The silence after Silas’s revelation wasn’t shock.
It was the stillness of a blade drawn across the throat—cold, sharp, inevitable.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the furs slipping from my bare shoulders, my fingers clenched around the hilt of my dagger. The sigil on my collarbone pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, rhythmic throb that matched my heartbeat. The bond flared—hot, electric, alive—but it wasn’t screaming. Not yet. It was watching. Waiting. Like it knew what was coming.
Kaelen stood in front of me, his body a wall between me and the door, his coat swirling behind him like a storm, his silver eyes burning. Frost clung to his shoulders, his breath a pale mist in the cold. He didn’t look at Silas. Didn’t speak. Just turned to me—long, hard, searching—like he was measuring how much truth I could take.
“My name,” I said, voice low, steady. “Is on that list.”
“Yes,” Kaelen said.
“And the others?”
“Fifty-seven,” Silas said, stepping forward, his voice careful. “All hybrids. All hidden after the Purge. Some were taken by rebel covens. Some by the Shadow Pact. Some by human Awakened who risked everything to save them.” He held out a scroll—sealed with black wax, the sigil of the Twilight Fae embossed in silver. “The Unifiers found it. Buried beneath the Tribunal’s lowest vault. It’s a registry. Names. Locations. Status. Some are marked ‘deceased.’ Others… ‘active.’”
My breath stilled.
Because I knew.
And so did he.
“And mine?” I asked, not looking at the scroll. Not yet.
“Active,” Kaelen said, voice rough. “Last known location: the Ember Hollow Coven. Northern Alps. They called you ‘Opal of the Flame.’ Said you were taken at ten. Hidden. Protected. Raised to fight.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared at the floor, my fingers tightening around the dagger. The fire in my blood stirred—low, restless, hungry. Not for battle. Not for vengeance.
For memory.
Because I remembered.
The cold stone of the cellar. The scent of damp earth and old herbs. The woman with ash-colored hair who called me *child* and taught me to light a flame without match or spark. The nights I spent dreaming of my mother’s voice, of her hands on my face, of the way she’d whispered, *“You’re stronger than they know.”*
I remembered.
And now—
They were still out there.
“We go,” I said, standing, my spine straight, my chin high.
“We?” Kaelen asked, stepping toward me.
“Not *I*,” I said, stepping into him, my hands fisting in his coat. “*We*. You said you’d stand beside me. Not protect. Not command. Stand.”
He didn’t answer.
Just cupped my face, his thumb brushing the sigil. A jolt of sensation tore through me—fire and ice, pleasure and pain. My breath hitched. My body arched toward him. “And if it’s a trap?” he asked, voice low. “If Mordrek’s remnants are waiting? If the Pureblood Faction has already moved?”
“Then we burn them,” I said, pressing my palm to his chest, over his heart. “But I’m not leaving them hidden. Not while I have fire in my veins and a throne to burn.”
He didn’t flinch. Just leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. “Then we go. But on one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“If I say stop—you stop. No matter what.”
My breath stilled.
Because I knew he would.
And worse—
I needed him to.
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll pull you out myself.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved my lips. “You always do.”
The Northern Alps rose like jagged teeth against the sky, their peaks cloaked in eternal snow, their valleys hidden beneath veils of mist and old magic. The air was thin, sharp with frost, the wind howling through the passes like a chorus of forgotten souls. We traveled fast—Kaelen in half-shift, his form massive, his coat torn back to reveal the frostfire pulsing beneath his skin, his claws gripping the ice with deadly precision. I rode behind him, my arms wrapped around his waist, my face pressed to his back, my breath fogging against the cold.
The bond flared—hot, electric, alive—a constant, maddening awareness of him. His heat. His strength. His truth. I could feel it in the way his muscles moved beneath my hands, in the way his breath deepened when I pressed closer, in the way his wolf growled low in his chest when I whispered, *“Faster.”*
And he obeyed.
We reached the Ember Hollow Coven at dusk.
Not a grand hall. Not a fortress. Just a cluster of stone huts nestled in a hidden valley, their roofs weighted with snow, their chimneys puffing thin trails of smoke into the twilight. A ring of standing stones surrounded the settlement, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dark. No guards. No warnings. Just silence. Stillness. Waiting.
“They know we’re here,” I said, sliding from Kaelen’s back, my boots crunching on frost-rimed stone.
“Of course they do,” he replied, shifting back to full form, his coat swirling behind him like a storm. “This is a coven of seers. They’ve seen you coming since the moment you burned the Tribunal.”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, 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 was… anchored. Like a fire that had finally found its hearth.
The first to emerge was a woman—tall, broad-shouldered, her face lined with age and power, her eyes glowing faintly with inherited magic. She wore a cloak of ash-colored wool, its hem stitched with runes that shimmered in the dim light. Her hands were calloused, her fingers marked with old burns. And her gaze—her gaze was sharp, assessing, knowing.
“You’ve grown,” she said, voice low, cutting through the wind. “But you still carry her fire.”
My breath stilled.
Because I knew.
And so did she.
“You were there,” I said, stepping forward. “The night they took me. You pulled me from the shadows.”
“I did,” she said, not flinching. “And I’d do it again.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother asked me to.”
The words hit like a blade.
Not sharp. Not sudden.
But deep.
“She knew,” I whispered. “She knew they’d come for me.”
“She did,” the woman said, stepping closer. “And she made me promise. To keep you safe. To raise you strong. To teach you how to burn.”
My hands clenched.
Not in rage.
Not in grief.
But in recognition.
Because it wasn’t just about her.
It was about me.
“You’re Elira,” I said, voice breaking. “The one who taught me to light a flame.”
“And the one who taught you to hide,” she said, not unkindly. “But you don’t have to hide anymore.” She turned, gesturing to the huts. “They’re waiting.”
And then—
They came.
Not in silence.
Not in fear.
But in truth.
Dozens of them—emerging from the huts, stepping from the shadows, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow. Hybrids with wolf ears and Fae grace. Witches with fire in their veins and scars on their skin. Werewolf cubs with cracked collars. Human-born Awakened who had been cast out for seeing too much. And at the center—
A boy.
Twelve years old. Maybe younger. His hair was wild, his face smudged with dirt, his tunic too big for his frame. But his eyes—his eyes were burning. Not with fear. Not with grief.
With defiance.
He stopped in front of me, his chin high, his spine straight. “Are you her?” he asked, voice low.
“Depends,” I said, crouching to his 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.”
He 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 night in the coven was not sleep.
It was reckoning.
We sat in the central hut—a low, circular chamber with a fire pit at its center, its walls lined with shelves of old tomes, dried herbs, and vials of glowing liquid. The air was thick with the scent of sage and old magic, the runes on the floor pulsing faintly in the dim light. Elira sat across from me, her hands resting on a worn wooden staff, her eyes sharp, assessing.
“You’ve changed,” she said, voice low. “The fire is stronger. But so is the fear.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said.
“You are,” she replied. “Not of battle. Not of death. But of being seen. Of being loved. Of being *known*.”
My breath stilled.
Because she was right.
And worse—
I couldn’t lie to her.
“I had to be strong,” I said, voice breaking. “I had to be cold. I had to be fire.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know how to be anything else.”
She didn’t flinch. Just leaned forward, her staff tapping the floor. “Then learn. Not from me. Not from the coven. From him.” She turned to Kaelen, who sat beside me, his coat swirling behind him like a storm, his silver eyes burning. “He sees you. Not just the queen. Not just the fire. The girl who hid in the shadows. The woman who burned the Oath-Book. The one who still dreams of her mother’s voice.”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned to him.
And he looked back.
Not with desire.
Not with possession.
But with truth.
“You’re not alone,” he said, voice low. “You never were.”
And then—
I broke.
Not with tears.
Not with screams.
But with silence.
A single breath. A single tremor. A single moment where the fire in my chest faltered, and the girl beneath the queen rose.
And he caught me.
Not with words.
Not with magic.
But with arms.
His arms wrapped around me, his breath warm against my neck, his frostfire cooling the heat, sealing the wound. The bond flared—hot, electric, unstoppable. My skin flushed. My breath hitched. My core ached.
And then—
I let it burn.
That night, I dreamed of her.
Not the coven. Not the children.
But my mother.
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.