The moment I step into my father’s chambers, I know I’ve crossed a line.
Not just from prince to regent. Not just from heir to challenger. But from obedience to defiance. The air in the throne room is thick with ozone and old magic, the scent of decay beneath the illusion of power. Veylan sits on his bone-and-moonstone throne, pale as death, eyes like chips of ice. His silver hair falls in perfect waves, his robes immaculate, his expression one of eternal disdain. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Just stares into the middle distance, as if I’m already forgotten.
But I’m not.
I’ve never been.
“You summoned me,” I say, voice low, controlled. My boots echo on the marble, each step deliberate. I stop ten paces from the dais. Close enough to see the cracks in his glamour. Close enough to smell the rot beneath the skin.
“You were late,” he replies, not looking at me. “The Council waits.”
“The Council can wait.”
That gets his attention.
His head turns. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes lock onto mine. “You forget your place, son.”
“I remember it,” I say. “I am Prince Regent. Heir to the Silver Throne. Protector of the Concord. And I will not be spoken to like a child.”
He smiles—thin, cold. “You will be spoken to as I see fit. Until the day you take this throne. And even then—” He leans forward. “—you will kneel.”
My magic flares. Lightning crackles at my fingertips. The sconces flicker. The runes along the walls pulse with warning.
He sees it. Doesn’t flinch. “You’ve always been too emotional. Too weak. A prince should be ice. Not storm.”
“And a king should be more than a corpse in a crown,” I counter.
His eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“I’m not here to play games,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m here about Brielle.”
His expression doesn’t change. But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. The tightening of his jaw. The way his fingers curl around the arm of the throne.
He knows.
“The witch from the Eastern Coven?” he asks, voice calm. “A fraud. A hybrid. A threat to the purity of our bloodline.”
“She’s not from the Eastern Coven.”
“Then who is she?”
“You know who she is.” I step closer. “She’s Elowen’s daughter.”
His breath hitches—just for a second. But I hear it. I see it. The crack in the mask.
“Elowen is dead,” he says, voice flat. “Executed for treason. Her bloodline extinguished.”
“You’re lying.”
“*I* lie?” He laughs—sharp, brittle. “You’re the one who brought a weapon into my court. A half-blood with fire in her veins and vengeance in her heart. You’ve marked her. Claimed her. Let her twist your mind with her fated bond.”
“The bond didn’t twist my mind,” I say. “It opened my eyes.”
“To what? To weakness? To distraction? To *her*?” He stands, slow, deliberate. His presence fills the room, a suffocating weight. “She’s not fated to you, Kaelen. She’s *cursed.* And she will destroy you.”
“She’s the lost heir.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
He freezes. His eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then *burn.*
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he hisses.
“I saw it,” I say. “In the Trial Chamber. Her fire—it wasn’t witchfire. It was *Unseelie.* Ancient. Wild. *True.* And when I touched her, the bond flared. Not with magic. With *recognition.* She’s not just my mate. She’s the last of the bloodline. The one who can break your immortality.”
He steps down from the dais. Slow. Deliberate. His boots echo on the marble. “And what will you do, son? Hand her the throne? Let her burn me from within?”
“You murdered her mother,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “You stole her magic. You erased her name. You think I won’t see the truth? You think I won’t *act* on it?”
“You will do as I command,” he says. “You will strip her of her title. You will exile her. You will erase her from this court.”
“No.”
“*No?*” He laughs—low, venomous. “You forget who made you. Who raised you. Who gave you power.”
“You gave me a crown,” I say. “But you never gave me *strength.* That came from her.”
“She’s a *threat.*”
“She’s my *mate.*”
“And you’re my *son.*” He steps closer. “Or have you forgotten that too?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I say. “I haven’t forgotten how you drained your own mother’s magic to extend your life. I haven’t forgotten how you executed Elowen in the Hybrid Tribunal. I haven’t forgotten how you’ve ruled this court with fear and lies.”
“And yet you serve me.”
“No,” I say. “I *obey* you. There’s a difference.”
He stares at me. His eyes are dark. Cold. *Dead.*
And then—
—he smiles.
Not kind. Not warm. But *knowing.*
“You think you’re protecting her,” he says. “You think you’re defying me. But you’re just playing into her hands.”
“Explain.”
“She didn’t come here for you,” he says. “She came here for *me.* To kill me. To take what’s mine. And you—” He steps closer. “—you’re just the weapon she’ll use to get close.”
“She’s not using me.”
“Aren’t you?” He tilts his head. “You think she loves you? You think she wants you for *you?* She wants your power. Your position. Your *weakness.*”
“She’s not like you.”
“No,” he agrees. “She’s worse. Because she *believes* in her cause. She thinks she’s righteous. She thinks she’s *just.*” He leans in. “And that makes her dangerous.”
My magic flares. Lightning cracks across the ceiling. The torches snuff out. The runes along the walls flicker and die.
“You’re afraid of her,” I say.
“I’m not afraid of *her.*” His voice drops. “I’m afraid of *you.* Of what you’ll do when she turns you against me. Of how you’ll let her burn this court to the ground.”
“Then kill me,” I say. “If I’m such a threat.”
He stares at me. For a long moment, I think he might. I see the calculation in his eyes. The way his fingers twitch. The way his magic coils, ready to strike.
But he doesn’t.
Because he knows.
He knows that if he kills me, the bond will destroy her. And if she dies, so does his immortality.
“Kill her,” he says instead. “Before she kills us.”
My breath stops.
“She’s a threat,” he continues. “To the throne. To the court. To *you.* Kill her. Exile her. *Destroy* her.”
“No.”
“You will obey me.”
“I won’t.”
He steps back. His expression is unreadable. “Then you leave me no choice.”
“What choice?”
“The choice,” he says, voice low, “between her life… and yours.”
My magic surges. Lightning cracks through the chamber. The floor trembles. The throne cracks.
But I don’t move.
Because I know the truth.
He won’t kill me.
Not yet.
Because he needs me. Needs the bond. Needs *her.*
And that means—
—I have leverage.
“You’re weak,” I say. “You’re dying. And you know it. That’s why you need her fire. That’s why you’re afraid of her. Because she can *end* you.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, his eyes like frozen stars.
“I won’t kill her,” I say. “But I will protect her. From you. From the court. From *everyone.*”
“And if I strip you of your title?”
“Then I’ll take it back.”
“And if I exile you?”
“Then I’ll return.”
“And if I kill you?”
“Then I’ll die knowing I chose her.” I step forward. “And you’ll die knowing you lost.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. The crack in the mask. The *fear.*
“You’re dismissed,” he says, voice flat.
I don’t bow. Don’t kneel. Just turn and walk away.
And as I leave, I know one thing—
The war has begun.
—
Later, I find her in the east garden.
She stands beneath the silver willow, her back to me, her auburn hair catching the dawn light like embers in ash. The shawl is still around her shoulders—black, lined with silver thread. *Mine.*
And she’s training.
A small flame dances above her palm, swirling like a living thing. She flicks her wrist, and it splits into three, then coiled into a spiral. Her control is precise. But beneath it, I feel the power—wild, ancient, dangerous.
I step onto the path. Gravel crunches under my boots.
She doesn’t turn. “Come to gloat, Prince?”
“Come to warn you,” I say, stopping a few paces away.
She closes her fist. The flame vanishes. “About what?”
“Veylan knows.”
She turns then, her green eyes sharp. “Knows what?”
“Who you are.” I step closer. “He knows you’re Elowen’s daughter. He knows you’re Unseelie. He knows you’re the heir.”
Her breath catches. Her fire flares. The torches along the path flicker red.
“And?”
“And he wants you dead.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just crosses her arms over her chest, unashamed, unafraid. “Then let him try.”
“He will.” I step closer. “He’ll use the court. The Council. The Tribunal. He’ll exile you. He’ll execute you. He’ll do whatever it takes to erase you.”
“And you?” She tilts her head. “What will *you* do?”
“Protect you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.” I reach out, slow, deliberate, and brush my fingers over the mark. A jolt of heat rips through her. Her breath hitches. Her core tightens. “I don’t care about the throne. I don’t care about the court. I don’t care about the prophecy.” I step closer. “I care about *you.*”
She stares at me. Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are parted.
“You don’t know me,” she whispers.
“I know your fire flares when I’m near. I know your pulse jumps when I touch you. I know you came apart in my hands, Brielle. I know you *screamed* my name.”
“I don’t remember.”
“But your body does.” I step closer. “It remembers every thrust. Every time I made you come. Every time you begged for more.”
“Stop.”
“No.” My hand slides to her jaw, tilting her face up. “You think I’d let them destroy you? You think I’d let them exile you? You think I’d let them *kill* you?”
“You’re the Prince Regent,” she says. “You have to.”
“No,” I say, voice low, rough. “I have to protect what’s mine. And you—” I lean in, my breath warm against her ear. “—are *mine.*”
The bond hums, a live wire, a current of need. Her body arches into me. Her hands grip my arms. Her breath hitches.
And then—
—a voice.
“Sire.”
Taryn.
Standing at the entrance to the garden, his wolf-blooded eyes wide. “The King demands you. Now.”
I don’t move. My hand is still on her jaw. My gaze is still on her.
“Later,” I say.
“He said immediately.”
I exhale—slow, controlled. Then I lean down, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “This isn’t over,” I murmur.
And then I straighten. My hand slides from her jaw, but I don’t let go of her wrist. I keep it in my grip, a tether, a promise.
“Come with me,” I say.
She hesitates. Just for a second. But I see it—the flicker in her eyes. Not fear. Not doubt. *Want.*
Then she nods.
And together, we walk out—
—leaving the garden in silence.
—
The moment the doors close behind us, she speaks.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
We walk down the hall, side by side, my hand still on her wrist, her arm brushing mine. The bond hums, a live wire, a current of need.
“No,” I agree. “But I wanted to.”
“You think this changes anything? They still see me as a fraud. A hybrid. A *whore.*”
“And I see you as mine.” I stop, turning to face her. The hall is empty. The air is quiet. Just us. “They don’t know you. They don’t know your fire. Your rage. Your *purpose.* But I do.”
Her breath hitches. “And what do you see?”
“I see a woman who’s spent her life burning for revenge. I see a warrior who refuses to be broken. I see a queen who doesn’t know she’s already won.”
She stares at me. Her eyes are wide. Her lips are parted. Her fire flares.
“You don’t know me,” she whispers.
“I know your body answers mine before your mind can stop it. I know your pulse jumps when I touch you. I know you came apart in my hands, Brielle. I know you *screamed* my name.”
She shivers. “I don’t remember.”
“But your body does.” I step closer. “It remembers every thrust. Every time I made you come. Every time you begged for more.”
“Stop.”
“No.” My hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and brushes over the mark. “You think I’d let them humiliate you? You think I’d let Lysara wear my clothes, flaunt her bite, whisper poison in your ear?”
“You did.”
“I *used* her.” My eyes darken. “I knew she’d provoke you. I knew you’d fight. I wanted to see you *alive.* Angry. Passionate. *Mine.*”
Her heart hammers. “You’re a monster.”
“And you love it.” I lean in, my breath warm against her ear. “You love the fire. You love the fight. You love *me.*”
“I hate you.”
“No.” My hand slides to her jaw, tilting her face up. “You hate that you want me. That you *need* me. That you’re *fated* to me.”
My lips brush her neck, just above the mark. “And I’ll never let you forget it.”
She closes her eyes. The fire in her blood roars. The bond hums, a live wire, a current of need.
And for the first time, she doesn’t fight it.
Because the truth is—
She doesn’t know if she was taken.
Or if she gave herself.
And either way—
She’s no longer hers.
She’s mine.
And the worst part?
She doesn’t want to be free.
She wants to burn.
—
Later, in my chambers, I pour a glass of black wine and drink it in one swallow. The bitterness burns my throat, but it does nothing to cool the fire in my blood.
I strip off my tunic, the fabric heavy with the scent of storm and iron. I go to the mirror. My reflection stares back—pale skin, sharp features, silver eyes that look more like weapons than windows to a soul.
But beneath the surface, something is shifting.
I roll up my sleeve and trace the old scar on my forearm—the wound that never healed. The skin is still numb. Dead.
But my magic?
I close my eyes and reach for it. Lightning crackles at my fingertips, brighter than it’s been in years. The air hums. The sconces flicker.
The bond is feeding it.
And I’m not afraid anymore.
Because for the first time in centuries, I feel alive.
And I know—
She’s the only one who can burn me.
And I’ll burn with her.
Even if it destroys us both.