The morning after the Ascension Trial, the Spire woke not with whispers, but with silence.
Not the quiet of respect. Not the hush of awe.
The silence of fear.
I felt it as I walked through the corridors—heads turning, eyes darting, voices dying mid-sentence. The nobles who had sneered at my blood, who had called me mongrel and witch, who had whispered that I would never be queen—now stepped aside. Not because they believed in me.
Because they believed in *him*.
Kaelen.
And what he would do if they didn’t.
I didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just kept walking, my boots silent on frost-rimed stone, my hand resting near the dagger at my hip. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly beneath the fabric of my tunic, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched my heartbeat. The bond flared—hot, electric, *alive*—every time I thought of him, every time I remembered the way his breath had been cold against my neck, the way his voice had cut through the chamber like a blade.
“She is queen.”
Three words. No magic. No threat. Just truth.
And the entire Court had bent.
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 early,” Kaelen said, voice low.
“You’re predictable,” I replied, stepping forward. “You always come here first.”
He didn’t flinch. Just folded the report, his movements deliberate. “And you always watch me.”
“Only when you’re being stupid.”
“And when am I being stupid?”
“When you think you can protect me by keeping secrets.” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “Like letting Nyx preside over my truth-ordeal. Like knowing Solen would come. Like *not* telling me the Council would force the trial.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at me—long, hard, searching. “Would you have come if I had?”
“No.”
“Then I did the right thing.”
“And if I’d failed?”
“Then I’d have burned the Spire.”
My breath stilled.
Because I believed him.
And worse—
I liked it.
“You think I need protection,” I said, stepping closer, my hand rising to brush the sigil on my collarbone. “But I don’t. I don’t need your threats. I don’t need your power. I don’t need *you* to make them fear me.”
“No,” he said, stepping forward, his hand rising to mirror mine, his fingers brushing the sigil. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My mouth fell open. My body arched toward him. “You don’t need me to make them fear you.” His voice dropped. “You just need to *be* you.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
The summons came at noon.
Not by scroll. Not by messenger.
By challenge.
A single note, delivered by a trembling servant—sealed with black wax, the sigil of the Pureblood Faction embossed in silver. No name. No title. Just a time, a place, and a demand.
Champion’s Arena. One hour. Trial by combat. Prove your worth, or be stripped of your title.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t crumple the note. Just handed it to Kaelen, my expression unreadable.
He read it slowly, his jaw tightening with every word. “It’s a trap,” he said, voice low. “They’re using the old laws. A champion’s challenge can’t be refused. But it’s not fair. They’ll send their strongest.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you lose your title. Your legitimacy. Everything.”
“Then I don’t refuse.” I turned to the door. “I fight.”
“No,” he said, stepping in front of me. “I’ll fight for you.”
“And if you lose?”
“I won’t.”
“And if you do?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping. “Then they’ll say the Alpha was defeated by a Pureblood. That his queen was too weak to fight for herself. That the bond is broken.” I pressed my palm to his chest, over his heart. “And I’ll lose more than a title. I’ll lose *you*.”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me—long, hard, searching. And then—
“One rule,” he said, voice rough. “If I say stop—you stop. No matter what.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll pull you out myself.”
My breath stilled.
Because I knew he would.
The Champion’s Arena was a relic of the Blood Wars—a sunken pit of black stone, its walls lined with ancient runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The air was thick with old magic and colder stone, the scent of blood and frost clinging to the air like a shroud. The stands rose high above, packed with nobles, warriors, Enforcers—everyone who mattered, everyone who wanted to see me fall.
I stood at the edge of the pit, my boots silent on stone, my dagger strapped to my thigh, my tunic tight against my skin. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed with every beat of my heart. The bond flared—hot, electric, *alive*—a constant, maddening awareness of him.
Kaelen.
He stood at the opposite edge, his coat swirling 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 didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. Just watched me—long, hard, searching.
And then—
The gate opened.
From the shadows stepped a figure—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in silver armor etched with frost-runes. His collar glowed with the sigil of the Winter Court. His eyes—pale, sharp, *cold*—burned with contempt.
Lord Veylan.
One of the Pureblood Faction’s most feared warriors. A man who had executed half-breeds in the name of purity. A man who had once called my mother a “stain on Fae blood.”
And now—
He was my opponent.
“You’re not worthy,” he said, drawing his sword—long, curved, its edge glowing with frost. “You’re a witch. A mongrel. And you’ll never be queen.”
“Then prove it,” I said, drawing my dagger.
And then—
The bell rang.
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 arena erupted.
Not in cheers. Not in applause.
But in silence.
And then—
It happened.
Not with words.
Not with magic.
But with *fire*.
A spell—ancient, forbidden, *deadly*—erupted from the stands. A bolt of pure frostfire, white-hot and blinding, screamed toward me.
I didn’t think.
Just moved.
Rolling off Veylan, I came up fast, my hands rising—fire roaring from my palms, bright and fierce, meeting the frostfire mid-air.
The explosion was deafening.
Light tore through the arena, blinding, searing. The runes on the walls flared, sending pulses of energy through the stone. The stands trembled. The air filled with the scent of molten iron and ash.
And then—
Silence.
The fire died. The frostfire shattered. I stood in the center of the pit, my breath coming fast, my skin slick with sweat, my hands still glowing with embers.
And then—
He was there.
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 into the pit, his coat swirling behind him like a shroud, his silver eyes burning.
“Who cast it?” he asked, voice low, cutting through the silence.
No one answered.
But I knew.
And so did he.
“Mordrek,” I said, stepping forward. “Or one of his puppets.”
He didn’t flinch. Just turned to the stands, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “The next one who moves—” His voice dropped. “—dies.”
No one argued.
Just stayed still.
And then—
He turned to me.
Not to speak.
Not to scold.
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 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 arena, for me, for *us*. “She doesn’t need a champion. She has *this*.” He pressed his palm to the sigil. “And it’s more real than any blade.”
The arena stilled.
Even Mordrek, watching from the shadows, stepped back.
And then—
I spoke.
Not to the crowd.
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.
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*.