The morning after the truth-ordeal, the Winter Court woke with a fever.
Not from disease. Not from bloodwine or magic or the lingering chill of the Blood Moon Festival. But from *whispers*—soft, venomous, spreading through the corridors like smoke through cracks in stone. I heard them as I walked to the war room, my boots silent on the frost-rimed floor, my hand resting near the dagger at my hip. They came from behind tapestries, from the shadows of arched doorways, from the lips of noble Fae women who pretended not to stare.
“She burned the purity sigil.”
“A witch. A mongrel. And now a destroyer.”
“Did you see the way the Alpha *pulled* her close? Like she was something to be protected.”
“Or possessed.”
And then—
“She’s not even marked. No real bite. No claim. Just that sigil—cold magic, not blood.”
I stopped.
Not because the words hurt.
But because they were *calculated*.
Someone was feeding them. Shaping them. Turning the fire I’d lit in the Council chamber into a slow, insidious poison. And I knew exactly who.
Lady Nyx.
She’d been silent since the throne room. Since the blood-pact. Since her vial of my mother’s blood had flared to life and shattered her lies. But silence wasn’t surrender. Not for a woman like her. It was strategy. A retreat before the strike.
And now she was striking where it hurt most—not my reputation, not my magic, but the one thing I couldn’t control.
The bond.
They were saying I wasn’t *truly* claimed. That Kaelen hadn’t bitten me. That I was just a political puppet, a witch playing queen, unworthy of the title, unworthy of *him*.
And worse—
They were saying he *wanted* someone else.
That Nyx still wore his bite. That she still had his *claim* on her skin.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my steps forward. I didn’t need a bite. Didn’t need a mark. The bond was real—hot, relentless, screaming through my blood every time he looked at me, every time his hand brushed mine, every time I dreamed of his mouth on my neck.
But the Court didn’t dream.
They *believed*.
And belief was power.
I reached the war room, my breath slow, controlled. Kaelen stood at the war table, his coat unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the scars that marked him. Frost clung to his shoulders, his silver eyes scanning a report. Silas stood beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
They both looked up as I entered.
The bond flared—hot, sudden, a pulse of heat between my thighs. My skin flushed. My breath hitched. I didn’t hide it. Didn’t fight it. Let them see. Let them know.
“You’re late,” Kaelen said, voice low.
“I was listening,” I replied, stepping forward.
“To what?”
“The whispers. About your *ex-lover*.” I didn’t look at Silas. Didn’t soften my voice. “About how she still wears your bite. How she still has your claim. How I’m just… *pretending*.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl. But the frost on the table spread faster, the runes flaring faintly. “Nyx lies.”
“Then prove it.”
He looked at me—long, hard, searching. “You doubt me?”
“I don’t doubt *you*,” I said. “I doubt *them*. I doubt the Court. I doubt the lies they’re spreading. And if you don’t stop them—” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “—they’ll believe her. They’ll believe she’s the real queen. And they’ll destroy me.”
“No one will destroy you,” he said, stepping forward, his hand rising to brush the sigil on my collarbone. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My mouth fell open. My body arched toward him. “You’re mine. The bond knows it. I know it. And if they want proof—” His voice dropped. “—I’ll give them proof.”
“Not like that,” I said, stepping back. “Not with force. Not with a bite that means nothing to them. I want *truth*.”
He studied me. “What do you suggest?”
“A truth-ordeal.”
Silas exhaled, a low, knowing sound. “You’re asking for war.”
“I’m asking for justice.” I turned to Kaelen. “Let me test her. Let me prove she’s lying. Let me show the Court that she has no claim on you—that she never did.”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the war table, to the maps, to the red ink marking the Shadow Pact’s movements. The bond pulsed between us—hot, alive, *unbroken*.
And then—
“Fine,” he said. “But on my terms. In the Council chamber. Before the full assembly. And if you’re wrong—” He met my eyes. “—you kneel.”
“And if I’m right?”
“Then she kneels.”
I smiled. Slow. Dangerous. *Victorious*.
“I’ll see you in the chamber,” I said, turning to leave.
“Opal,” he called.
I paused, not looking back.
“Be careful,” he said. “Nyx doesn’t fight fair.”
“Neither do I,” I replied, and walked out.
The Council chamber was colder than I remembered.
Not from the frost-runes etched into the floor or the ice-laced windows. But from the eyes. The stares. The way the nobles parted as I walked down the center aisle, their silver masks hiding their sneers, their whispers cutting through the silence like knives.
“There she is. The witch who burned the sigil.”
“No real claim. No real bite.”
“She thinks she’s queen? Look at her. No mark. No blood.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, my spine straight, my chin high, my hand resting near my dagger. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched my heartbeat. I could feel him—near, close, watching. But I didn’t look for him. Didn’t need to.
Because I already knew.
He was mine.
The dais loomed ahead, the Winter Throne a jagged silhouette against the pale light. Mordrek sat at the head, ancient, cold, his staff glowing with the weight of oaths. To his right—Nyx.
She wore silver silk, her hair braided with frost-lilies, her lips curved in a venomous smile. And there, on her shoulder—just above the delicate strap of her gown—the mark.
A bite.
>Or so it seemed.Perfect. Clean. *Real*.
But I could feel it—beneath the magic, beneath the glamour, beneath the lie.
It was *fake*.
And I was going to prove it.
I stopped at the base of the dais, my boots silent on stone. The chamber stilled. Every eye was on me. Even Mordrek leaned forward, his pale eyes narrowing.
“What is the meaning of this?” he intoned.
“I come to speak truth,” I said, voice clear, steady. “To expose a lie. To reveal the woman who claims what is not hers.”
“And who is this woman?” Mordrek asked, though he already knew.
“Lady Nyx,” I said, lifting my chin. “Who claims to wear the Alpha’s bite. Who claims to have his mark. Who claims to have his *claim*.” I turned to her, my dark eyes locking onto hers. “And I say—she lies.”
The chamber erupted.
“Outrageous!” a Fae noble spat.
“She dares challenge a noble?” a vampire elder hissed.
“You have no right,” Nyx said, standing slowly, her gown shimmering in the cold light. “The bite is real. The mark is his. And the Alpha—” She smiled, slow, triumphant. “—has never denied it.”
“Then let us test it,” I said, stepping forward. “Let us invoke the truth-ordeal. Let the magic decide.”
Silence.
Even Mordrek hesitated.
Because he knew.
The truth-ordeal didn’t just reveal lies.
It *burned* them.
And if Nyx was lying—
She’d burn with it.
“So be it,” Mordrek said, raising his staff. “Let the ordeal begin.”
The runes on the floor flared—bright, cold, *alive*. A circle of light formed around Nyx, sealing her in. The air thickened, charged with magic. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a pulse of heat that matched my heartbeat.
“State your name,” Mordrek intoned.
“Lady Nyx of the Winter Court,” she said, voice smooth, confident.
“State your claim.”
“That I bear the bite of Kaelen Vire, Alpha of the Black Thorn Pack. That I am his claimed mate. That I have his mark upon my skin.”
The magic pulsed—white-hot, then icy cold.
And then—
It *burned*.
Not her.
But the *mark*.
The bite on her shoulder—perfect, clean, *real*—began to *smolder*. Smoke curled from the edges, the skin beneath reddening, blistering. She gasped, her hand flying to the mark, her face twisting in pain.
“No!” she shrieked. “It’s real! It’s his! I swear it!”
“Then why,” I said, stepping forward, “does the magic burn it?”
The mark cracked. Split. And then—
It *shattered*.
Not flesh. Not bone.
But *illusion*.
Underneath—smooth, unmarked skin.
No bite. No scar. No claim.
Just a lie.
The chamber was silent.
No gasps. No shouts. No accusations.
Just silence.
And then—
I spoke.
“You used a glamour,” I said, stepping closer. “A spell. A trick. To make them believe you had what you never earned.” I looked at the Council. “She has no claim. No bite. No bond. She is *nothing*.”
“Lies!” Nyx screamed, clutching her shoulder. “She twisted the magic! She corrupted the ordeal!”
“No,” I said. “The magic doesn’t lie. *You* do.”
And then—
Kaelen stepped forward.
Not from the shadows. Not from the back.
But from the dais itself, where he’d been watching, silent, *waiting*.
His coat swirled behind him like a storm, his silver eyes burning, his presence a blade drawn across the air. Frost clung to his shoulders, his breath a pale mist in the cold.
He stopped beside me.
Not in front of me. Not behind me.
But *beside* me.
“The ordeal is clear,” he said, voice cutting through the silence. “The mark was false. The claim is void. And the woman who wore it—” He turned to Nyx, his gaze like ice. “—is a liar.”
She stared at him—long, hard, searching. “You knew,” she whispered. “You knew it was fake.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I let you wear it. To see how far you’d go. To see what you’d sacrifice for power.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “And now you’ve lost everything.”
“I had you,” she said, voice breaking. “I *had* you.”
“No,” I said, stepping forward. “You never did.” I turned to the Council. “The bond is real. The sigil is real. And I—” I placed my hand over the sigil on my collarbone, “—am his queen.”
The chamber stilled.
Even Mordrek stepped back.
And then—
Kaelen reached for me.
Not to pull me close. Not to shield me.
But to *claim* me.
His hand rose, fingers brushing the sigil on my collarbone. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My breath hitched. My skin flushed. My core ached.
And then—
He leaned in.
Not to kiss me.
But to *breathe* against my neck.
His breath was cold. His scent—pine and iron and *him*—wrapped around me like a shroud. The bond screamed. My body arched. My mouth fell open in a silent moan.
“You see?” he said, voice low, for the Court, for me, for *us*. “She doesn’t need a bite. She has *this*.” He pressed his palm to the sigil. “And it’s more real than any mark of teeth.”
Nyx stared at us—long, hard, broken. And then—
She turned and fled.
The chamber erupted.
Not in outrage. Not in protest.
But in *silence*.
And in that silence—
I felt it.
The shift.
The power.
The truth.
I wasn’t just the Marked Queen.
I was *coming*.
That night, I dreamed of him.
Not the cold, controlled Alpha. Not the executioner.
But *Kaelen*.
His hands on my skin. His mouth on my neck. His voice in my ear, whispering, *“You’re mine.”*
And this time—I didn’t fight.
This time, I *answered*.
“Only,” I whispered in the dream, “if you’re mine too.”
The bond flared.
And for the first time since the ritual—
I didn’t wake up screaming.
I woke up *smiling*.
And in my room, on the pillow beside me—
Lay a single frost-lily.
Pure white.
Unbroken.
And *mine*.