The first thing I feel when I wake is the echo of her voice.
Not the soft, broken whisper from the night before—“I love him”—though that still hums in my bones, a truth so raw it feels like a wound. No, this is something darker. Sharper. A scream, muffled and furious, tearing through the silence of the palace like a blade through silk. It comes from the east wing. The interrogation chambers. The ones carved from black stone, where shadows don’t just linger—they live.
Vexis.
He’s awake.
And he’s fighting.
I rise slowly, my body aching—dull, deep, healing. The wound in my side still burns, a ghost of the poisoned blade meant for Zara. But it’s not the pain that slows me. It’s the weight of what happened last night. The Truth Mirror. The confession. The way she looked at me—storm-dark eyes wide, lips trembling, voice breaking—as she said the words I’ve waited three hundred years to hear.
I love him.
And gods help me, I don’t know how to survive that.
Because love is not a gift. Not here. Not in this court. It’s a weapon. A weakness. A target painted on your back. And now she’s given it to me—freely, fiercely, without hesitation. And I can’t protect her from what comes next.
I dress in silence—black coat edged with silver thorns, boots that echo on marble, a dagger at my hip. I don’t call for Malrik. Don’t summon the guards. Just move through the palace like a shadow, my presence making nobles bow, servants freeze, whispers curl through the air like smoke. They know something is coming. They can feel it. The balance has shifted. The Wildblood has claimed her place. The bond has spoken. And the High King—cold, merciless, untouchable—is afraid.
And they’re right.
I am.
The interrogation chamber is sealed with runes—crimson, pulsing, hungry. The air hums with old magic, with pain, with the sharp scent of blood and iron. Two guards stand at the door, their golden eyes downcast, their hands on their weapons. They don’t speak as I approach. Just step aside.
The door opens.
And I see him.
Vexis.
Bound to the obsidian chair, his silver hair matted with blood, his black robes torn, his face swollen from blows. His eyes—cold, sharp, smug—lock onto mine the second I step inside. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t beg. Just smiles, slow and cruel, like he’s already won.
“You look well, Your Majesty,” he says, voice rough. “For a man who’s been played.”
I don’t answer.
Just walk toward him, my boots silent on stone. The runes on the walls pulse brighter. The shadows deepen. The air thickens.
“She confessed,” he says, tilting his head. “Said she loves you. Said she’s loyal. Said she’ll never kill you.” He laughs—low, broken. “And you believed her?”
My hand tightens on the hilt of my dagger.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
“You always were a fool for pretty lies,” he says. “First with her mother. Now with her daughter. You think love makes you strong? It makes you weak. It makes you blind. And when she stabs you in your sleep, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” I say, voice low.
“Wouldn’t she?” he asks. “She came here to destroy you. To expose you as her mother’s killer. And now? Now she’s suddenly in love?” He leans forward, his chains clinking. “You think she changed? You think her heart softened? No. She’s playing you. Just like her mother played you. Just like they all do.”
My breath hitches.
He sees it.
And he smiles.
“You don’t know what she’s hiding,” he says. “You don’t know what she’s planning. You don’t know what she’ll do when she finds out the truth about the ritual. About the grimoire. About—”
I move.
Fast.
My dagger is at his throat before he can blink, the blade pressing into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. He doesn’t flinch. Just laughs, low and broken, his breath hot against the steel.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Kill me. Prove her right. Prove that you’re still the monster she came to destroy.”
My hand trembles.
Not from weakness.
From rage.
“You don’t get to speak her name,” I growl, pressing the blade deeper. “You don’t get to twist her. You don’t get to use her to break me.”
“Then stop letting her,” he says, voice rough. “Stop letting her in. Stop trusting her. Stop—”
“She’s not you,” I snarl, slamming my free hand into his chest, magic surging through my palm. “She didn’t forge the execution order. She didn’t murder her mother. She didn’t spend centuries plotting to destroy me. You did.”
He gasps—sharp, pained—as my magic burns through his veins, searing his lies, his memories, his secrets. His eyes roll back. His body convulses. The runes on the walls flare—bright, blinding, violet light filling the chamber. And then—
—I see it.
The truth.
Three hundred years ago.
The Council Chamber. Vexis stands before the elders, holding the execution order. But it’s not signed. Not yet. He turns to the scribe—a young fae noble, trembling, eyes wide. “Forge it,” he says. “Make it look like his hand.”
The scribe hesitates. “But if he finds out—”
“He won’t,” Vexis says. “Because you won’t live to tell him.”
And then—
—the blade.
The scribe falls. Blood pools on the marble. Vexis takes the forged order, presses it to the boy’s still-warm hand, smears the ink. Then he signs Riven’s name—perfect, flawless, real.
The memory shifts.
Night.
The Unseelie Wastes. My mother—Zara’s mother—stands in the rain, her silver hair clinging to her face, her storm-dark eyes filled with something I can’t name. Vexis steps out of the shadows, his dagger in hand.
“You should’ve stayed dead,” he says.
“You should’ve stayed afraid,” she replies.
They fight—fast, brutal, deadly. She’s strong. Faster. But he’s cunning. And he’s not alone.
More shadows move.
More blades appear.
She fights—wild, furious, alive.
But she’s outnumbered.
And then—
—the final blow.
Vexis’s dagger sinks into her chest.
She doesn’t scream.
Just looks up at the sky, her lips moving—
—whispering a name.
Zara.
And then she falls.
The memory shifts again.
Years later.
Vexis, in his chambers, holding the locket. My mother’s locket. The one I kept hidden for centuries. He opens it—her picture, her silver hair—and laughs. “She’ll come for this,” he says. “And when she does, I’ll make her doubt everything. I’ll make her hate you. I’ll make her destroy you.”
And then—
—Lira.
He hands her the locket. “When the time comes,” he says, “you’ll know what to do.”
The vision ends.
I stumble back, my breath ragged, my hand trembling. The dagger clatters to the floor. Vexis slumps in the chair, blood trickling from his nose, his eyes unfocused, his body broken.
But I don’t care.
Because the truth is out.
And it’s worse than I thought.
He didn’t just forge the order.
He didn’t just kill her.
He’s been waiting for Zara. Planning for her. Using her mother’s death, her locket, her blood—to turn her against me.
And he almost succeeded.
But not anymore.
Not now.
“Guards!” I shout, my voice raw. “Take him to the cells. No visitors. No magic. No food. He stays alive—until I say otherwise.”
The guards rush in, unbinding him, dragging him away. He doesn’t fight. Just laughs—low, broken, victorious—as they carry him through the door.
And I know—
—this isn’t over.
Because he has allies. Plans. Secrets.
And Lira still has the locket.
I move fast—through the corridors, up the twisting staircases, toward the war chamber. My boots echo on marble. My breath comes too fast. The bond hums beneath my skin, reacting to my fear, my fury, my need. She’s there—waiting, pacing, her storm-dark eyes sharp with tension. She turns when I enter, her hand flying to the dagger at her thigh.
“You found the truth,” she says, voice low.
Not a question.
A statement.
I nod. “He forged the order. He killed your mother. He’s been waiting for you. He gave Lira the locket—told her to use it against me.”
Her breath hitches.
But she doesn’t break.
Just steps forward, her eyes blazing. “Then we stop them. Together.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say. “He has allies in the Council. Fae nobles who believe I’ve gone soft. Vampires who want war. And Lira—she’s not just a rival. She’s a weapon.”
“Then we disarm her,” she says, stepping closer. “We take the locket. We expose her lies. We—”
“And if she’s telling the truth?” I ask, voice rough. “What if the locket proves you’re not the heir? What if—”
“She’s not,” Zara says, stepping into my space, her hand pressing to my chest, over my heart. “I am. And you know it. The bond knows it. And if she thinks a locket can change that—” She leans up, her lips brushing my ear. “—she’s about to find out how wrong she is.”
My breath stops.
And for the first time—
—I see it.
Not just fury.
Not just defiance.
Power.
Raw. Unstoppable. Right.
And gods help me, I want her.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of her.
So I do the only thing I can.
I pull her into my arms, holding her like I’ll never let go.
And for the first time—
—she doesn’t pull away.
She just whispers the truth into the darkness.
“I love you.”
And I believe her.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because of the way her voice breaks on the last word.
Because of the way her hands tremble.
Because of the way her eyes—those storm-dark eyes—look at me like I’m the only light in her darkness.
“I believe you,” I say, pressing my forehead to hers, my breath mingling with hers. “And I believe in us.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just pulls back, her eyes blazing. “Then prove it.”
“How?”
“By trusting me,” she says. “By letting me fight with you. By not trying to protect me from every shadow.”
My jaw tightens.
She sees it.
Of course she does.
“I’m not your weapon,” she says, voice low. “I’m not your pawn. I’m not your project. I’m your mate. And if you can’t see that—”
“I see it,” I say, cupping her face, my thumb stroking her cheek. “I’ve always seen it. But I’ve spent three hundred years waiting for you. I’m not losing you now.”
“Then don’t,” she says. “Fight with me. Stand beside me. Let me be your equal.”
And gods help me, I want to.
So I do.
I take her hand.
And walk with her into the storm.
The summons comes at dusk—a fae servant, silent as smoke, bowing low. “Your Majesty. The Unseelie Princess requests an audience. She claims to have proof of the consort’s true identity.”
Zara doesn’t flinch.
Just looks at me, her storm-dark eyes sharp with something I can’t name.
“Let her come,” I say.
The servant bows and vanishes.
And I know—
—this is it.
The final test.
The bond won’t lie.
But neither will I.
And if she thinks she can break us—
—she’s about to learn what happens when a king and his queen stand as one.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the echo of her heartbeat, the slow, steady thud that matches mine. The Mark of Twin Thrones pulses beneath my skin—not in pain, not in protest, but in quiet, insistent recognition. Like it knows. Like it’s been waiting for this. For the moment when I stopped seeing her as a threat and started seeing her as my future.
And gods help me, I’m ready.
Let her come.
Let her try.
Let her learn what it means to challenge a queen.
Because if she thinks she can break us—
—she’s forgotten one thing.
We were never meant to survive.
We were meant to rule.