The fire in my chest wasn’t real.
But the truth was.
As Kaelen carried me from the Veil Market, his arms tight around me, his breath warm against my neck, I felt it—like ash settling into my bones, like embers cooling after a blaze. The vision had shown me the part of myself I’d buried: the girl who wanted to burn everything down, who saw vengeance as justice, who believed love was weakness. And I’d let her die. Not with a blade, not with fire—but with surrender.
I didn’t hate Kaelen.
I didn’t want to destroy him.
I wanted to fight beside him.
And that changed everything.
We returned to the Spire in silence. No words were needed. The bond pulsed between us—hot, electric, alive—but it wasn’t screaming anymore. It was steady. Sure. Like a heartbeat. Like a vow. Silas followed behind, his coat dusted with frost, his expression unreadable, but his eyes sharp, watchful. He didn’t ask what had happened. Didn’t need to. He’d seen the way I’d collapsed into Kaelen’s arms. The way my dagger had fallen. The way my breath had hitched when I whispered, *“I let her go.”*
He knew.
And so did I.
The real war wasn’t out there in the shadows. It wasn’t with Mordrek, or the Shadow Pact, or the Pureblood Faction.
It was in here.
And I’d just won it.
We reached our chambers, and Kaelen didn’t let go. Just carried me inside, kicked the door shut behind us, and laid me gently on the furs. The fire in the hearth flared to life—his doing, not mine—and the room warmed, the frost on the windows beginning to melt. He knelt beside me, his silver eyes burning, his fingers brushing the sigil on my collarbone.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough. “You’re not just saying this because of the bond? Because of what you saw?”
“I’m sure,” I said, sitting up, my hands rising to frame his face. “I’m not fighting for her anymore. Not just for her. I’m fighting for us. For what we could be. For what we are.”
He didn’t answer.
Just leaned in and kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Claiming.
His mouth moved against mine, hot and sure, his hands sliding to my waist, pulling me close. The bond flared—white-hot, electric, unstoppable. My skin flushed. My nipples hardened. My core ached. I moaned—low, broken, unfiltered—and the sound was swallowed by his kiss.
And then—
I pulled back.
“The Tribunal,” I said, voice low. “We need to burn it.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—long, hard, searching. “You know what that means.”
“I do.”
“It’s not just a building. It’s a symbol. The place where they tried your mother. Where they sentenced her. Where they called her an abomination.”
“And where they’ll try others,” I said, standing, my spine straight, my chin high. “Where they’ll burn more witches. Where they’ll exile more hybrids. Where they’ll uphold the lie that purity is power.” I turned to him, my dark eyes locking onto his. “I’m not just burning a building, Kaelen. I’m burning the past.”
He didn’t argue. Just stood, his coat swirling behind him like a storm. “Then we do it tonight.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not *we*,” I said, stepping closer. “Me.”
His jaw tightened. “You don’t go alone.”
“I’m not asking for permission,” I said, pressing my palm to his chest, over his heart. “I’m telling you. This is my fight. This is my fire. And if I don’t do it myself, it means nothing.”
He didn’t like it. I could see it in the way his fingers twitched, in the way his wolf growled low in his chest. But he didn’t argue. Just cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Then I’ll be close. Watching. Waiting. If you call, I come.”
“Always,” I whispered.
“Always,” he echoed.
The Tribunal stood at the edge of the Spire’s lower district—a jagged tower of black stone, its spires clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. No windows. No doors. Just a single archway, sealed with iron runes that pulsed faintly in the dark. It wasn’t just a courthouse. It was a prison. A tomb. A monument to the lies we’d lived under.
I approached alone.
No guards. No escort. No magic shielding me. Just me. Just fire. Just fury.
The air was thick with the scent of old blood, of burnt parchment, of fear. The runes on the archway flared as I neared—bright, cold, alive—testing me, probing, searching for weakness. But I wasn’t weak.
Not anymore.
I placed my palm against the iron seal.
And burned.
Fire roared from my hand—bright, fierce, unstoppable—melting the runes, cracking the stone, shattering the seal. The archway groaned, then collapsed inward, dust and ash filling the air. I stepped through, my boots silent on stone, my dagger at my hip, my breath slow, controlled.
The chamber inside was vast—circular, with tiered seating rising like a colosseum. At the center, a dais of black stone, stained with old blood. Chains hung from the ceiling, their links rusted, their purpose clear. And on the walls—records. Thousands of them. Scrolls sealed with wax, names etched in iron, verdicts written in blood.
My mother’s name was there.
I found it fast—*Seraphina of the Ember Circle, charged with corruption of Fae blood, sentenced to execution by fire, verdict upheld by High Chancellor Mordrek.*
My hands clenched.
But I didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
Just burned.
Fire surged from my palms—white-hot, blinding—not rage, not grief, but power. The scrolls ignited, the wax melting, the ink blackening, the names turning to ash. The chains melted. The dais cracked. The walls trembled. And then—
It spread.
Not just the fire.
But the truth.
Because I wasn’t just burning the records.
I was burning the lie.
That hybrids were abominations.
That witches were thieves.
That love between species was a crime.
It wasn’t.
It was revolution.
The fire roared through the chamber, consuming everything—stone, metal, memory. I stood at the center, my arms raised, my hair whipping around me, my skin glowing with embers. The bond pulsed—hot, electric, alive—but it wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t controlling.
It was celebrating.
And then—
They came.
Not Mordrek. Not the Shadow Pact.
But them.
The forgotten. The exiled. The ones who’d been sentenced here, who’d been branded, who’d been silenced. Hybrids with wolf eyes and Fae grace. Witches with fire in their veins and scars on their skin. Werewolves with broken collars and burning hearts. They poured through the archway—dozens, then hundreds—drawn by the fire, by the truth, by the woman who’d dared to burn the Tribunal.
And they didn’t attack.
They knelt.
Not to me.
But to the fire.
And to what it meant.
I stepped down from the dais, my boots silent on ash, my breath slow, controlled. The flames still roared behind me, but I didn’t look back. Just walked to the first of them—a young hybrid, her eyes wide, her hands trembling.
“You’re free,” I said, voice clear, steady.
She didn’t speak. Just nodded, tears in her eyes.
Then the next. And the next. And the next.
“You’re not an abomination.”
“You’re not a crime.”
“You’re not alone.”
And then—
They rose.
Not in anger.
Not in violence.
But in unity.
They turned to the Spire—its towers rising in the distance, its lights flickering like stars—and they roared.
A sound that wasn’t just sound.
It was a promise.
That the old world was over.
That the lie was dead.
That we were here.
And then—
He was there.
Kaelen.
He stood at the edge of the archway, 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 speak. Didn’t move. Just watched me—long, hard, searching.
And then—
He stepped forward.
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’re magnificent,” he said, voice low.
“Then fight beside me,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Just turned to the crowd—my people, our people—and raised his hand.
And they answered.
Not with words.
But with fire.
With frost.
With truth.
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 in fire.
Not in ash.
But in light.
And this time—
He dreamed with me.