The first light of dawn crept through the obsidian panes, painting the suite in fractured streaks of violet and gray. I lay still, my body wrapped in warmth, my head resting against Kaelen’s chest. His heartbeat was slow, steady—unnaturally so, a vampire’s rhythm, but it had become my lullaby. His arm was draped over me, possessive, grounding, his fingers curled loosely around my wrist like he feared I’d vanish if he loosened his grip. The bond hummed between us, low and constant, no longer a storm but a deep, resonant current, like a river finding its course.
I didn’t move.
Not because I was weak—though I still was, my magic sluggish, my limbs heavy with the aftermath of truth-serum and torture—but because I was afraid.
Afraid that if I stirred, if I broke this fragile peace, I’d have to face what had happened.
Dain had taken me. Tortured me. Tried to break the bond.
And Kaelen had come for me.
He’d torn through the Veil, shattered the wards, ripped Dain’s lies apart with his bare hands—all for me.
And I’d let him.
Not just let him save me.
I’d needed it.
That was the truth I couldn’t outrun. The one that coiled in my chest like a serpent, whispering in the silence: You’re not the avenger anymore. You’re the one who needs saving.
And worse—you want him to be the one who saves you.
—
Kaelen stirred, his breath deepening, his arm tightening around me. I felt the shift in his magic before I saw his eyes open—dark fire curling beneath his skin, the black tattoos along his ribs flaring faintly. His storm-gray eyes locked onto mine, searching, assessing.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“So are you,” I said, my voice still raw.
He didn’t smile. Just brushed a strand of silver hair from my face, his touch lingering at my temple. “You were dreaming.”
“Weren’t we all?” I asked, shifting slightly. Pain flared in my side, but I didn’t flinch. “You, me, Dain—everyone’s been living in a dream. Mine was about revenge. Yours was about control. His?” I let out a bitter laugh. “His was about power. But dreams end. And when they do—”
“The truth remains,” he finished.
I met his gaze. “Do you even know what the truth is?”
He didn’t answer.
Just leaned down, his lips brushing mine—soft, slow, aching. Not a claim. Not a conquest. A promise. My breath caught. My magic flared, the runes on my arms glowing faintly, reacting to the shift in my heart, in my soul. When he pulled back, his fangs grazed my lower lip, drawing a bead of blood. The bond surged, a wave of heat that made my vision blur.
“I know this,” he said, his voice low. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. That’s the only truth I need.”
I wanted to argue.
Wanted to remind him that truth wasn’t just about possession. That it was about who killed my mother. That it was about who stole the Blood Crown. That it was about who framed me for treason.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Because in this moment, with his breath warm against my skin, his body shielding mine, his magic threading through mine like a vow—I believed him.
And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
—
We didn’t speak as we dressed.
He moved like a shadow given form—silent, deliberate, possessive. He handed me a gown of deep crimson, the fabric woven with threads of obsidian that shimmered like blood in the low light. I took it without protest, slipping it over my shoulders, the runes on my arms flaring as the magic in the fabric responded to my bloodline. He watched me, his storm-gray eyes dark with something I couldn’t name—not hunger, not desire, not even love.
Need.
“You don’t have to come to the war room,” he said, stepping closer. “You should rest.”
“And let you face the Council alone?” I asked, fastening the clasp at my throat. “After they turned on me? After they believed that lie?”
His jaw tightened. “It wasn’t the Council. It was Lysara. She leaked the recording. She used fae illusion to mimic my voice.”
“And the Council believed it,” I said, stepping into him. “They didn’t question. They didn’t investigate. They just accepted it. Because it’s easier to believe the hybrid queen is a pawn than to believe she’s their sovereign.”
He didn’t argue.
Just cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Then we’ll make them believe otherwise.”
“How?” I asked. “By proving the recording is fake? By showing them the truth?”
“No,” he said, his voice a growl. “By making them fear the truth.”
I almost smiled. “You’re still a monster.”
“And you’re still my queen,” he said, stepping back. “Now come. We have a war to win.”
—
The war room was silent when we entered.
Not the quiet of peace. Not the hush of reverence. But the stillness of a storm held at bay—tense, coiled, waiting to break. The enforcers stood at attention, their black cloaks cutting through the air like shadows. Silas waited by the war map, his storm-gray eyes sharp, his posture tense. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if I was well. Just gave a slight nod—respect, not pity.
Good.
I didn’t want pity.
I wanted power.
Kaelen moved to the center of the room, his presence a wall, a vow. I stood beside him, my hand resting on the hilt of my dagger, my magic flaring in pulses beneath my skin. The bond hummed between us—low, steady, alive.
“We have a problem,” Silas said, breaking the silence. “Dain’s still out there.”
“He’s wounded,” Kaelen said. “He won’t move fast.”
“But he’s not alone,” Silas said, unrolling a scroll. “We intercepted a message. From the Fae High Court. They’re sending reinforcements.”
My blood ran cold.
“The High Court?” I asked. “Why would they back Dain? He’s a traitor. A murderer.”
“Because he’s fae,” Silas said. “And you’re not. Not fully. To them, you’re an abomination. A half-blood playing queen.”
“Then they’ll die,” Kaelen said, his voice low, dangerous. “Every last one.”
“And start a war?” Silas asked. “You can’t take on the entire Fae High Court. Not without allies.”
“We have allies,” I said, stepping forward. “The witches. The werewolves. The vampires.”
“The vampires are yours,” Silas said. “The werewolves are neutral. And the witches—” He hesitated. “They’re divided. Some see you as the heir. Others see you as a threat.”
“Then we convince them,” I said. “We show them the truth.”
“And what if the truth isn’t enough?” Silas asked.
Before I could answer, the door opened.
Maeve stood there, her dark hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes wide, a single scroll clutched to her chest. She looked like she’d run through the Veil herself—her cloak torn, her hands trembling, her breath coming fast.
“Onyx,” she whispered.
My breath caught.
“Maeve. What is it?”
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and held out the scroll.
Sealed with black wax.
Shaped like a raven in flight.
Wychwood Coven sigil.
My fingers trembled as I took it.
The wax was still warm, the scent of old magic and iron clinging to the paper. I didn’t need to open it to know what it said.
But I did anyway.
Inside, a single line, written in a hand I recognized instantly:
Stop digging. Or I’ll bury you with your parents.
No signature.
No threat.
Just a promise.
And I believed him.
Because Dain wasn’t just my uncle.
He was the man who’d betrayed our family.
Who’d framed me.
Who’d taken the Blood Crown and left me to burn.
And now that the magic had spoken, now that the blood had sung—he was afraid.
Because he knew.
He knew I was close.
—
Kaelen took the scroll from my hand, his storm-gray eyes narrowing as he read the message. His fangs lengthened, shadows coiling at his feet. “He’s watching,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “He knows about the Blood Oath. He knows who you are.”
“And he’s afraid,” I said, my voice steady. “Which means we’re close.”
“Or it’s a trap,” Maeve said, stepping forward. “He’s always been good at manipulation. He could be trying to lure you out. To isolate you.”
“He’s not wrong,” Kaelen said. “Dain’s not reckless. If he’s sending a warning, it’s because he’s desperate.”
“Then we use it,” I said, stepping to the balcony. “We let him think he’s in control. We let him think he’s winning. And then—” I turned, my violet eyes locking onto his. “We take everything from him.”
Kaelen didn’t smile. Just stepped into me, his hand cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’re not just a queen,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re a storm. And I’m not letting you face him alone.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
I wasn’t just Onyx Vale.
I wasn’t just the heir.
I was fire.
I was war.
And I was ready.
—
Later, in the quiet of our suite, Maeve sat across from me, her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable. Kaelen stood by the hearth, his presence a wall, a vow. The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the stone.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I said. “The Court’s watching. If they see you—”
“I don’t care,” Maeve said, her voice low. “You’re my sister. And you’re in danger.”
I looked at her—really looked at her. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers trembled when she reached for her tea. She’d aged in the years since I’d last seen her. Not in body—she still looked young, vibrant—but in soul. In spirit. In the quiet, unspoken grief that lined her face.
“You’ve been carrying this alone,” she said, her voice breaking. “All these years. And I wasn’t there.”
“You couldn’t have been,” I said. “They would’ve killed you.”
“And now?” she asked. “Now that you’re back? Now that you’re her?”
“I’m not just her,” I said. “I’m me.”
“Are you?” she asked. “Or are you the queen they want you to be?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
And then—
She reached into her cloak and pulled out another scroll.
Not sealed. Not marked.
Just old. Worn. The edges frayed, the ink faded.
“I found this in the Wychwood archives,” she said, handing it to me. “It was hidden. Buried beneath a false floor in the oldest wing. No one’s seen it in decades.”
My fingers trembled as I unrolled it.
And then—
The world exploded.
Not with sound. Not with fire.
With truth.
The scroll was a report. Dated the night my mother died. Signed by a vampire guard—Turned, not Pureblood. A low-ranking enforcer. His name was barely legible, but the words were clear:
The order came from Lord Dain. He said the Crown was his by right. Said Elira had hidden it. Said she’d betrayed the Fae High Court. We were to burn the estate. To frame the daughter. To make it look like she’d turned on her own blood.
The king—Kaelen Valen—was not present. He did not give the order. He did not know.
He arrived after. Found the girl alive. Ordered her spared. But the lie was already set. The Crown was gone. And he took it—not to keep, but to prevent war.
I dropped the scroll.
It fell to the floor like a dead thing.
My breath came fast. My vision blurred. My magic flared, the runes on my arms glowing crimson, lighting the suite in pulses of fire.
“Onyx,” Maeve whispered.
I didn’t answer.
Just turned to Kaelen.
He stood by the hearth, his face pale, his storm-gray eyes wide with shock. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just waited.
And I knew.
He hadn’t killed my mother.
He hadn’t ordered the massacre.
He hadn’t even known.
But he’d let the lie stand.
He’d taken the Crown.
And he’d let me believe he was the monster.
“You let them die,” I said, my voice breaking.
He didn’t deny it.
Just stepped closer, his hands at his sides, his fangs retracted. “I did.”
“But you didn’t kill them,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, his voice raw. “I didn’t. But I let the world believe I did. Because if the truth came out—if they knew Dain had stolen the Crown—the Council would’ve shattered. War would’ve followed. Millions would’ve died.”
I closed my eyes.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than any lie ever could.
“You let me hate you,” I said.
“And I let you,” he said. “Because you needed it. You needed your fire. Your rage. Your purpose. And if I’d told you the truth—”
“I would’ve walked away,” I said, opening my eyes. “I would’ve burned it all down before I let myself believe I was anything more than a weapon.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And now that the magic has spoken, now that the blood has sung—you can’t deny it.”
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.
And when I pulled back, my fangs bared, my eyes black with hunger, I whispered, “You’re not as cold as you pretend.”
“No,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not.”
“And you never were.”
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 destroy me.
It was here to remake me.
And I was ready.