The tunnels beneath the Obsidian Court were never meant for the living.
They were built for blood and silence, carved from black stone by the first vampire kings who feared sunlight and fire. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and old iron, the walls lined with veins of dormant blood-crystal that pulsed faintly in the dark, like a dying heart. No torches. No lanterns. Just the occasional flicker of bioluminescent moss clinging to the ceiling, casting long, shifting shadows that made it impossible to tell where the walls ended and the void began.
And we were running through them like ghosts.
Kaelen led the way, his form a shadow given shape, his boots silent on the stone. I followed close behind, my breath coming too fast, my magic flaring with every step. The bond hummed beneath my skin, a quiet, insistent pulse, but it wasn’t fear driving me.
It was fury.
Dain’s warning still burned in my mind—*Stop digging. Or I’ll bury you with your parents*—but I wasn’t afraid. I was *awake.* The Blood Oath had cracked something open inside me, like a dam breaking after years of pressure. I could feel the Crown now, not just as a memory, not just as a stolen relic, but as a living thing, pulsing in the dark, waiting for me.
And I was going to find it.
—
We’d left the suite an hour ago, slipping through the servant corridors, avoiding the main halls where the Council’s spies lurked. Kaelen had insisted on coming—*“You don’t walk into a trap alone,”* he’d said, his voice rough—and I hadn’t argued. Not because I needed him. Not because I trusted him.
But because I wanted him.
And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
“We’re close,” he murmured, slowing as we reached a fork in the tunnel. His hand went to the hilt of his dagger, his storm-gray eyes scanning the darkness. “This path leads to the old archives. If Dain’s hiding something, it’s there.”
I stepped beside him, my fingers brushing the runes on my arm. They were glowing faintly now, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my magic. “Or it’s a trap.”
“Then we’ll walk into it together,” he said, turning to me. “And we’ll burn it down from the inside.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that was the problem.
He wasn’t just a king. Not just a monster. Not just the man who’d let my mother die.
He was *mine.*
And I didn’t know how to hate him anymore.
—
We moved in silence after that, our footsteps soundless, our breaths shallow. The tunnel narrowed, the walls pressing in, the air growing colder. My magic flared again—a surge of crimson energy lighting the path ahead—and I saw it.
A door.
Not stone. Not iron.
>Wood.Black, ancient, carved with sigils I recognized instantly—my mother’s script. The House of Vale. The original keepers of the Blood Crown. My blood.
My hands trembled as I reached for it.
“Wait,” Kaelen said, gripping my wrist. “It could be warded.”
“It’s not,” I said, pulling free. “It’s *mine.*”
And it was.
The moment my fingers brushed the wood, the sigils flared crimson, the door groaning open like a living thing. The air that rushed out was thick with the scent of old paper and dried blood, the weight of decades pressing down like stone. Inside, the room was small, circular, lined with shelves of crumbling scrolls and blood-stained tomes. A single desk stood in the center, its surface covered in maps and notes—my handwriting, my research, my *mission.*
But none of it was mine.
It had been planted.
A trap.
And I’d walked right into it.
—
“It’s a setup,” I said, stepping inside, my voice low. “He knew I’d come. He knew I’d follow the magic.”
Kaelen followed, his presence a wall behind me. “Then why leave it unguarded?”
“Because he wants us to find it,” I said, scanning the room. “He wants us to think we’re close. He wants us to *hope.*”
And then I saw it.
A single scroll, sitting in the center of the desk, unrolled just enough to reveal a name.
Elira Vale.
My mother.
My hands clenched.
“Don’t touch it,” Kaelen said, stepping in front of me. “It could be cursed.”
“Or it could be truth,” I said, stepping around him. “And I’ve spent ten years running from the truth.”
I unrolled the scroll.
Not a map. Not a spell.
A letter.
Written in my mother’s hand.
My dearest Onyx,
If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. And you’ve survived. That is all I ever wanted.
The Blood Crown was never meant to be stolen. It was meant to be protected. But the Council was weak. The courts were fracturing. And Dain… Dain was hungry. He believed power should belong to the pure. To the *worthy.* And he didn’t believe we were either.
I tried to stop him. I failed.
But I didn’t die in vain. I gave the Crown to someone who would protect it. Someone who would keep the peace. Someone who would wait for you.
Forgive me, my fire. Forgive me for leaving you. Forgive me for not being strong enough.
But know this—
You are stronger.
And you are not alone.
My breath shattered.
Tears burned in my eyes, hot and sharp, but I didn’t let them fall. I wouldn’t. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.
But Kaelen saw.
He always saw.
His hand found my back, not possessive, not controlling—*supporting.* A quiet, steady pressure, like he was holding me upright. “She loved you,” he said, his voice low. “She fought for you.”
“And she gave the Crown to *you*,” I said, turning to him. “She trusted you.”
He didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze. “She did. And I failed her. I let Dain take credit. I let the world believe I’d stolen it. I let *you* believe it.”
“Why?” I whispered. “Why let me hate you?”
“Because the truth would’ve gotten you killed,” he said. “Dain would’ve hunted you to the ends of the earth. The Council would’ve silenced you. But as a traitor? As a ghost? You were safe. Hidden. Alive.”
My chest tightened.
“You protected me,” I said, my voice breaking. “Even when I was trying to destroy you.”
“I’ve always protected you,” he said, stepping closer. “From the shadows. From the lies. From myself.”
The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I felt it. Not just his words. His *truth.* He wasn’t just claiming me. He wasn’t just fighting for me.
He’d been *saving* me.
And gods help me, I wanted to believe him.
But the doubt was still there, coiled tight in my chest like a serpent.
What if he was wrong?
What if I wasn’t strong enough?
What if the Crown rejected me?
Before I could stop myself, I stepped into him, my hands fisting in his coat, my lips crashing into his. The kiss wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t soft. It was *war.* My tongue swept inside, tasting, conquering, my magic flaring in pulses of crimson light. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my heart, in my soul.
He kissed me back like he’d been starving.
Like he’d been *waiting.*
His hands tangled in my hair, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss, his fangs grazing my lip, drawing a bead of blood. The bond screamed to life, a surge of heat that made my vision blur. My core tightened, my body arching into his, my thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache.
And then—
A sound.
A whisper.
We broke apart.
Not because we wanted to.
Because the door slammed shut behind us.
And the lights went out.
—
Darkness.
Not just the absence of light.
A *presence.* Thick. Smothering. Alive.
I reached for the runes on my arm, but they were dim, sluggish, like the magic was being drained from the air. Kaelen stepped in front of me, his body a wall, his voice low. “Stay behind me.”
“I don’t need protection,” I said, but my voice wavered.
“Not from me,” he said. “From whatever sealed this room.”
And then I felt it.
A pulse.
Not from the bond.
From the walls.
The blood-crystals were glowing—faintly at first, then brighter, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. The sigils on the door flared crimson, then black, then crimson again. And the air—cold, thick, charged—shifted, like the room itself was breathing.
“It’s a prison,” I said, my voice low. “Not a hideout. A trap.”
“Or a test,” Kaelen said, turning to me. “Maybe your mother didn’t just leave you a letter. Maybe she left you a *challenge.*”
I clenched my fists. “I don’t have time for riddles.”
“Then stop fighting it,” he said, stepping closer. “Stop running. Stop hating. Stop pretending you don’t feel what’s between us.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he said, cupping my face. “You’ve been fighting this since the throne room. Since the first time you touched me. But you can’t win alone. You can’t claim the Crown alone. You need me. And I need you.”
My breath trembled.
“And if I don’t want to need you?” I whispered.
“Then you’ll fail,” he said. “And Dain will win. And everything your mother died for will be lost.”
The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I felt it. Not just his words. His *truth.* He wasn’t just fighting for me.
He was fighting *with* me.
And for the first time, I let myself believe him.
Not because he’d proven it.
But because I *wanted* to.
Because I was tired of fighting.
Tired of hating.
Tired of pretending I didn’t love him.
“I don’t forgive you,” I said, my voice breaking. “For letting her die. For letting me believe you were the monster.”
“I don’t expect you to,” he said, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “But I’m here. Now. And I’m not leaving.”
“And if I fall?” I whispered. “If I’m not strong enough?”
“Then I’ll carry you,” he said. “And if I fall, you’ll carry me.”
The bond flared again—hotter, deeper—and I leaned into him, my forehead pressing to his chest, my breath matching his. The runes on my arms pulsed, not with fury, but with *power.* The blood-crystals in the walls brightened, responding to the shift in my magic, in my soul.
And then—
The door opened.
Not with a creak. Not with a groan.
With a *sigh.*
Like the room had been holding its breath and finally let go.
Light flooded in—soft, silver, from the moss above. The sigils on the door glowed crimson, then faded. The air cleared, the weight lifting like a storm passing.
And I knew.
It wasn’t a trap.
It was a *threshold.*
A test.
And we’d passed.
—
We didn’t speak as we stepped out of the room.
The bond hummed between us—low, steady, *alive*—but neither of us reached for the other. The weight of what had happened—the letter, the darkness, the truth—pressed down like stone. I could feel him—distant, guarded, *reeling*—but I didn’t push. Didn’t prod. Just walked beside him, my presence a wall, a promise.
When we reached the suite, he didn’t go inside.
Just stood in the doorway, his hand pressed to the frame, his breath shallow, his magic still flaring beneath his skin.
“You should’ve told me,” I said, my voice quiet.
“And what would you have done?” he asked. “If I’d said, *‘Oh, by the way, your mother trusted me with the Crown’*? Would you have believed me? Or would you have thought it was another lie?”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned to him, my violet eyes burning. “You let me believe I was here to destroy you. You let me hate you. You let me *fight* you—while knowing I was the one person who could take everything from you.”
“I didn’t *let* you do anything,” he said, stepping closer. “You chose every step. You chose your rage. Your vengeance. Your fire. And now you’ve chosen your truth.”
“And what if I hadn’t?” she whispered. “What if I’d walked away before the ritual? What if I’d never known?”
“Then I’d have waited,” I said. “Until you were ready. Until you *asked.*”
“And if I never had?”
“Then I’d have died with the secret,” he said. “Because some truths aren’t meant to be forced. They’re meant to be *found.*”
I closed my eyes.
And then—
I stepped into him.
Not with anger. Not with fire.
With *need.*
My hands fisted in his coat, pulling me down, my lips crashing into mine. The kiss wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t soft. It was *war.* My tongue swept inside, tasting, conquering, my magic flaring in pulses of crimson light. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my heart, in my soul.
He kissed me back like he’d been starving.
Like he’d been *waiting.*
His hands tangled in my hair, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss, his fangs grazing my lip, drawing a bead of blood. The bond screamed to life, a surge of heat that made my vision blur. My core tightened, my body arching into his, my thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache.
And then—
I pulled back.
Just enough to breathe.
“I don’t forgive you,” I said, my voice raw. “Not for what you did. Not for what you let happen.”
“I know,” he said, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “But you’re choosing me anyway.”
“I am,” I said. “And you’re choosing me too.”
He smiled—a slow, dangerous thing. “Always.”
And as I leaned into him, the scent of jasmine and iron wrapping around us like a vow, I realized something:
The fire wasn’t coming to burn me down.
It was here to *remake* me.
And I was ready.