The first thing they take from you at the Midnight Court is your name.
Not your real one, of course. That’s already buried beneath layers of illusion, blood-sealed lies, and the quiet hum of a sigil etched into my collarbone. But even the false name—Lira Vex—feels like a betrayal as the guard stamps it onto the ledger with a flick of his clawed finger.
“Next.”
I step forward, back straight, shoulders relaxed. My boots click against the obsidian floor, echoing in the cavernous gate hall. Above, the vaulted ceiling pulses with bioluminescent veins, shifting from deep violet to bruised crimson. Blood-red moonlight. They call it the Veil’s Heart. I call it a warning.
The inspection line snakes through a gauntlet of supernatural scrutiny. Vampires in velvet-lined coats sniff the air like hounds. Werewolves scan with golden eyes, tracking pulse and scent. Fae glide past in silken masks, their fingers trailing faint trails of glamour—testing for hidden enchantments. One brushes my wrist. I don’t flinch. My magic stays buried, coiled tight beneath my skin, fed by years of control and the bitter taste of vengeance.
My mother taught me that. Control the fire, or it will burn you first.
She didn’t follow her own advice. Not in the end.
I push the memory down. Not now. Not here. Not until I’ve shattered the curse that branded her a traitor and stole my birthright. Thirty days. That’s all I have. Thirty days before the mark on my wrist erupts, before the poison in my blood turns me into a weapon—or a corpse.
And the only one who can stop it is the monster who made it.
Or so the whispers say.
I reach the final checkpoint: the Blood Seal. A raised dais of black stone, inlaid with silver sigils that glow faintly, reacting to lineage, intent, threat level. A vampire in crimson robes stands to the side, holding a silver blade. Ritual inspection. They slice your palm, draw a drop, let the stone read your truth.
Or what passes for truth in this den of lies.
“Hand,” the robed vampire says, voice flat.
I extend my left hand. The mark beneath my sleeve burns in warning. It knows we’re close. It knows he is near.
The blade flashes. A thin line opens across my palm. Blood wells, dark and thick. I press it to the stone.
Nothing.
The sigils flicker, then dim. Neutral. No threat. No lie detected. My illusion holds.
“Proceed,” the vampire says.
I turn to leave—
—and freeze.
He’s standing in the archway, framed by twin pillars of bone-white coral. Tall. Impossibly still. Dressed in black leather and shadow, his coat cut like a general’s, his hair the color of storm clouds. Kael. Prince of the Midnight Court. Heir to House Nocturne. The man whose blood runs through the curse in my veins.
Our eyes meet.
And the world tilts.
His pupils dilate. Just once. A flicker of shock. Then hunger. Then something darker—recognition.
He strides forward, silent. The crowd parts. Even the Fae lower their heads. He doesn’t look at them. He looks at me.
“Hold,” he says.
The word is a command. The guards freeze. The blood-seal vampire steps back. The air thickens, charged with unspoken power.
Kael stops in front of me. Close. Too close. I can smell him—cold stone, aged wine, and something deeper, wilder: the iron tang of blood, the musk of a predator who hasn’t fed in days.
“Your name,” he says.
“Lira Vex,” I answer, voice steady. My pulse is not.
“And your purpose here?”
“To serve. To learn. To prove loyalty.”
Standard answers. Every witch who enters says them. Most mean them. I mean the opposite of every word.
He studies me. His eyes are black, but not empty. They’re depthless. Like staring into a well at midnight. I don’t look away. I’ve stared down executioners. I’ve lied to judges. I will not break under the gaze of a vampire prince.
Then his hand lifts.
Not to my face. Not to my throat.
To my wrist.
He grabs it. Fingers like steel. His thumb brushes the inside of my palm, still damp with blood.
And the bond ignites.
Fire. That’s the only word. Fire surging up my arm, cracking through my ribs, pooling between my thighs. My breath hitches. My knees lock. My vision whites out for a single, shattering second.
And in that second—I see.
A child screaming. A woman in chains. A knife raised. A curse carved into skin. My mother’s face, twisted in agony—
—and then him. Younger. Blood on his hands. Eyes wide with horror.
The vision vanishes.
I yank my hand back. My heart hammers. My skin burns where he touched me. The cursed mark on my wrist glows faintly beneath my sleeve, pulsing in time with my pulse.
Kael doesn’t move. His expression is unreadable. But his nostrils flare. He smells it. The bond. The heat. The truth.
“Fated,” he murmurs. Not to me. To the air. To the court. To himself.
Whispers erupt. Fae lean into each other, their voices like wind through glass. Werewolves growl low in their throats. Vampires watch with cold, calculating eyes.
I force my voice to stay even. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He turns his head slowly. “You felt it.”
“Felt what? A ritual inspection?” I lift my injured palm. “It stings. That’s all.”
His lips twitch. Not a smile. A predator’s amusement. “You lie well. But your body doesn’t.”
He steps closer. My breath catches. His heat radiates through the thin fabric of my shirt. His scent floods my senses—dark, intoxicating, wrong. My magic stirs, not in defense, but in response. The bond is pulling. Tugging. A thread of fire connecting our blood, our breath, our bones.
I hate it.
I hate him.
And yet—
My body betrays me. My nipples tighten. My core aches. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him, to claw, to claim.
No. No. This is magic. Manipulation. A trick of the blood. I am not some fated pawn in his political game.
“You have no claim on me,” I say, low and sharp.
“Don’t I?” His voice drops, a velvet rasp. “The bond says otherwise. Your pulse is racing. Your scent—” He inhales deeply, eyes closing for a fraction of a second. “—is arousal and fear. You’re trembling.”
I’m not. I’m not—
My hand is shaking.
I clench it into a fist.
“I came here to break a curse,” I say, forcing the words out. “Not fall for the monster who made it.”
His eyes snap open. For the first time, something flickers in them. Not anger. Not amusement.
Hurt.
Then it’s gone. Replaced by ice.
“You’ll attend the Council gala tonight,” he says, stepping back. “Wear black. No illusions. No lies.”
“I’m not your guest,” I snap.
“No.” He turns, his coat flaring behind him like wings. “You’re my consort. Until the bond is proven false—or consummated.”
The crowd murmurs. Fae giggle. Werewolves snarl. Vampires exchange glances.
Consort.
The word is a sentence.
He doesn’t look back as he walks away. But I feel his presence like a brand between my shoulder blades.
One of the guards steps forward, holding a glowing silver stylus. “Your mark,” he says.
Before I can react, he presses it to the back of my right hand.
Pain lances through me. I bite back a cry. The stylus burns, etching a sigil into my skin—a crescent moon wrapped in thorns. The Court’s seal. A summons. A trap.
“You are bound to attend,” the guard says. “Refusal is treason.”
I stare at the mark. It pulses once, then fades to a dull silver.
Thirty days.
That’s all I have to break the curse.
Now I have one less.
And a bond that shouldn’t exist—burning hotter with every breath.
I turn and walk out of the gate hall, my boots clicking against the stone.
But I don’t go to my assigned chambers.
I go to the Archives.
Because if Kael is the key to the curse… then his secrets are mine to steal.
And I will burn this court to the ground before I let it claim me.