The first time I dream of him, I’m sixteen.
Not Cassian.
Not the vampire prince with gold eyes and fangs that drip with centuries of silence.
But a man—tall, dark-haired, his face blurred by smoke and shadow—kneeling in a moonlit glade, his hands pressed to the earth, blood dripping from his palms into a silver bowl. He’s chanting in Old Tongue, his voice raw, broken, and I don’t understand the words, but I *feel* them—like a knife in my chest, like a vow etched in bone.
And then—
—he looks up.
And his eyes—storm-gray, just like mine—lock onto mine, across time, across blood, across death.
I wake screaming.
But tonight—
—it’s different.
—
The fire has burned low in our chambers, casting long, flickering shadows across the obsidian walls, the sigils pulsing faintly in time with the bond. Cassian lies beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck, his body a wall of heat and muscle. The wound on his back is healed—pink, new, no longer blackened by the cursed dagger’s venom—but the memory of it lingers in my fingers, in my magic, in the way my heart still stutters when I look at him.
I should sleep.
I *need* to sleep.
But the bond hums beneath my skin, restless, alive, like it’s waiting for something. The sigils on my arms glow faintly, white fire racing beneath the surface, and I press my palm to my chest, where the magic flares, where the truth lives.
We are not just mated.
We are *remembering*.
“You’re not sleeping,” Cassian murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, his fingers tightening on my waist.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “The bond—it’s pulling me. Like a thread. Like a *memory*.”
He turns, slow, deliberate, his gold eyes blazing even in the dark. “Then let it pull.”
“What if I don’t come back?”
He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You always come back to me. Even when you try not to.”
I smile—small, fragile—and lean into his touch. “And if I get lost?”
“Then I’ll find you,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “Even if I have to burn every world between us.”
And then—
—I close my eyes.
—
The dream doesn’t come gently.
It *rips* me out.
One second, I’m in the warmth of our bed, the scent of cedar and frost clinging to Cassian’s skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
The next—
—I’m falling.
Not through air.
Not through space.
But through *time*.
Shadows rush past—faces, voices, fragments of lives I’ve never lived—until I land, hard, on cold stone, my breath ragged, my hands scraping against cracked marble. The air is thick with incense and blood, the scent of crushed herbs and old magic clinging to the back of my throat. Moonlight spills through stained glass, painting the floor in silver and violet, and the walls—
—are covered in sigils.
Not like mine.
Not like the bond.
But older. Darker. *Familiar*.
I rise, my boots silent on the stone, my cursed dagger humming at my side. But I don’t draw it.
Because I know this place.
The Obsidian Cathedral.
But not as it is now—gleaming, guarded, ruled by fear and protocol.
No.
This is the Cathedral as it was centuries ago—before the Blood Wars, before the Coven Triad’s purge, before the world decided witches and vampires couldn’t coexist.
This is the Cathedral in its prime—its vaulted ceiling open to the sky, its torches burning with enchanted flame, its air thick with power and devotion.
And in the center—
—a ritual.
Not of war.
Not of blood.
But of *love*.
A man and a woman stand at the altar, their hands clasped, their foreheads touching, their bodies glowing with magic. The man—tall, dark-haired, his face hidden by shadow—wears the crest of House D’Vaire on his chest, his fangs just barely visible as he speaks. The woman—slender, fierce, her storm-gray eyes blazing—wears a silver circlet, her magic flaring in waves around her.
Elspeth.
And the D’Vaire heir.
Not enemies.
Not rivals.
But *lovers*.
“By blood and breath,” the man says, his voice low, rough, “I bind my soul to yours. Not for power. Not for legacy. But for *love*.”
“By moon and marrow,” the woman answers, “I bind my blood to yours. Not for duty. Not for survival. But for *truth*.”
They press their palms together, blood mingling, magic spiraling into the air, forming a storm of silver and violet light above them. The sigils on the floor flare, the ground trembles, and I feel it—
—the bond.
Not just forming.
But *awakening*.
And then—
—the vision shifts.
Not forward.
Not backward.
But *sideways*.
I’m no longer watching.
I’m *in* it.
The man’s face clears.
And it’s *Cassian*.
Not as he is now—cold, controlled, a prince forged in war.
But as he was then—softer, younger, his gold eyes burning with something like *hope*.
And the woman—
—is *me*.
Not Harmony, the witch who came to kill him.
But Harmony, the heir, the scion, the one who broke the curse.
Our hands are clasped, blood dripping from our palms into the silver bowl, our voices chanting in unison, our magic spiraling into the sky. The bond hums between us—stronger than ever, a live wire, a second heartbeat—and I gasp, my body arching, my sigils flaring, as the magic *screams* through me.
“I love you,” he says, his voice raw, broken. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. But because you’re *you*.”
“And I love you,” I whisper, rising on my toes, pressing my lips to his. “Not for power. Not for survival. But for *truth*.”
The kiss isn’t soft.
Not slow.
But *fierce*—a clash of teeth and tongue and magic, a claiming, a vow, a *beginning*. The bond *explodes*—white fire racing through our veins, sigils flaring so bright they light up the Cathedral, the air shivering with power.
And then—
—we’re not alone.
Shadows pour from the arches—cloaked figures, their faces hidden, their hands crackling with dark energy. The Coven Triad. The Fae High Court. The Lycan Alphas. They’ve come to stop us. To sever the bond. To kill us.
“No,” I growl, stepping in front of Cassian, my cursed dagger drawn, its blade humming with power. “You don’t get to take this from us.”
“You’re breaking the Accord,” one hisses, stepping forward. “You’re defying the natural order.”
“And if the natural order is built on lies?” Cassian snarls, stepping beside me, fangs bared. “If the Accord was forged in blood and betrayal? Then we’ll burn it to the ground.”
They attack.
Not with words.
Not with threats.
But with *magic*.
Lightning cracks. Fire erupts. Blades of shadow slice through the air. I move fast—blinding—my dagger flashing, my magic flaring, my body a weapon. Cassian is beside me, a blur of fangs and fury, his hands dripping with blood, his coat torn, his voice a roar.
We fight.
Not for survival.
Not for power.
But for *love*.
And then—
—the woman falls.
Not me.
Not Elspeth.
But *Harmony*.
I see it—the dagger in her chest, the blood soaking through her dress, the way her storm-gray eyes go wide, the way her body crumples to the stone.
“NO!”
The scream isn’t mine.
It’s *his*.
Cassian drops to his knees, pulling her into his arms, his fangs bared, his gold eyes blazing with something like *madness*. He presses his mouth to hers, feeding her his blood, trying to save her, but it’s too late. The bond *screams*—a sound of pure agony—and the Cathedral trembles, the sigils flaring, the ground cracking.
And then—
—the vision shifts again.
I’m in a crypt—cold, dark, the air thick with frost. Cassian kneels over a body—*my* body—his hands covered in blood, his voice broken. He’s chanting in Old Tongue, tears streaking his face, his fangs dripping with his own blood.
“I bind my soul to yours,” he whispers. “Not for power. Not for legacy. But for *love*.”
He presses his palm to my chest.
And the bond *reverses*.
Not breaking.
Not severing.
But *rewriting*.
He gives up his immortality. His strength. His *name*.
And becomes *Vael*.
Not to hide.
Not to survive.
But to *wait*.
To find her again.
To love her again.
To *save* her.
And then—
—the dream collapses.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
But in a *scream*.
I gasp, my body arching, my hands flying to my chest, where the sigils flare, where the truth lives. The bond hums—louder, stronger, *awake*—and I feel him—Cassian—his presence, his heat, his *need*—before I even open my eyes.
“Harmony.”
His voice is rough, broken, his gold eyes blazing in the dark. He’s above me, his hands on either side of my head, his body a cage of heat and muscle. “You were screaming. I couldn’t wake you.”
“I was *remembering*,” I whisper, my breath ragged. “The bond—it showed me. The ritual. The fight. The death. And then—” I stop, my breath catching. “—you became Vael. Not to escape. Not to survive. But to *wait* for me.”
He stills.
Not from shock.
Not from denial.
But from *recognition*.
Because he knows.
He’s *always* known.
“You saw it,” he says, voice low, rough. “The first time. The last time. Every time.”
“It wasn’t a dream,” I say, rising on my elbows, my hands flying to his face. “It was a *memory*. Our memory. Across lifetimes.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans down, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my lips. The bond hums between us—no longer a thread, no longer a tether, but a *symphony*—white fire racing through our veins, sigils flaring in unison.
“You’ve loved me,” I whisper, “in every life.”
“And I’ll love you,” he says, “in every death.”
And then—
—he kisses me.
Not soft.
Not slow.
But *fierce*—a clash of teeth and tongue and magic, a claiming, a vow, a *beginning*. The bond *screams*—white fire racing through our veins, sigils flaring so bright they light up the chamber, the air shivering with power.
I arch into him, my hands clutching his shoulders, my body trembling. The dream—no, the *memory*—flashes behind my eyes: the Cathedral, the fight, the death, the rebirth. The way he gave up everything to find me again. The way he’d do it a thousand times.
“I’m here,” I gasp, breaking the kiss, my breath ragged. “I’m *yours*.”
“And I’m yours,” he says, his hands sliding down my back, pulling me closer. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the curse. But because you’re *you*.”
I smile—small, fragile, *real*—and rise on my toes, pressing my lips to his. This time, the kiss is soft. Slow. *Ours*.
The bond hums—no longer screaming, no longer burning, but *harmonizing*—white fire racing through our veins, sigils flaring in unison, a storm of light and blood and truth.
When we finally pull apart, our breaths are ragged, our lips swollen, our eyes locked. The air is thick with magic, with scent, with the weight of everything we’ve fought for, everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve *chosen*.
“That,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from his face, “wasn’t just a dream.”
“No,” he says, his thumb brushing my cheek. “It was a *promise*.”
“And we’ll keep it,” I say, leaning into his touch. “Every lifetime. Every death. Every *truth*.”
He pulls me close, his breath warm against my neck. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”
And as we lie there, in the quiet, in the firelight, in the truth—
—I know.
This isn’t just love.
This isn’t just fate.
This is *forever*.
And I’ll burn the world before I let anyone take it from me.