The city at midnight was a creature of shadows and secrets, its narrow alleys slick with frost and bloodwine, its rooftops sharp with ice, its underbelly humming with forbidden magic. Vienna slept above, wrapped in the illusion of order and elegance, but beneath—where the Veil Market’s ruins still smoldered, where the Dusk Fae slipped through cracks in reality—something darker breathed.
And it had the Oath-Book.
I stood at the edge of the human quarter, wrapped in a hooded cloak, my dagger strapped to my thigh, the sigil on my collarbone pulsing faintly beneath the fabric. The bond flared with every beat of my heart, a constant, maddening awareness of him—Kaelen—ten feet behind me, silent, watchful, a storm in the stillness. I could feel his presence like a hand on my spine, his heat a pulse beneath my skin. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The Shadow Pact had demanded I come alone. But Kaelen didn’t obey demands. He made them.
“You’re going to get us both killed,” I said, not turning.
“And if I’d let you go alone?” His voice was low, rough, cutting through the cold like a blade. “They’d have slit your throat before you reached the door.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I know.” He stepped closer, his breath a pale mist in the air. “But I don’t care.”
I exhaled sharply, my breath curling in the cold. The bond flared—hot, sudden, a pulse of heat between my thighs. My skin flushed. My nipples hardened. I hated that he could do this to me. Hated that his voice, his breath, the way he moved through the dark like a predator—hated that it all made my body betray me.
But worse—
I hated that I didn’t want him to stop.
The Blood Den was hidden beneath an old theater, accessible only through a rusted grate in the alley. The air reeked of copper and decay, of sweat and sex and something older—something that tasted like power. I dropped through first, landing in a crouch, my dagger already in hand. Kaelen followed, silent, lethal, his coat swirling behind him like a storm.
The tunnel stretched ahead—narrow, low, lined with flickering sconces that cast long shadows on the stone. The walls were carved with ancient sigils, some Fae, some vampire, some older still—remnants of a time when blood was currency and pain was prayer. The air thickened as we moved, charged with magic, with tension, with the hum of raw desire.
And then—
I felt it.
Not the bond.
Not Kaelen.
Something else.
A whisper in the dark.
A presence.
Not Dusk. Not Fae.
Something older.
I skidded to a stop, turning, scanning the shadows.
Nothing.
Just smoke. Just flame. Just chaos.
And then—
A hand.
Reaching out from the darkness.
Not to grab me.
But to beckon.
I hesitated.
And then—
I followed.
Kaelen didn’t argue. Didn’t growl. Just followed, his boots silent on stone, his presence a wall of cold and heat. The hand led us through a series of hidden passages, deeper into the den, until we reached a chamber I’d never seen before—circular, its walls lined with black stone, its floor inscribed with a massive sigil that pulsed faintly in the dim light. At the center stood a figure—hooded, faceless, wrapped in shadows.
“You’ve come,” a voice said—female, low, familiar.
“You’re not Shadow Pact,” I said, hand on my dagger.
“No,” she said, lowering her hood. “I’m something worse.”
My breath stilled.
It was a vampire—pale, sharp-featured, her eyes glowing faintly with inherited power. But it wasn’t her face that made my blood run cold.
It was the mark on her neck.
A sigil—thorns and frost, intertwined.
Just like mine.
“You’re one of them,” I said, voice low. “House Nocturne.”
“Yes,” she said. “And I serve the one who holds the Oath-Book.”
My chest tightened. “Mordrek?”
She smiled, slow, dangerous. “No. Someone far more patient. Someone who’s been waiting for a woman like you to rise.”
“And who is that?”
“You’ll see.” She stepped forward. “But first—you must prove you’re worthy.”
“Of what?”
“Of the truth.” She raised her hand, and the sigil on the floor flared—bright, cold, *alive*. The air thickened, charged with magic. “Enter the trial. Face your fear. And if you survive—” She met my eyes. “—you’ll have your answers.”
Before I could react, the sigil erupted.
Light tore through the chamber, blinding, searing. I stumbled back, my hands flying to my face, my dagger slipping from my grip. The bond screamed—hot, sudden, a surge of panic that wasn’t mine. Kaelen. He was close. But not close enough.
And then—
The vision hit.
I was in the tribunal. The chains. The fire already rising. My mother—bound, defiant, her eyes blazing with fury. And me—ten years old, hidden in the shadows, my hands pressed to my mouth, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
“You let her die,” a voice said—my own, but twisted, broken. “You were there. You saw. And you did nothing.”
“I was a child,” I whispered.
“And now?” the voice hissed. “Now you have power. Now you have magic. Now you have *him*. And still—you hesitate.”
“I’m not hesitating,” I said, voice breaking. “I’m *fighting*.”
“No.” The vision shifted. Now I was in the Bonding Chamber, straddling Kaelen, my hands fisted in his shirt, my hips rocking against his, my mouth open in a silent moan. “You’re *wanting*. You’re *needing*. You’re forgetting why you came here.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then why are you trembling?” The vision shifted again. Now I was in his arms, my head on his chest, his hands in my hair, his voice in my ear, whispering, *“You’re mine.”* “Why do you let him touch you? Why do you let him *in*?”
“Because—” My voice cracked. “Because I *want* to.”
And then—
The vision shattered.
I was back in the chamber, on my knees, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my skin slick with sweat. The sigil dimmed. The air stilled. And then—
Laughter.
Low. Mocking. *Familiar*.
I looked up.
And froze.
It wasn’t the vampire.
It was *Nyx*.
She stood at the edge of the chamber, draped in silver silk, her lips curved in a venomous smile. But she wasn’t alone.
Behind her—dozens of them. Vampires in velvet and shadow, their fangs just visible beneath their lips, their eyes glowing with hunger. Werewolves in fur-trimmed coats, their collars glowing with runes. Fae nobles in silver masks, their hands crackling with magic.
And at the center—on a dais of black stone—sat the Oath-Book.
Bound in iron. Sealed with wax. Glowing faintly with the weight of broken oaths.
“Welcome, *Queen*,” Nyx purred. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
My breath stilled.
“You’re working with them?” I asked, rising slowly, my hand reaching for my dagger.
“Not *with* them,” she said. “*Above* them.” She stepped forward, her heels clicking on stone. “You think Mordrek is the mastermind? You think the Shadow Pact is the threat? No. The real power has always been *here*—in the blood, in the shadows, in the ones who’ve been waiting for a woman like you to rise.”
“And why me?”
“Because you’re the key,” she said. “The only one who can break the Oath-Book. The only one whose fire can burn it all down.” She smiled. “And when you do—” She stepped closer. “—we’ll be waiting to pick up the pieces.”
My jaw clenched. “You’re not allies. You’re predators.”
“And you’re prey,” she said. “But not for long.” She raised her hand. “Take her.”
The chamber erupted.
Vampires lunged. Werewolves growled. Fae nobles cast spells. I moved fast—dagger in hand, fire in my veins, my body a weapon. I slashed through a vampire’s throat, burned a Fae noble’s spell mid-cast, kicked a werewolf in the chest with enough force to crack bone. But there were too many. They came from all sides, relentless, *hungry*.
And then—
He was there.
Kaelen.
He moved like a storm—frost and fury, his magic freezing one attacker mid-lunge, his dagger slicing through another’s throat. He fought like he was born for war, like every breath was a blade, every step a promise of death. He reached me fast, back-to-back, his coat swirling behind him like a shroud.
“You’re late,” I growled.
“You’re reckless,” he snapped, freezing a vampire mid-leap.
“And you’re *here*,” I said, burning a Fae noble’s sigil.
He didn’t answer.
Just moved—faster, deadlier, *closer*. His shoulder pressed against mine, his breath cold against my ear. The bond flared—hot, electric, *unstoppable*. My skin flushed. My breath hitched. My core ached.
And then—
A spell hit.
Not from the front.
Not from the side.
From *above*.
A net of black thorns, woven with magic, dropped from the ceiling, wrapping around us both, pinning us together, our backs pressed against each other. The thorns bit into our skin, drawing blood, their magic sapping our strength.
“No!” I snarled, struggling.
“Hold still,” Kaelen said, his voice rough. “Or they’ll kill you.”
“And if they take the Oath-Book?”
“Then we burn it together.”
Nyx stepped forward, her smile triumphant. “You see? This is why you’ll never win. You’re too busy *needing* each other to see the truth.” She reached the dais, lifting the Oath-Book. “And now—” She raised it high. “—I’ll have the power to erase you both.”
My blood ran cold.
And then—
It happened.
The fire.
It started in my chest—a slow, insistent burn. Not pain. Not rage.
But *power*.
My fire magic, rare in witches, awakened not by hate, but by *truth*. By justice. By the knowledge that I was no longer alone.
It surged through my veins, hot and wild, until it erupted—white-hot, blinding—through my palms.
And then—
I turned.
Not to Nyx.
Not to the Oath-Book.
But to the thorns.
I raised my hand.
And I *burned* them.
Fire roared from my palm, bright and fierce, consuming the thorns in an instant. The net shattered. The magic broke. Kaelen and I fell apart, gasping, bleeding, *alive*.
“Now!” I shouted.
He didn’t hesitate.
He lunged.
Fast. Deadly. *Relentless*.
He reached Nyx before she could react, his hand closing around the Oath-Book. She screamed, slashing at him with a dagger, but he was faster. He disarmed her, threw her back, and turned to me.
“Take it,” he said, holding it out.
I didn’t move.
Because I could feel it—the bond. The way it flared, hot and sudden, a pulse of fear that wasn’t mine. *His*.
“If I destroy it,” I said, voice low, “the bond—”
“Will break,” he said. “And I’ll still choose you.”
My breath stilled.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He stepped closer, his silver eyes burning. “Because I’m not bound by magic. I’m bound by *you*.”
And then—
The chamber exploded.
Not with fire.
Not with magic.
With *sound*.
A scream. A howl. A war cry.
The door burst open.
Silas.
And behind him—dozens of Black Thorn Enforcers, their collars glowing, their eyes blazing with fury.
“We’ve got you,” Silas said, stepping forward.
Nyx screamed, trying to flee, but the Enforcers were faster. They surrounded her, disarmed her, pinned her to the ground.
“Take her,” Kaelen said. “And lock her in the Spire.”
They didn’t argue.
Just obeyed.
And then—
It was over.
The Oath-Book sat in my hands, cold, heavy, *alive*. I could feel the oaths trapped inside, the lies, the betrayals, the broken promises. And I knew—
This was it.
The moment everything changed.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Kaelen said, stepping beside me.
“I know,” I whispered.
And then—
I burned it.
Fire roared from my palm, bright and fierce, consuming the Oath-Book in an instant. The air filled with the scent of molten iron and ash. The runes on the walls cracked. The floor trembled. And then—
It was gone.
Just dust.
And silence.
And then—
The bond flared.
Not hot.
Not electric.
But *different*.
Lighter. Freer. *Ours*.
I looked at him—long, hard, searching.
And he looked back.
And for the first time since the ritual—
I didn’t fight it.
I just let it burn.