see her. To see us. To understand that she’s not a threat. She’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel real.”
And gods help me, I believe him.
But that doesn’t make it safe.
I don’t speak. Just look at her—really look at her. The way her fingers tremble slightly on the hilt of her dagger. The way her breath hitches when he touches her. The way her storm-dark eyes soften when he speaks.
And I see it.
Not just power. Not just fury. Not just the Wildblood heir.
But love.
And it terrifies me.
Because if she loves him—
—then she’ll fight for him.
And if she fights for him—
—she’ll become a target.
And if she becomes a target—
—I’ll have to kill her to save him.
“I won’t stand in your way,” I say, voice rough. “But I won’t stop watching. If she hurts you—”
“She won’t,” he says.
“If she betrays you—”
“She won’t.”
“If she destroys you—”
“Then let her,” he says. “Because if I can’t be the man she sees… then I don’t want to be king.”
And gods help me, I don’t know what to do with that.
So I do the only thing I can.
I bow.
Not to her. Not to the bond. But to him.
And I walk away.
The corridors blur. The torches flicker. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the weight of what I’ve just seen. I don’t go to my chambers. Don’t summon a servant. Just walk—through the palace, down twisting staircases, past guarded doors—until I reach the lowest level.
The mirror chamber.
The walls are lined with enchanted glass, each one a portal to the mortal world. I stop in front of the largest, its surface swirling with silver mist. I press my palm to the glass. The mirror shimmers, then clears—revealing a stretch of green under gray sky, trees heavy with rain, mortals hurrying beneath umbrellas, their faces hidden, their lives small and fragile and real.
And I hate that I envy them.
Because they don’t know. They don’t see. They don’t carry the weight of centuries, of blood, of oaths. They just live. They love. They die.
And it’s so simple.
And so impossible.
I press my forehead to the glass, my breath fogging the surface. “You’re falling,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “And if she breaks you, I’ll break her.”
And I mean it.
Not because I hate her.
Not because I distrust the bond.
But because I love him.
And if love is a weakness…
Then I’ll be the monster he no longer has to be.
Because someone has to.
And if it can’t be him…
Then it will be me.