The first time I saw the school, it wasn’t a building.
It was a promise.
A hollowed-out warehouse on the edge of Vienna’s lower district, its brick walls scarred with old graffiti, its windows cracked, its roof sagging under decades of snow and neglect. The sign above the door—“Formerly: Concord Storage & Containment Unit 7”—had been pried off, leaving only rusted bolts and the ghost of letters. But the new banner fluttering in the wind? That was real.
“The Ember Hollow Academy. For the Lost. The Forgotten. The Free.”
I stood across the street, my boots silent on frost-rimed stone, my hands buried in the pockets of my coat. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed faintly beneath the fabric, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched my heartbeat. The bond flared—hot, electric, alive—a constant, maddening awareness of him.
Kaelen.
He stood beside me, his coat swirling behind him like a storm, his silver eyes scanning the building. Frost clung to his shoulders, his breath a pale mist in the cold. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched—long, hard, searching.
“It’s not much,” I said, voice low.
“It’s everything,” he replied.
And he was right.
Because this wasn’t just a school.
It was a declaration.
A middle finger to the Tribunal. A spit in the face of Mordrek’s legacy. A place where hybrids wouldn’t be branded abominations, where witches wouldn’t be burned for power, where Fae-blooded children wouldn’t be exiled for loving the wrong person.
This was where the future would be forged.
And I—
I was going to teach them how to burn.
The doors opened at dawn.
No fanfare. No speeches. No pomp. Just a slow, steady stream of children—some alone, some clinging to parents who trembled with fear and hope, some with scars still fresh on their wrists from shattered collars. They came in silence, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow, their boots crunching on the frozen ground. Hybrids with wolf ears and Fae grace. Witches with fire in their veins and shadows in their eyes. Werewolf cubs with cracked runes on their necks. Human-born Awakened who had been cast out for seeing too much.
And at the center—
A girl.
Twelve years old. Maybe younger. Her hair was wild, her face smudged with dirt, her tunic too big for her frame. But her eyes—her eyes were burning. Not with fear. Not with grief.
With defiance.
She stopped in front of me, her chin high, her spine straight. “Are you her?” she asked, voice low.
“Depends,” I said, crouching to her level. “Who are you looking for?”
“The Marked Queen.”
I didn’t flinch. Just pressed my palm to the sigil. “I’m Opal. And you’re safe here.”
She didn’t cry. Didn’t smile. Just nodded, then turned and walked inside.
Kaelen stepped beside me, his presence a wall of cold and heat. “You’re good with them,” he said, voice low.
“I was one of them,” I replied, standing. “Once.”
He didn’t answer.
Just reached for me.
Not to pull me close.
Not to claim.
But to hold.
His hand rose, fingers brushing the sigil. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My breath hitched. My body arched toward him. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve already given them a future.”
“And if I don’t teach them how to keep it?” I asked, stepping back, my dark eyes locking onto his. “Then it’ll be taken. Again. And I won’t let that happen.”
He didn’t flinch. Just cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Then I’ll be here. Watching. Fighting. Protecting.”
“Not protecting,” I said, stepping into him, my hands fisting in his coat. “Standing beside me.”
“Always,” he murmured.
“Always,” I echoed.
The first class was held in the main hall—a vast, open space with cracked tile floors and exposed beams. No desks. No chairs. Just a circle of cushions on the ground, where the children sat, their backs straight, their eyes sharp. I stood at the center, my boots silent on stone, my dagger strapped to my thigh, my tunic tight against my skin. The sigil pulsed beneath the fabric, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched my heartbeat. The bond flared—hot, electric, alive—but it wasn’t screaming. It wasn’t demanding.
It was… present.
Like a fire that had finally found its fuel.
“You’re here,” I said, voice clear, steady, “because you were told you didn’t belong. Because you were called abominations. Monsters. Tainted.” I stepped forward, my gaze sweeping the room. “They were wrong.”
No one spoke. No one moved. Just watched—long, hard, searching.
“You are not wrong,” I continued. “You are not broken. You are not weak. You are power.” I raised my hand—fire roaring from my palm, bright and fierce, filling the hall with light. “And no one gets to take that from you.”
A gasp. Then silence.
Then—
One by one, they raised their hands.
A witch with ember-colored eyes summoned a flame. A hybrid with wolf ears pulled frost from the air. A human-born Awakened with Fae blood in her veins shimmered with inherited glamour. And the girl—the defiant one—held up a dagger, its blade glowing with runes she’d carved herself.
“Good,” I said, lowering my hand, the fire dying to embers. “Now, we learn how to use it.”
That night, I dreamed of her.
Not the girl.
Not the child.
But me.
Ten years old. Hidden in the shadows of the Tribunal. My hands pressed to my mouth. My breath coming in ragged gasps. My mother—bound, defiant, her eyes blazing with fury—screaming as the fire rose.
“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.”
And then—
I woke.
Not screaming.
Not trembling.
But rising.
Kaelen was beside me, his arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against my neck. Frost clung to the windows, the fire in the hearth reduced to embers, the room bathed in the pale light of dawn. His coat was on the floor, his tunic crumpled beside the bed, his scars visible in the dim light—old wounds, old battles, old pain. And yet, for the first time since I’d met him, he looked… soft.
Not weak. Never weak.
But open.
I didn’t move. Just watched him—his jaw relaxed, his silver eyes hidden behind closed lids, his fingers twitching slightly, like he was dreaming. Of what? Of me? Of fire? Of the war we were still fighting?
Maybe all of it.
The bond pulsed—hot, electric, alive—but it wasn’t the desperate, clawing need of before. It was quieter now. Deeper. Like a river that had finally found its course. I pressed my palm to the sigil on my collarbone, feeling the warmth beneath my skin, the way it hummed in time with my heartbeat. Last night hadn’t been about magic. It hadn’t been about the ritual, the heat, the bond’s demands.
It had been about choice.
And I’d chosen him.
Not because I had to.
Not because the Council had forced me.
But because I wanted to.
Because I loved him.
The thought didn’t shock me. Didn’t scare me. It just… was. Like the fire in my blood, like the scars on my soul, like the truth I’d buried for years.
I loved him.
And I wasn’t going to hide it anymore.
I shifted slightly, trying to slip out from under his arm, but he stirred—just a breath, just a twitch—and then his grip tightened, pulling me back against him.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Not yet.”
I didn’t argue. Just settled back, my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His fingers traced the curve of my hip, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing me.
“You’re thinking,” he said after a moment.
“I’m always thinking.”
“About what?”
“About the school,” I said, voice low. “About the girl. The one with the dagger.”
He turned his head, his lips brushing my temple. “She’s like you.”
“She’s better,” I said. “She didn’t wait. She didn’t hide. She walked in like she owned the place.”
“Like her queen,” he said, voice low.
I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze as his silver eyes opened, sharp, assessing, hungry. “Regrets?”
“None,” I said. “Not one.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “Good.”
And then—
The door burst open.
Not with a knock. Not with a warning.
With force.
Silas stood in the doorway, his coat dusted with frost, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were wide. Alarmed.
“They’ve found something,” he said, voice low. “In the old Tribunal archives. A list. Names. Dates. Executions.”
I sat up fast, the furs slipping from my bare shoulders, my hand instinctively going to the dagger on the nightstand. Kaelen was beside me in an instant, his body a wall between me and the door, his presence a storm in the stillness.
“What kind of list?” I asked, voice sharp.
“Hybrids,” Silas said. “Children. Hidden. Protected. Some of them are still alive.”
My breath stilled.
Because I knew.
And so did he.
“And the names?” I asked, voice low.
Silas didn’t answer.
But Kaelen did.
“One of them,” he said, turning to me, his silver eyes burning. “Is yours.”
My chest tightened.
Because he was right.
And worse—
I wasn’t ready.
But I would be.
Because this wasn’t just about me.
It was about them.
The lost. The forgotten. The free.
And I—
I was going to find them.
One by one.
And I wasn’t going to stop until every last one of them was safe.
That night, I dreamed of him.
Not in fire.
Not in ash.
But in light.
And this time—
He dreamed with me.
“Still hate me?” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“Only,” I whispered, pressing my palm to the sigil, “when you’re late to bed, King.”
He laughed—low, throaty, dangerous—and rolled us over, so I was on top, straddling him, his cock still inside me. I didn’t move. Just looked down at him—silver eyes burning, jaw tight, lips parted. And then—
I kissed him.
Slow. Deep. Claiming.
Because he was right.
I did want him.
Not just his power. Not just his protection.
But him.
And I wasn’t going to let him go.
Not now.
Not ever.
The bond flared—hot, alive, unbroken.
And for the first time since the ritual—
I didn’t fight it.
I just let it burn.
And in my room, on the pillow beside me—
Lay a single frost-lily.
Pure white.
Unbroken.
And mine.