The morning after the fire, the Spire woke with a fever.
Not from blood fever or magic sickness, not from the cold that clung to the stone like frost on glass—but from whispers. They slithered through the corridors, curled around tapestries, dripped from the lips of Fae nobles who pretended not to stare. 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 pillars, from the shadows of arched doorways, from the corners of smirking mouths.
“She burned his chambers.”
“Naked. Screaming. Like a wild thing.”
“And he let her. Kneeling at her feet like a dog.”
“She’s broken him.”
And then—
“He’s weak. A man ruled by a witch.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, my spine straight, my chin high, my skin still humming with the aftermath of fire and fury. The bond pulsed beneath my collarbone, 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.
And I was his.
But not in the way they thought.
Not in chains. Not in submission. Not in silence.
In fire.
In truth.
In war.
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 weakness. About my madness.” I didn’t look at Silas. Didn’t soften my voice. “They think you’re broken.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl. But the frost on the table spread faster, the runes flaring faintly. “Let them think it.”
“And if they act on it?”
“Then they’ll learn the truth.” He stepped closer, 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. “I’m not broken. I’m *awake*.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
He wasn’t broken.
He was *free*.
And so was I.
The summons came at noon.
A formal invitation, sealed with the wax of the Summer Court—golden suns and blooming roses, the scent of jasmine and honey clinging to the parchment. It was delivered by a Summer Fae diplomat—tall, golden-haired, his skin kissed by eternal sun, his eyes the color of honeyed wine. He wore a silk tunic that clung to his body like water, his movements fluid, deliberate, *seductive*.
“Lord Solen of the Sunspire,” Kaelen said, voice cold, as the man entered the war room. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Diplomacy,” Solen said, his voice like velvet, his smile slow, dangerous. “And curiosity.” His gaze slid to me, lingering on the curve of my neck, the pulse at my throat, the sigil on my collarbone. “The Marked Queen. I’ve heard so much.”
“And I’ve heard nothing of you,” I said, stepping forward, my voice sharp. “Which means you’re either insignificant—or dangerous.”
He laughed, low, throaty. “I prefer *interesting*.”
Kaelen stepped between us, his presence a wall of cold and heat. “State your business.”
“The Summer Court seeks alliance,” Solen said, unfolding the scroll. “A union of power. A joining of courts. And to seal it—” He looked at me again, his smile widening. “—a union of mates.”
The room stilled.
Silas exhaled sharply. Kaelen’s hands clenched at his sides. Frost crept across the floor, spreading toward Solen like a living thing.
“You’re suggesting a political marriage,” I said, voice low.
“Between our houses,” he said. “You to me. A bond of fire and sun. Imagine it—your magic, my charm, our children ruling both courts.”
“And Kaelen?” I asked.
“Would remain Alpha,” Solen said. “But you? You’d be a true queen. Not a marked one. Not a witch. A *sovereign*.”
“You think I want your crown?” I asked, stepping forward. “You think I care about your sun-kissed skin or your honeyed words? I don’t need a title. I don’t need a throne. I have *him*.” I turned to Kaelen, my dark eyes locking onto his. “And he has me.”
Solen didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “And if he loses you?”
“He won’t,” Kaelen said, stepping closer, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Because you’re leaving. Now.”
“Or what?” Solen asked, lifting his chin. “You’ll freeze me? Kill me? Start a war between courts?”
“No,” I said, stepping beside Kaelen, my hand finding his. “We’ll let you stay. For the gala tonight. Let you see what you’re offering to steal.”
Kaelen turned to me, his eyes narrowing. “Opal—”
“Let him watch,” I said, my voice low. “Let him see the bond. Let him feel it. Let him *know* that no matter how golden his skin or how sweet his words, I will never, *ever* be his.”
Solen smiled. Slow. Dangerous. *Victorious*.
“I accept,” he said. “And I’ll be watching, *Queen*.”
He left, his boots silent on stone, his scent—jasmine and honey—lingering in the air.
When the door closed, Kaelen turned to me, his jaw tight. “What are you doing?”
“Proving a point,” I said. “That I’m not for sale. That I’m not afraid. That I’m not *his*.”
“And if he tries something?”
“Then I’ll burn him.”
“And if he touches you?”
My breath stilled.
Because I could feel it—the bond. The way it flared, hot and sudden, a pulse of rage that wasn’t mine. *His*.
“He won’t,” I said.
“No,” Kaelen said, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “Because if he does—” His hand rose, fingers brushing 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. “—I’ll rip his throat out with my teeth.”
My breath caught.
Because I believed him.
The gala was a storm of silk and secrets.
The Grand Hall of the Obsidian Spire had been transformed—crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light refracting through frost-runes etched into the stone. Long tables groaned under the weight of bloodwine and roasted game, of fruits dusted with edible silver, of pastries that shimmered like stars. Fae nobles in silver masks mingled with werewolf alphas in fur-trimmed coats, their collars glowing with runes. Vampires in velvet and shadow sipped from crystal goblets, their fangs just visible beneath their lips.
And at the center—Solen.
He stood near the dais, golden hair catching the candlelight, his silk tunic clinging to his body like water. He smiled at everyone, charmed them, seduced them with his voice, his eyes, his scent. And every time he looked at me—his gaze lingered.
Like I was already his.
I wore black—tight trousers, a fitted tunic, boots laced to the knee. No gown. No submission. No mask. Just me. Just fire. Just war. My hair was braided back, secured with a silver dagger. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly beneath the fabric.
Kaelen stood beside me, his coat unbuttoned, his presence a storm in the stillness. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just watched—cold, assessing, hungry.
And then—
Solen approached.
“The Marked Queen,” he said, bowing slightly. “You look… *untamed*.”
“And you look like a peacock,” I said, not smiling. “All color. No substance.”
He laughed, low, throaty. “I prefer *radiant*.”
“And I prefer *truth*.” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “So let’s be clear. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I don’t *fear* you. And if you so much as brush my hand—” I leaned in, my breath cold against his ear. “—I’ll burn you where you stand.”
He didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “And if I do?”
“Then you’ll learn what fire really feels like.”
And then—
Kaelen was there.
Not between us.
But *behind* me.
His hand settled on my waist, warm, strong, possessive. The bond flared—hot, electric, unstoppable. My skin flushed. My breath hitched. My core ached.
“You’re overstepping,” Kaelen said, voice low, cutting through the air like a blade.
“Am I?” Solen asked, lifting his chin. “Or am I simply offering what you cannot?”
“She doesn’t *want* what you offer,” Kaelen said. “She wants *me*.”
“And if she changes her mind?”
“She won’t.”
“And if she does?”
“Then I’ll kill you.”
The hall stilled.
No gasps. No whispers. No movement.
Just silence.
And then—
Solen smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. *Victorious*.
“I’ll see you on the dance floor, *Queen*,” he said, and walked away.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I said, turning to Kaelen.
“He shouldn’t have looked at you,” he said, his hand still on my waist. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you. He shouldn’t have *breathed* near you.”
“And if I had danced with him?”
“Then I’d have broken his legs.”
My breath stilled.
Because I believed him.
And worse—
I liked it.
The music began—slow, sensual, a rhythm that matched the pulse of the bond. Couples moved to the floor, their bodies aligning, their breaths syncing. And then—
Solen extended his hand to me.
“A dance, *Queen*?”
Every eye was on me.
Kaelen’s hand tightened on my waist.
And then—
I took it.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I had to.
Because if I didn’t, they’d think I was afraid.
And I wasn’t.
I stepped into his arms, my body tense, my breath slow, controlled. He smiled, slow, dangerous, his hands settling on my waist, his body aligning with mine. The bond flared—hot, sudden, a pulse of heat between my thighs. My skin flushed. My breath hitched.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
“It’s cold,” I lied.
“No.” His thumbs brushed the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. “It’s *this*.”
The music swelled. We spun—slow, deliberate. His body pressed against mine, his hands possessive, his scent—jasmine and honey—wrapping around me like a shroud. The bond screamed. My body betrayed me. My core ached.
And then—
I felt it.
Not Solen.
Not the music.
Not the crowd.
But *him*.
Kaelen.
He was there—just behind us, close, watching. I could feel his presence like a hand on my spine, his heat a pulse beneath my skin. The bond flared—hot, electric, unstoppable. My breath hitched. My skin flushed. My core ached.
And then—
Solen leaned in, his lips near my ear. “You could have everything,” he whispered. “Power. Prestige. Pleasure. All you have to do is say yes.”
“And if I do?” I asked, voice low.
“Then you’ll be free.”
“I am free,” I said. “And I am *his*.”
And then—
It happened.
Not with words.
Not with magic.
But with *force*.
A hand.
>Not Solen’s.Not mine.
But his.
Kaelen.
He moved like a storm—frost and fury, his presence a blade drawn across the air. He didn’t speak. Didn’t growl. Just stepped forward, his hand shooting out, gripping Solen’s wrist, *twisting*.
“Get your hands off her,” he said, voice low, cutting through the music like a blade.
Solen hissed, his grip on me breaking. “You have no right—”
“She’s *mine*,” Kaelen said, stepping in front of me, his back to Solen, 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. “And if you touch her again—” His voice dropped. “—I’ll rip your heart out with my bare hands.”
The hall was silent.
No music. No whispers. No movement.
Just silence.
And then—
Solen laughed.
Low. Mocking. *Familiar*.
“You think this is about her?” he asked, stepping back. “You think I want a witch? A hybrid? A woman marked by magic?” He smiled, slow, dangerous. “No. I want what you *fear*—your weakness. Your obsession. Your *jealousy*.”
My breath stilled.
Because he was right.
Kaelen was jealous.
And it was beautiful.
“You’ve lost,” Solen said, turning to the crowd. “Because a man ruled by his mate is no Alpha at all.”
And then—
Kaelen moved.
Fast. Deadly. *Relentless*.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t growl. Just stepped forward, his hand closing around Solen’s throat, *lifting* him off the ground.
“Say it again,” he said, voice low, cutting through the air like a blade. “Say she’s not mine. Say I’m not her Alpha. Say I’m weak.” His grip tightened. “And I’ll make you *bleed* for it.”
Solen gasped, his hands clawing at Kaelen’s wrist, his face turning red.
“Kaelen,” I said, stepping forward. “Stop.”
He didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes on Solen. “Say it.”
“I—” Solen choked. “I yield.”
And then—
Kaelen dropped him.
Not gently. Not carefully.
But like he was nothing.
Like he was *nothing*.
“Leave,” Kaelen said, stepping back. “And if you return—” He turned to me, his silver eyes burning. “—I’ll kill you.”
Solen didn’t argue.
Just stood, straightened his tunic, and walked out—his head high, his smile gone.
And then—
Kaelen turned to me.
Not to speak.
Not to explain.
But to *claim*.
His hand rose, fingers brushing 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.
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 peacock. She has *this*.” He pressed his palm to the sigil. “And it’s more real than any charm or sun-kissed skin.”
The hall was silent.
Even Mordrek, watching from the shadows, stepped back.
And then—
I spoke.
Not to the Court.
Not to Kaelen.
But to *myself*.
“I am not for sale,” I said, voice clear, steady. “I am not afraid. I am not *his*.” I turned to Kaelen, my dark eyes locking onto his. “I am *yours*.”
The bond flared—hot, alive, unbroken.
And for the first time since the ritual—
I didn’t fight it.
I just let it burn.