The vial is gone.
Not lost. Not misplaced. Not forgotten.
Gone.
I stand in the center of my chambers, the black gown clinging to my body like ash and vengeance, my hands clenched at my sides, my fire coiled low in my belly. The room is quiet. The torches are steady. The air is thick with the scent of old magic and storm residue. And the dressing table—where the vial once sat like a coiled serpent, waiting, watching—now holds only dust.
And a single black feather.
My breath hitches.
I don’t need to pick it up to know who left it.
Cassien.
He was here.
While I slept in Kaelen’s arms. While the bond soothed the pain. While I let myself believe—just for a moment—that I was safe.
And he took it.
Not the vial.
Not the blood pact.
But the *choice.*
He stole it. Like he stole my memory. Like he stole my breath. Like he stole the truth from my blood.
And I don’t know what terrifies me more—the fact that he was here, unseen, unchallenged—or the fact that part of me *wanted* him to take it.
Because now, there’s no escape.
No backup plan.
No way out.
Only Kaelen.
Only the bond.
Only the fire.
I press my fingers to the mark—deep silver, permanent, pulsing faintly with magic—and a jolt of heat rips through me. My core tightens. My breath hitches. The fire in my blood flares, unbidden, a wild thing clawing at its cage. The torches along the wall flicker red. I clamp down. I smother it. But it’s no use. The bond is awake. It’s *alive.* And it’s hungry.
I don’t want it.
I *can’t* want it.
And yet.
I do.
I turn from the dressing table and stride to the door, my boots silent on the marble. I don’t look back. I don’t hesitate. I just move—fast, purposeful, *dangerous.* The halls of the Silver Spire are quiet, the nobles still recovering from the chaos of the Trial Chamber, the servants scurrying like shadows. I keep my spine straight, my expression neutral. My pulse is steady. My fire is caged. But beneath it, I’m shaking.
Because I know where I’m going.
And I know what I’ll find.
The east garden.
Where the silver willow stands, its branches weeping like tears of moonlight. Where I trained in secret. Where Lysara wore Kaelen’s shirt like a trophy. Where Cassien whispered poison in my ear.
And where Kaelen found me.
Again and again.
I push open the iron gate and step onto the path. Gravel crunches under my boots. The air is sharp, clean, laced with the scent of frost and old stone. And there—beneath the silver willow—is Taryn.
Not Kaelen.
Not Cassien.
But Taryn.
Wolf-blooded. Stoic. Watchful.
He turns as I approach, his golden eyes locking onto mine. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just waits.
“Where is he?” I demand, my voice steady.
“The Prince Regent is with the Council,” he says, voice low. “Debating your fate.”
My breath stops. “My *fate?*”
“Veylan has declared you a threat to the purity of the bloodline. He demands your exile.”
“And Kaelen?”
“Fights for you.”
My fire flares. “Then why isn’t he here?”
“Because he sent me.” Taryn steps forward, slow, deliberate. “To protect you.”
“From what?”
“From yourself.”
I freeze. “What did he tell you?”
“That you’re the lost heir.” His voice is calm. Measured. “That you’re Unseelie. That you’re fated to him.”
My breath hitches. “And?”
“And that you’re dangerous.”
“So am I.” I step closer. “So is he. So is everyone in this cursed court.”
“But you’re different.” He tilts his head. “You don’t just burn. You *consume.*”
“And you’re afraid of me.”
“I’m afraid of what he’ll do for you.” His eyes darken. “I’ve never seen him like this. Not with Lysara. Not with any of them. He’s… *changed.*”
“And you don’t like it.”
“I don’t trust it.” He steps closer. “You think he loves you? You think he wants you for *you?* He needs the bond. Needs your fire. Needs your blood.”
“You sound like Cassien.”
“And you sound like a woman who’s already chosen.”
My fire roars. The torches along the path burst into flame. The silver willow shudders. “I haven’t chosen *anything.*”
“Then why are you here?” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, his golden eyes sharp. “Why not run? Why not fight? Why not burn this place to the ground?”
“Because I’m not done.”
“With what?”
“With *him.*”
He studies me. For a long moment, I think he’ll challenge me. That he’ll draw his blade. That he’ll try to stop me.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded piece of parchment—sealed with black wax, the sigil of the Eastern Coven etched into the surface.
“This was delivered this morning,” he says, offering it to me. “For your eyes only.”
My breath stops.
The Eastern Coven.
My *cover.*
I take the parchment, my fingers trembling. The wax is warm. The sigil pulses faintly with magic. And as I break the seal and unfold it, my blood runs cold.
The message is short. Written in Elara’s hand—sharp, precise, *dangerous.*
Brielle,
They know.
The Tribunal has uncovered your true identity. They have proof of your bloodline. They have evidence of your mission.
Return now. Before it’s too late.
—E
My hands shake.
They know.
Not just Veylan.
Not just Kaelen.
But the *Tribunal.*
And if they have proof—
—then I’m not just a threat.
I’m a fugitive.
“What is it?” Taryn asks.
I don’t answer. I just stare at the parchment, my mind racing. Elara sent this. But how? The Silver Spire is warded. No messages get in. No magic slips through.
Unless—
—someone inside helped her.
“You didn’t just come here to warn me,” I say, lifting my gaze to Taryn. “You came to deliver this.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just nods.
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because I’ve seen what they do to hybrids.” His voice is low. Rough. “I’ve seen the Tribunal. The chains. The fire. The way they scream as they burn.”
My breath hitches.
“And I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” He steps closer. “Like you’re the only thing keeping him from drowning. And I know—” He hesitates. “—I know that if they take you, he’ll burn this court to the ground.”
“And you don’t want that.”
“I don’t want war.” His eyes lock onto mine. “But I’ll follow him into hell if he commands it.”
My fire flares. “Then you should’ve let them take me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
The words hit me like a blade.
Not because they’re true.
But because I *know* they are.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
“You think I’m special?” I whisper.
“I think you’re dangerous.” He steps back. “And I think you’re the only one who can save him.”
“From what?”
“From himself.”
And then he turns and walks away, his boots silent on the gravel, his presence fading like smoke.
I don’t move.
I just stand there, the parchment clenched in my fist, the silver willow trembling above me, the fire in my blood roaring.
They know.
They’re coming.
And I have two choices.
Run.
Or burn.
And for the first time, I don’t know which one I want.
—
I find him in the Council Chamber.
Not arguing. Not commanding. Not even speaking.
Just standing.
At the head of the long obsidian table, his back to the room, his silver hair catching the starlight from the floating orbs. The Council members sit in silence, their faces unreadable, their magic coiled like snakes beneath their skin. Veylan is there—on his bone-and-moonstone throne, pale as death, eyes like chips of ice. 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’re late,” he says, not looking at me.
“I wasn’t invited,” I say, stepping forward. My voice is steady. My spine is straight. My fire is caged. But beneath it, I’m shaking. “But I’m here now.”
“You have no place here,” a noble says—tall, sharp-featured, eyes like frozen stars. “You’re not of the bloodline.”
“Neither is your king,” I say, not looking at him. “Not if he had to steal magic to stay alive.”
The room goes silent.
Even Veylan turns.
“Careful, little witch,” he says, voice low. “You’re walking on thin ice.”
“And you’re walking on borrowed time.” 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. “The Tribunal knows. They have proof of my bloodline. They have evidence of my mission. And if you don’t act now—” I glance at Kaelen. “—they’ll take me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his silver eyes dark, unreadable.
“And what do you propose?” Veylan asks, voice calm. “That we hand you the throne? That we crown the hybrid queen?”
“No,” I say. “I propose we expose you.”
“For what?”
“For murder. For theft. For lying to your people.” I step closer. “You killed my mother. You stole her magic. You erased her name. And you think I won’t make you pay?”
“You’re a *hybrid,*” a noble spits. “You have no right—”
“She has every right,” Kaelen says, his voice low, dangerous. He turns then, slow, deliberate, his gaze locking onto mine. “She’s the lost heir. The last of the Unseelie bloodline. And she *will* be protected.”
“By you?” Veylan laughs—sharp, brittle. “You’re blinded by the bond. By *her.*”
“No,” Kaelen says. “I’m seeing clearly for the first time.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“And you’re a corpse in a crown.” Kaelen steps down from the dais, slow, deliberate. “The Tribunal will come. The Council will demand answers. And when they do—” He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. “—I will stand with her.”
My breath hitches.
“You’ll defy me?” Veylan stands, his presence filling the room, a suffocating weight. “You’ll betray your bloodline? Your throne?”
“I’m not betraying anything,” Kaelen says. “I’m *protecting* it.”
“From what?”
“From *you.*”
The room explodes.
Nobles shout. Guards draw weapons. Veylan’s magic coils, ready to strike. But Kaelen doesn’t move. His hand closes over mine—skin to skin—and a jolt of fire and ice tears through me. The bond hums, a live wire, a current of need.
“You think you can protect her?” Veylan hisses. “You think you can defy me and live?”
“I don’t care if I live,” Kaelen says. “I care that she does.”
And then—
—a voice.
“Sire.”
Taryn.
Standing at the entrance to the chamber, his wolf-blooded eyes wide. “The Tribunal approaches. They’re at the gates.”
The room goes silent.
Even Veylan freezes.
“Then let them come,” Kaelen says, not looking away from me. “Let them see the truth.”
“And if they take her?”
“Then I’ll follow her into exile.”
“And if they execute her?”
“Then I’ll burn this court to the ground.”
My breath stops.
He means it.
He’d destroy everything. For me.
And that—
—that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Because I don’t know if I want to be saved.
Or if I want to burn.
—
Later, in my chambers, I stand before the mirror.
My body is still marked—his fingers on my hips, his teeth on my neck, his come still warm inside me. The claim on my throat pulses, a live wire, a warning.
And the vial is gone.
Full.
Waiting.
I don’t know what I’ll do.
But I know one thing—
I came here to kill the Fae King.
And I will.
But not before I burn.
Not before I burn with him.
Not before I burn with me.
And as I trace the mark with my fingers, I whisper—
“Next time,” I say, “I’ll mark you back.”