IRIS
The silence that followed the collapse of the storm-wraith was a fragile, ringing thing. The oppressive, magical cold receded, leaving behind the natural chill of a winter night. I lay in the massive bed, the furs pulled up to my chin, but the warmth was gone. The searing heat of our interrupted encounter had evaporated, leaving only the ghost of his touch on my skin and the cold, hard truth of my own desires. The bond, which had been a raging inferno of frustrated need, was now a hollow, echoing ache. It was a radio tuned to a distant, dying station. I could feel him—his pain, his exhaustion, a profound, soul-deep weariness—but it was faint, muffled, as if he were trying to push me away. As if he were ashamed.
I had felt the moment he faced the wraith. A surge of pure, unadulterated Lycan power, a violent, red-hot rage that had made my own magic recoil in instinctive fear. Then, an agony so profound, so absolute, that it had stolen my breath and brought me to my knees in the center of the cold floor. I had felt him absorb the wraith’s poison, felt it tear through his system. And I had felt his last, desperate thought—not of his kingdom, not of his duty, but of me. An image of me, shivering and alone in this bed, had been the anchor that pulled him through the fire.
He had almost died. For me. For us. And our last words to each other had been arrows of cruelty and mistrust.
I threw back the furs, my movements sharp and decisive. Pride, my oldest and most reliable shield, was useless now. It was a flimsy thing to hold against the crushing weight of what I had almost lost. I pulled on my boots, not bothering with more than the worn training trousers and the black silk tunic I still wore. I didn’t care about appearances or propriety. I just needed to get to him.
The corridors were no longer shrouded in magical darkness. Torches sputtered back to life as I passed, casting dancing, nervous shadows on the stone walls. Lycans, some still in their sleep clothes, were emerging, their faces pale and confused. They gave me a wide berth, their gazes a mixture of fear and a grudging, wary respect. They had felt it too. They had felt their Alpha face down a magical apocalypse and win.
I found him in the war room, not the infirmary. It was a choice I understood instantly. He was a king. He would not show weakness, not even when his body was broken. He was standing, leaning heavily on the massive oak table, a constellation of maps spread beneath his braced arms. Ronan was there, his face a mask of fury and concern, trying to press a cup of something steaming into Kaelen’s hand.
"Drink it, you stubborn bastard," Ronan was growling, his voice low and urgent. "It’s a bone-knitter brew. You need it."
"I need a report," Kaelen rasped, his voice a shredded, painful sound. He didn’t look up. His focus was on the maps, but his silver eyes were unfocused, glazed with a pain he was stubbornly trying to outrun. He was pale, his skin having a grey, waxy sheen that was terrifying to see on a man who was usually a pillar of vibrant health. A fine tremor ran through the arm he was leaning on, a vibration of weakness he couldn't quite suppress.
He felt my presence the moment I stepped through the doorway. His entire body went rigid, a subtle, almost imperceptible tensing of his shoulders. He didn’t look at me. He just kept his gaze fixed on the maps, a silent, stubborn rejection of my concern.
My heart ached, a dull, heavy thud of regret and fear. I walked further into the room, my boots silent on the thick rugs. "Ronan is right," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "You need to rest."
"What I need is an assessment of the eastern wall," he bit out, the words a harsh, guttural sound. He finally pushed himself upright, his movements stiff and pained. He turned, and his gaze met mine. The silver of his eyes was clouded, the pain in them so stark and raw it felt like a physical blow. But beneath the pain was something else. A cold, hard wall of distance. He was shutting me out.
"The wall held," Ronan said, stepping between us, a physical barrier. "Joric is overseeing the repairs. The men are… shaken. But they're loyal. They're praising your strength, Alpha."
"My strength," Kaelen repeated, the words laced with a bitter, self-mocking irony. "Yes. A great show of strength." He looked at me then, his gaze sweeping over me, from my disheveled hair to my worn boots. There was no heat in his eyes. No possessiveness. No desire. Just a flat, cold emptiness that was more chilling than any anger. "If you'll excuse us, Iris. We have king's business to attend to."
The dismissal was a slap in the face. A cold, public rejection that was designed to put me back in my place. A part of me, the proud, defiant part, wanted to turn on my heel and walk away. But the image of his pain, of him absorbing that poison to save us all, was a brand on my soul.
"No," I said, my voice quiet but unshakeable. "I won't."
His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. "This is not a request."
"And I'm not one of your soldiers to be ordered about," I countered, taking another step closer, my gaze locked with his. "I felt what you did. I know what it cost you. You can push me away, Kaelen. You can build a thousand walls between us. But you can't make me leave when you're standing there looking like a ghost who's just lost a fight with death itself."
A flicker of something—surprise, maybe even a reluctant admiration—passed through his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "Your concern is noted," he said, his voice a flat, dead monotone. "Now leave."
Before I could answer, a new figure appeared in the doorway of the war room. It was one of the Hybrid Tribunal guards, a stern-faced vampire in the formal black and silver uniform. Behind him were two more guards, their expressions grim and official.
"Alpha King Kaelen," the lead guard said, his voice a formal, resonant baritone that carried an unwelcome note of authority. "By the decree of the Hybrid Tribunal, we are here to arrest Iris, the witch known as the Gilded Leaf."
The world tilted on its axis. For a moment, the words were just a collection of meaningless sounds. Then they clicked into place, a cold, sharp dagger of reality. *Arrest.*
Every Lycan in the room, including Ronan, immediately tensed, their hands going to their weapons, a low, collective growl rumbling in their chests. It was an instinctive, pack response to a threat against one of their own, even if that one was a complicated, magical addition.
"On what grounds?" Kaelen demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. The pain in his eyes was instantly replaced by a cold, sharp fury that was far more terrifying. He pushed himself away from the table, standing to his full, imposing height, though I could see the effort it cost him, the slight sway in his stance.
"On grounds of conspiracy and high treason," the guard said, his gaze unwavering on me. "And the practice of forbidden blood magic with intent to harm a member of the Council."
"Blood magic?" Ronan scoffed, his voice laced with disbelief. "She's a hedge witch. She wouldn't know the first thing about blood magic."
"The evidence is… compelling," the guard said, producing a small, velvet-wrapped object from his tunic. He unwrapped it, revealing a small, ornate dagger. Its blade was dark, almost black, and it was coated in a dried, flaky substance that I knew with a sickening certainty was blood. "This dagger was found in her apothecary shop, hidden beneath a floorboard. It bears her magical signature. And this…" He held up a small, sealed vial. "…contains a poison distilled from the blood of a Fae dignitary. Lord Valerius's aide, who collapsed at the Council chambers not an hour ago. He is currently in a magical coma, his life force being drained by a toxin that our healers identify as a classic blood-blight curse."
Ice flooded my veins. It was a frame. A perfect, elegant, and utterly devastating frame. I had never seen that dagger before in my life. I had never been to Valerius’s aide. But it didn't matter. The evidence was planted. The magical signature could be faked, mimicked, but it would take a master to prove it. And in the current climate, with tensions between factions at an all-time high, no one would bother. They wanted a scapegoat. And I was the perfect, convenient target. The dangerous, uncontrolled Moon Witch bonded to the Lycan King.
"This is absurd," I said, my voice shaking with a cold, horrified fury. "I've been in this stronghold for weeks. I haven't been anywhere near my shop or the Council chambers."
"Her word against the evidence of a Fae healer and the testimony of a witness who saw you near the aide's chambers yesterday," the guard said, his tone hardening. "The witness is… credible."
I didn't have to ask who the witness was. There was only one person who had the motive, the malice, and the opportunity to do this. Isolde. She had not just been trying to wound me; she had been trying to destroy me.
"The Tribunal's judgment is clear," the guard continued, taking a step forward. "She is to be taken to the Aeridon cells to await trial. Do not resist, witch. The sentence for treason is death."
The air in the room crackled with tension. The Lycans were a pack of snarling wolves, barely held in check by Kaelen’s presence. To fight the Tribunal guards here, in this stronghold, would be an act of war. It would prove Marius’s propaganda, give him the casus belli he craved. It would shatter the fragile alliance with Valerius and Elena Sterling before it had even truly formed.
I looked at Kaelen. His face was a cold, hard mask, but I could feel the war raging inside him through the bond. The king in him knew the political reality. The Alpha in him was roaring to tear the guards apart for daring to touch his mate. And the man… the man who had just faced down a wraith to save me… I could feel his agonized choice. To protect me, he would have to sacrifice his own authority, his own political standing, and risk a war. To protect his kingdom, he would have to let me be taken.
I saw the calculation in his eyes. The weighing of costs. The cold, strategic decision. It was the same look he had given me in the library when he’d accused me of looking for an escape. He saw me as a complication. A risk. A problem to be managed.
My heart shattered into a million sharp, cutting pieces. He was going to let them take me. He was going to choose his kingdom over me. After everything. After the wraith, after the near-moment in the bed, he was still just the tyrant king, and I was still just the inconvenient witch.
"Very well," Kaelen said, his voice a flat, dead sound that confirmed my worst fears. "You will take her."
A collective, horrified gasp went through the Lycans in the room. Ronan stared at him, his face a mask of utter disbelief and betrayal. "Kaelen, no," he said, his voice a choked whisper.
"It is the only way," Kaelen said, his gaze finally meeting mine. There was no apology in his eyes. No regret. Just a cold, hard finality that was more painful than any physical blow. "The evidence is damning. To resist is to declare war. I will not do that. Not on this pretext."
The Tribunal guards moved in, their hands like cold, hard manacles closing around my wrists. The metal was enchanted, I could feel it, a cold, dampening spell that was designed to suppress magic. The cool silver energy of my moon magic, which had been a low, steady hum under my skin, flickered and died, snuffed out like a candle in a gale. I was rendered powerless. Just a woman. Just a prisoner.
I didn't struggle. I didn't speak. I just held Kaelen’s gaze, letting him see the full, devastating weight of my betrayal. Let him see that he had not just arrested a witch; he had murdered the last fragile spark of trust between us. He had destroyed the storm, the anchor, everything.
As the guards led me from the room, I felt a single, sharp pulse through the bond. It wasn’t regret or sorrow. It was a cold, hard, calculating resolve. He was already planning his next move. He was already using my arrest as a piece on his strategic board. I wasn't his partner. I wasn't his mate. I was his sacrifice. And as they dragged me out into the cold, grey light of dawn, I knew with a soul-crushing certainty that the gilded cage I had so desperately wanted to escape was about to become my tomb.