The first thing I feel when I wake is the ghost of his blood on my tongue.
Not memory. Not dream. But real—like the echo of a scream still vibrating in the air, like the heat of a fire that refuses to die. I can still taste him—storm and cedar, power and surrender, the sharp edge of a man who’s spent centuries waiting to be seen. I bit him. Claimed him. Marked him as mine. And gods help me, I don’t regret it.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the steady thud of my heart. 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 fighting. When I stopped hating. When I finally let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the monster I came to destroy.
But I don’t know what to do with that.
Because the truth is—
—I don’t hate him anymore.
Not even a little.
And that terrifies me more than any blade, any poison, any lie.
I rise slowly, the black silk sheets sliding from my shoulders. The room is quiet, the fire in the hearth reduced to embers. The city of Elarion glows beyond the glass, its spires piercing the enchanted twilight, stars frozen in silver constellations that pulse like living veins. It’s beautiful. Lethal. Like him.
And I’m still in his bed.
Again.
But this time, I don’t panic. Don’t scramble for the door. Don’t curse myself for being weak. This time, I just… stay. I let myself feel it—the warmth of the sheets, the lingering scent of storm and cedar, the quiet certainty that I’m not alone.
And gods help me, I like it.
I dress slowly—black silk, high collar, long sleeves, a slit up the thigh. Not to provoke. Not to distract. But because it’s the only thing that fits right. The only thing that feels like me. I pull my hair back, tie it with a strip of leather, and step into my boots. The dagger is already in my sleeve, its weight familiar, comforting.
I don’t go to him.
Not yet.
Instead, I walk to the window, pressing my palm to the glass. The bond hums beneath my skin, reacting to his presence, to his nearness. He’s in the war chamber, two floors down, reviewing reports with Malrik. I can feel it—the low thrum of his power, the sharp edge of his focus, the way his thoughts move like a storm across the city.
And I know—
—he can feel me too.
Because the bond doesn’t lie.
And neither do I. Not anymore.
The summons comes at dawn—a fae servant, silent as smoke, bowing low. “Consort Zara. Lord Vexis requests your presence in the east wing. He claims to have something of yours.”
I freeze.
Not because of the title—Consort. Not because of the request. But because of the name.
Vexis.
He’s still alive. Still in the cells. Still playing his games.
And now he’s calling for me.
My fingers tighten on the hilt of my dagger. My wolf stirs beneath my skin—danger, trap, lie. But I don’t hesitate. Just nod. “Tell him I’ll be there.”
The servant bows and vanishes.
I don’t tell Riven.
Can’t. Not yet. Because if I do, he’ll come with me. He’ll stand in front of me. He’ll shield me. And I can’t let him do that. Not this time. This is mine. My mother. My blood. My revenge.
And if Vexis has something of hers—
—I’ll get it back.
Even if it kills me.
The east wing is a maze of black stone and iron doors, its corridors lit by flickering torches that cast long, shifting shadows. The air hums with old magic, with pain, with the sharp scent of blood and iron. Guards stand at every turn, their golden eyes sharp, their hands on their weapons. They don’t speak as I pass. Just watch. Wait. Remember.
Vexis’s cell is at the end—sealed with crimson runes that pulse with dormant power. The door opens at my approach, the runes flaring as I step inside. The room is small, windowless, the walls lined with enchanted glass that shows fragments of the mortal world—rain-slick streets, flickering streetlights, mortals hurrying beneath umbrellas, their lives small and fragile and real.
And in the center—
—him.
Vexis.
Chained to the obsidian chair, his silver hair matted with blood, his black robes torn, his face swollen from blows. But his eyes—cold, sharp, smug—lock onto mine the second I enter. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t beg. Just smiles, slow and cruel, like he’s already won.
“You came,” he says, voice rough. “I knew you would.”
“You have something of mine,” I say, stepping forward, my boots echoing on stone. “Give it to me.”
He laughs—low, broken. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll take it,” I say, drawing my dagger. “And I’ll make you wish you had.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, studying me. “You look like her,” he says. “Your mother. The same fire. The same fury. The same foolish belief that love can save you.”
My breath hitches.
But I don’t look away.
Just step closer, the blade at his throat. “You killed her.”
“I did,” he says, not denying it. “And I’d do it again. She was a threat. A danger. A stain on the purity of the bloodline.”
“She was my mother,” I hiss.
“And I made sure you never knew her,” he says, smiling. “I made sure her name was erased. Her legacy burned. Her bloodline forgotten. And you—” He leans forward, his chains clinking. “You were supposed to die with her.”
My hand trembles.
Not from fear.
From rage.
“But you didn’t,” he says. “You survived. And now? Now you’re in his bed. In his arms. In his heart.” He laughs. “He loved her too, you know. Not as a lover. Not as a mate. But as a friend. A confidant. A sister in war. And when she died—” He leans closer, his breath hot against the blade. “—he broke. And he’s been broken ever since. Until you.”
My breath stops.
But I don’t move.
Just press the blade deeper. “Where is it?” I ask, voice low. “The grimoire. The locket. The proof. Where is it?”
He smiles. “In my chambers. Hidden behind the mirror. But you’ll never get it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s blood-locked,” he says. “Only my blood can open it. Only my hand can touch it.”
My jaw tightens.
He sees it.
And he smiles.
“But you can take it,” he says. “If you’re willing to pay the price.”
“What price?”
“My life,” he says. “Cut my throat. Spill my blood. Use it to open the lock. Take what’s yours. And end me.”
My breath hitches.
But I don’t hesitate.
Just press the blade harder. “You want me to kill you?”
“I want you to finish what you started,” he says. “You came here to destroy him. To expose the High King as your mother’s killer. And now? Now you’ve forgotten why you came. You’ve forgotten who you are. You’ve forgotten what he took from you.”
“He didn’t take anything,” I say, voice breaking. “You did.”
“Did I?” he asks, smiling. “Or did I just give you the truth? Did I just show you that love is a weakness? That trust is a lie? That the man you’re sleeping with—” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “—would have let her die if he could have saved her?”
My hand trembles.
But I don’t pull away.
Just press the blade to his throat. “You don’t get to speak his name.”
“Then kill me,” he says. “Prove that you’re still the weapon. That you’re still the daughter. That you’re still the woman who came here to burn his world down.”
My breath comes too fast.
And for a single, fragile second—I think I will.
Think I’ll slit his throat. Spill his blood. Take what’s mine.
But then—
—I see it.
Not just the lie.
Not just the manipulation.
The truth.
He wants me to kill him. Wants me to prove that I’m still a killer. Still a weapon. Still the woman who came here to destroy Riven.
And if I do—
—he wins.
So I do the one thing I don’t expect.
I lower the blade.
“No,” I say, stepping back. “I won’t kill you. Not like this. Not for you.”
His smile falters.
“You’re weak,” he says. “Just like him. Just like her.”
“No,” I say, turning to the door. “I’m not weak. I’m alive.”
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 done. I don’t go to Riven. Don’t summon a servant. Just move—through the palace, down twisting staircases, past guarded doors—until I reach the east wing’s highest level.
Vexis’s chambers.
The door is sealed with crimson runes—blood-locked, just like he said. But I don’t need his blood.
I have mine.
I press my palm to the sigil, my blood welling from a shallow cut on my thumb. The runes flare—bright, blinding, violet light filling the corridor. The door shimmers, then opens.
And I step inside.
The room is vast, its walls lined with enchanted glass, each one a portal to the mortal world. Books line the shelves—grimoires, spell tomes, forbidden rituals. Scrolls hang from the ceiling, their ink glowing faintly. And in the center—
A mirror.
Not just any mirror.
The one from his cell. The one that showed rain-slick streets and flickering streetlights. But this one is larger, darker, its surface swirling with silver mist.
And behind it—
—a hidden compartment.
I press my palm to the glass. The mirror shimmers, then clears—revealing a small, silver-bound book. Wildblood Restoration Ritual. The runes on its spine pulse faintly with dormant magic.
But I don’t take it.
Because I know—
—this isn’t the real one.
This is a copy. A decoy. A lie.
The real grimoire—the one with the truth—is somewhere else.
And I know where.
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 search. He knows I’ll find it.
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. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. Just watches as I step into the room.
“You found it,” he says, voice low.
“I found a copy,” I say. “Where’s the real one?”
He turns.
And for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks… afraid.
Not weak. Not angry. But afraid.
“It’s here,” he says, stepping to the desk. He presses his palm to the sigil etched into the wood. The surface shifts—stone turning to liquid, then solid again—and beneath it, a hidden compartment opens. Inside—a single, silver-bound book. Wildblood Restoration Ritual. The runes on its spine pulse faintly with dormant magic.
But this time—
—I see it.
The final page.
The one Riven showed me.
The life of a sovereign, freely given, shall awaken the blood of the lost.
But there’s more.
A second line—faint, almost invisible, written in Old Fae.
Unless the heir claims the blood of the betrayer.
My breath stops.
“You knew,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me, his storm-lit eyes dark, intense.
“You knew there was another way,” I say, voice breaking. “You knew I could use Vexis’s blood. That I could—”
“I didn’t know,” he says. “Not for sure. The ritual is ancient. The grimoire is fragmented. I only found this page yesterday.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to have to do it,” he says, stepping closer. “I didn’t want you to have to kill him. To spill his blood. To carry that weight.”
My breath hitches.
But I don’t look away.
Just step forward, my hand going to the grimoire. “Then let me carry it,” I say. “Let me end him. Let me reclaim what’s mine.”
He doesn’t stop me.
Just watches as I open the book, as I trace the sigils, as I read the incantation. The magic hums beneath my skin, not in conflict, not in protest, but in recognition. Like it knows. Like it’s been waiting for this. For the moment when I stopped seeing him as a monster and started seeing him as the man who mourned my mother. The man who waited for me. The man who took a blade for me.
And gods help me, I want to believe in him.
I want to believe in us.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
Because the truth is still out there.
And I have to find it.
I close the grimoire, tucking it into my sleeve. “I’m going back to Vexis,” I say.
“No,” he says, stepping forward. “Let me go with you.”
“No,” I say, stepping back. “This is mine. My mother. My blood. My revenge. And if I don’t do it—” I lift my chin, my storm-dark eyes locking onto his. “—then I’m not worthy of you.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just watches me, his breath coming too fast.
And then—
—he does the one thing I don’t expect.
He presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine. “Come back to me,” he whispers. “Alive. Whole. Mine.”
And I do.
I walk back through the palace, my boots echoing on stone. The corridors blur. The torches flicker. The air is thick with tension, with magic, with the weight of what I’m about to do.
And when I reach Vexis’s cell—
—I don’t hesitate.
I step inside.
And I close the door behind me.
“You’re back,” he says, smiling. “Did you miss me?”
“I came to finish it,” I say, drawing the grimoire from my sleeve. “The ritual. The truth. The end.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches as I open the book, as I read the incantation, as I press my palm to his chest. The magic hums beneath my skin, not in conflict, not in protest, but in recognition. Like it knows. Like it’s been waiting for this. For the moment when I stopped fighting. When I stopped hating. When I finally let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the monster I came to destroy.
And then—
—I say the words.
The blood flows.
The magic flares.
And the truth—
—is finally mine.
Images flood my mind—my mother, alive, fierce, her silver hair braided with black thorns, her storm-dark eyes sharp with power. Vexis, in the Unseelie Wastes, his dagger sinking into her chest. Riven, in the Council Chamber, holding the forged execution order, his face twisted with grief. And then—
—a final whisper.
Zara.
And I know—
—she saw me.
She knew I was coming.
And she waited.
Just like he did.
I collapse into his arms, my body shaking, my breath coming in ragged sobs. “You’re not allowed to die,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Not after everything. Not after the truth. Not after… me.”
He holds me.
Tight. Close. Like he’ll never let go.
Because he won’t.
Not as long as I still want him.
Not as long as I still love him.
“I told you,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine, my breath mingling with his. “I’ll wait however long it takes.”
And I believe him.
Not because of the magic.
Not because of the bond.
But because of the way his voice breaks on the last word.
Because of the way his hands tremble.
Because of the way his eyes—those storm-dark eyes—look at me like I’m the only light in his darkness.
So I do the only thing I can.
I press my palm to his heart.
And whisper the truth into the darkness.
“I came to kill you.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just waits.
“But I think I love you.”