The first thing I feel is the cold.
Not the kind that bites at your skin or numbs your fingers. This is deeper—like the chill of a grave, seeping through stone and bone. The Silver Spire wasn’t built for warmth. It was built for power. Towers of polished moonstone rise into the bruised twilight, their peaks wreathed in mist, their halls lit by floating orbs of captured starlight. I step across the threshold, my boots silent on the silver-veined marble, and the air shifts. It’s not just the temperature. It’s the magic—thick, old, and laced with lies.
I smooth my hands over the fabric of my gown—deep emerald velvet, embroidered with golden sigils of the Eastern Coven. A lie, all of it. The name I carry, the title I wear, the bloodline I claim. None of it is real. But the fire in my veins? That’s true. And it’s the only thing keeping me from freezing solid in this gilded tomb.
Twenty years. That’s how long it’s been since they took my mother from me. Since King Veylan stood over her broken body and carved his curse into my palm with a blade of black iron. I was seven. I remember the scent of her blood—copper and roses. I remember the way her fingers curled around mine as she whispered, “*Burn bright, my daughter. Burn so they cannot forget you.*”
And then he took her fire.
They say a witch’s magic is tied to her soul. That when it’s stolen, she dies twice—once in body, once in spirit. I watched her fade, breath by breath, until there was nothing left but ash in the wind.
Now I’m back. Not to mourn. Not to beg.
To burn.
The Grand Hall unfolds before me—a cathedral of ice and arrogance. Long tables of white oak stretch toward the dais, where the royal family sits in silent judgment. Fae don’t need to shout to assert dominance. A glance is enough. A breath. The slow tilt of a crown.
I keep my spine straight, my expression neutral. My pulse is steady. My magic is caged. I’ve spent years mastering control, learning to smother the flames before they rise. One slip—one spark—and the entire court will know I’m not who I say I am.
But then I see him.
He’s not on the dais.
He’s standing at the edge of the room, half in shadow, half in light. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black and silver, like a storm given form. His hair is the color of smoke, pulled back from a face carved with severity—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, lips that look like they’ve never smiled. But it’s his eyes that stop me.
Silver. Not reflective. Not metallic. Alive. Like twin stars caught in a winter sky.
And they’re locked on me.
A jolt hits me—low in my stomach, sharp as a blade. My breath catches. My skin prickles. The fire inside me surges, unbidden, a wild thing clawing at its cage. I force it down, but it’s too late. Something has already answered.
The bond.
No. Impossible.
Fated mates are myths. Fairy tales told to fools and poets. The Fae don’t believe in them. They believe in bloodlines, in oaths, in power. They don’t believe in destiny.
But the bond doesn’t care what we believe.
It knows.
I feel it like a thread pulled taut between us—hot, electric, wrong. It hums under my skin, a vibration that travels up my arm, down my spine, coiling low in my belly. I take a step back. My heel hits the marble. I don’t look away.
He doesn’t either.
And then he moves.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a shift of weight, a step forward. But the room changes. The nobles turn. The air thickens. Even the floating lights seem to dim, as if bowing to his presence.
Kaelen Dain.
Prince Regent. Heir to the Silver Throne. The man who will sit where his father does now—cold, untouchable, guilty.
He’s the obstacle. The wall between me and my revenge. The son of the monster who murdered my mother.
And he’s my fated mate.
The thought is a poison. A betrayal. I clench my fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms. The sigil he carved into my hand as a child flares—a dull, familiar ache. You will never claim what is yours. You will love only the one who destroys you.
Is this the curse? Is this how it begins?
A hand touches my elbow. I flinch.
“Diplomat Brielle,” a voice murmurs. “You’re expected at the ritual circle.”
I turn. A steward—tall, pale, eyes like chips of ice—bows slightly. I nod, forcing my expression into something neutral. “Of course.”
He leads me forward, through the parting crowd. Whispers follow me. Eastern Coven. Fire magic. Unusual for a diplomat. I keep my gaze ahead. The circle is in the center of the hall—etched into the floor in silver and obsidian, symbols glowing faintly with dormant power. It’s a treaty ritual, meant to seal the alliance between the Fae and the Witch Circles. A formality. A show of unity.
But I know better.
Rituals are weapons. And I’ve spent years learning how to wield them.
I step into the circle. The magic hums beneath my feet. I close my eyes for a breath, centering myself. When I open them, he’s there.
Kaelen.
He steps into the circle opposite me. No crown. No fanfare. Just him—his presence like a storm front rolling in. The air crackles. The sigils flare brighter.
The High Priestess raises her hands. “Let the bond of alliance be sealed in truth and light. Let the hands of envoy and regent join, that magic may witness their vow.”
My stomach drops.
They’re going to make us touch.
I glance at Kaelen. His expression is unreadable. But his eyes—those damn silver stars—burn with something I can’t name. Recognition. Hunger. Warning.
We step forward.
The circle pulses. The air thickens with magic. I extend my right hand—palm up, fingers steady. My left hand hides the sigil, the scar that marks me as an outcast, as a thief, as a target.
He reaches out.
His fingers are long, strong, the knuckles scarred. A warrior’s hand. A killer’s hand.
And then—skin to skin.
The world explodes.
Fire and ice tear through me, a current so violent I stagger. My breath is gone. My vision whites out. I feel him—everywhere. In my blood, in my bones, in the hollow of my throat. His heartbeat echoes mine. His breath matches my gasp. The bond isn’t a thread anymore. It’s a chain, a brand, a claim.
I try to pull away. But his hand tightens.
“Don’t,” he says. His voice is low, rough. “Don’t fight it.”
“I’m not yours,” I hiss, but my voice trembles.
“No,” he agrees. “But you will be.”
The magic surges. The sigils blaze. I feel it—the mark beginning to form. Not on my palm. Not yet. But in my veins, in my chest, in the space between my neck and collarbone where a claim is made. It burns. It pulls.
I want to scream. I want to burn this place to the ground.
But all I can do is stare into his eyes and feel the truth I’ve spent my life denying.
He’s not just the enemy.
He’s mine.
And I’m his.
The ritual ends. The magic fades. But the bond remains—pulsing, alive, hungry.
He releases my hand slowly, his thumb brushing over my wrist as he pulls away. A caress. A threat.
I step back, clutching my hand to my chest. My skin still tingles where he touched me. My pulse hasn’t slowed. My fire hasn’t died.
Across the circle, he watches me. Not with triumph. Not with cruelty.
With something worse.
Understanding.
He knows what this means. He knows who I am—or at least, he suspects.
And he’s not afraid.
The High Priestess speaks, but I don’t hear the words. The nobles murmur. Lysara Vale—slim, sharp, draped in green silk—smirks from her seat, her fingers tracing the ring on her left hand. Kaelen’s ring. A lie, another lie, but one that stings anyway.
I turn and walk out of the circle. Out of the hall. No one stops me.
Not until I reach the archway.
“Brielle.”
His voice. Behind me.
I freeze.
“You felt it,” he says. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
I turn. He’s still in the circle, but his eyes are on me. The light catches the silver in them, turns them into something ancient, something feral.
“I felt nothing,” I lie.
He smiles. Just once. Just enough to show the edge of his teeth.
“Liar,” he murmurs. “You felt me. You felt the bond. And you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re afraid of what you want.”
My breath hitches. The fire inside me flares, uncontrolled, and for a second, the torches along the wall flicker red.
His smile widens.
“Good,” he says. “Burn for me, little witch. I’ll burn with you.”
I turn and walk away.
My hand still tingles.
My neck still burns.
And in the silence of my mind, one truth echoes, relentless, undeniable:
I came here to kill him.
And I just felt his soul.