The summons came at dawn.
Not by messenger. Not by scroll. But by silence.
I woke to the absence of sound—the usual creak of guards outside my door, the distant hum of runes beneath the Spire’s stone, the whisper of wind through the frost-laced windows—all gone. The air was thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. And then—
A knock.
Three sharp raps. Not hesitant. Not polite. Demanding.
I sat up, the bond flaring beneath my skin, a pulse of heat that matched my heartbeat. My hand went to the dagger beneath my pillow. My braid was loose, my tunic wrinkled from restless sleep. But my mind—sharp. Ready.
“Enter,” I said, voice low.
The door opened.
Silas stood there, his coat dusted with frost, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak. Just stepped aside.
And then—
Kaelen.
He filled the doorway—broad-shouldered, silver-eyed, his coat swirling behind him like a storm. Frost clung to his collar, his breath a pale mist in the cold. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. Just looked at me—long, hard, searching.
“Get dressed,” he said, voice rough. “The Council convenes in one hour.”
“For what?”
“Your petition.”
My breath stilled.
“I didn’t file a petition.”
“You didn’t have to.” He stepped inside, the door closing behind him. “The law does it for you. After a public claim, after a display of power, after you healed me with your blood—” His voice dropped. “—you’re entitled to Ascension Rights.”
“And if I don’t want them?”
“Then you’re a fool,” Silas said, stepping forward. “Ascension means legitimacy. It means you’re not just his mate by magic. You’re his queen by law. No more whispers. No more challenges. No more Solen.”
My jaw clenched.
Because he was right.
And I hated that.
“And if I fail?” I asked, standing, pulling my tunic over my head. “If the Council rejects me? If they say I’m not worthy?”
“Then they’ll have to answer to me,” Kaelen said, stepping closer, his presence a wall of cold and heat. “But you won’t fail.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll burn the Spire to the ground and crown you in the ashes.”
My breath caught.
Because I believed him.
And worse—
I liked it.
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 left—Kaelen. To his right—empty. A seat reserved.
For me.
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.
“You petition for Ascension,” he intoned, his voice echoing through the chamber. “To be recognized as sovereign queen beside the Alpha of the Black Thorn Pack. To hold equal power. To rule beside him.”
“I do,” I said, voice clear, steady.
“And what do you offer in return?”
“Truth,” I said. “Justice. And fire.”
The chamber erupted.
“She offers *fire*?” a Fae noble spat. “A witch’s destruction is not a gift.”
“She has no bloodline,” a vampire elder hissed. “No noble house. No claim.”
“She has *me*,” Kaelen said, standing slowly, his coat swirling behind him like a storm. “And I have *her*. And if you deny her—” His silver eyes burned. “—you deny the bond. And if you deny the bond—” Frost crept across the floor, spreading toward Mordrek like a living thing. “—you deny *me*.”
Silence.
Even Mordrek hesitated.
Because he knew.
The bond was real. The claim was real. And Kaelen—Alpha of the Black Thorn, Enforcer of the Winter Court, Fae-Werewolf hybrid feared by all—would burn the world for me.
“So be it,” Mordrek said, raising his staff. “Let the trial begin.”
The runes on the floor flared—bright, cold, *alive*. A circle of light formed around me, sealing me in. The air thickened, charged with magic. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a pulse of heat that matched my heartbeat.
“To earn Ascension,” Mordrek intoned, “you must face three trials. One of combat. One of magic. One of oath. Fail any—and you are barred from rule. Succeed—and you are queen.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you are not worthy.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my spine straight, my chin high, my hand resting near my dagger.
“First trial,” Mordrek said. “Combat.”
The circle of light shifted—cracked—and from the shadows stepped a figure.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clad in black armor etched with frost-runes. His collar glowed with the sigil of the Black Thorn Pack. His eyes—silver, like Kaelen’s—burned with challenge.
“Garrik,” Kaelen said, voice low.
One of his most loyal Enforcers. A warrior who had fought beside him for decades. A man who had once sworn to kill any witch who threatened the Alpha.
And now—
He was my opponent.
“You have ten minutes,” Mordrek said. “No magic. No blood. No death. But you must make him yield.”
Garrik drew his dagger—long, curved, its edge glowing with frost. “You’re not worthy,” he said, voice rough. “You’re a witch. A mongrel. And you’ll never be queen.”
“Then prove it,” I said, drawing my own blade.
And then—
We fought.
Not with magic. Not with fire. But with steel and sweat and fury. He was stronger. Faster. More experienced. But I was angrier. Smarter. More desperate. I didn’t fight like a queen. I fought like a survivor—like the girl who had hidden in the shadows while her mother burned, like the woman who had burned the Oath-Book to ash.
He lunged—fast, deadly. I twisted, his blade slicing through the air just above my shoulder. I countered—low, brutal—my dagger slashing across his thigh. He growled, spinning, his boot catching my side. I stumbled, pain flaring, but didn’t fall. Just rolled, came up fast, my dagger slicing across his arm.
Blood welled. Not much. But enough.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, circling him. “And you’re mine.”
He didn’t answer. Just lunged again—faster, deadlier. His blade caught my tunic, slicing through fabric, grazing my ribs. Pain flared. Heat followed. The bond pulsed—hot, electric, *unstoppable*. My skin flushed. My breath hitched.
And then—
I saw it.
His rhythm. His pattern. The way he favored his left side after the first strike. The way his eyes flicked to my sigil before he attacked.
He wasn’t just fighting me.
He was fighting the bond.
And that made him weak.
I feinted left—then spun right, my dagger slashing across his back. He roared, turning, but I was faster. I dropped low, swept his legs, sent him crashing to the ground. Before he could rise, I was on him—knee on his chest, dagger at his throat.
“Yield,” I said, voice low.
He didn’t answer. Just glared.
“Yield,” I said again, pressing the blade harder. “Or I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to the wolves.”
And then—
He smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. *Victorious*.
“I yield,” he said.
The chamber stilled.
No gasps. No shouts. No accusations.
Just silence.
And then—
I stood, pulling my dagger back. He rose slowly, wiping blood from his arm, his expression unreadable. But I saw it—just for a second. Respect.
“First trial passed,” Mordrek said, voice cold. “Now—magic.”
The circle of light shifted again—cracked—and from the shadows stepped another figure.
Small. Hooded. Cloaked in shadows. Her hands were hidden, but I could feel it—power. Ancient. Cold. *Fae*.
“A truth-ordeal,” Mordrek said. “She will test your magic. Your control. Your honesty. Fail—and you are barred.”
The woman stepped forward, lowering her hood.
Her face was sharp, her eyes pale, her lips curved in a venomous smile.
“Lady Nyx,” I said, voice low.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be locked in the Spire. Exiled. Forgotten.
But she wasn’t.
She was here. And she was smiling.
“Surprised?” she asked, stepping closer. “Did you think they’d let you rise without a fight?”
“I didn’t think,” I said, stepping forward. “I *knew*.”
“Then you know what comes next.” She raised her hand, and the sigil on the floor flared—bright, cold, *alive*. “State your name.”
“Opal of the Ember Circle.”
“State your claim.”
“That I am worthy of Ascension. That I am queen.”
The magic pulsed—white-hot, then icy cold.
No reaction.
No lie.
“And your magic?” she asked, voice low. “Is it pure? Or tainted by blood?”
“It’s mine,” I said. “And it’s real.”
Another pulse.
No lie.
“And your bond?” she asked, stepping closer. “Do you love him? Or do you use him?”
My breath stilled.
But I didn’t hesitate. “I love him.”
The magic flared—bright, searing.
Truth.
The chamber stilled.
Even Mordrek stepped back.
And then—
Nyx smiled.
Slow. Dangerous. *Victorious*.
“One more,” she said. “The final oath.”
The circle of light shifted—cracked—and from the shadows stepped a figure.
Tall. Cloaked. Face hidden. But I knew.
It was Mordrek.
“You must swear,” he intoned, “on your life, on your magic, on your bond—that you will never use your power to harm the Concord. That you will never seek vengeance. That you will rule with justice, not fire.”
My jaw clenched.
Because I couldn’t swear that.
Not truly.
Not and be honest.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you fail.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my spine straight, my chin high, my hand resting near my dagger.
And then—
I spoke.
Not to the Council.
Not to Mordrek.
But to Kaelen.
“I swear,” I said, my voice clear, steady, “that I will never harm the Concord—not unless it harms those I love. I swear that I will never seek vengeance—not unless it is justice. And I swear that I will rule with fire—because fire purifies. Because fire protects. Because fire *burns* away the lies.”
The magic pulsed—white-hot, then icy cold.
No reaction.
No lie.
Because it was true.
The chamber erupted.
“She twists the words!” a Fae noble spat.
“She cannot be trusted!” a vampire elder hissed.
But Mordrek didn’t speak.
Just stood there, his staff trembling, his pale eyes narrowing.
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 trials are passed,” he said, voice cutting through the silence. “The magic confirms it. The law confirms it. And I—” He turned to the Council, his gaze like ice. “—confirm it. She is 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 crown. She has *this*.” He pressed his palm to the sigil. “And it’s more real than any law.”
The hall 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 *queen*.
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*.