The Council Chamber was a tomb of obsidian and blood-crystal, its vaulted ceiling arching high above like the ribs of some ancient beast, its walls pulsing with veins of crimson light that throbbed in time with the heartbeat of the Obsidian Court. The air was thick with the scent of old magic and iron, the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath. Council delegates lined the perimeter, seated on stone benches, their faces hidden behind masks of silver and obsidian. Observers. Judges. Vultures.
And at the center of it all—Kaelen.
He stood like a storm given form, his coat open, his storm-gray eyes burning, his presence a wall, a vow. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t reach for me. Just stood beside me, his body shielding mine, his magic a low, constant hum beneath my skin. The bond flared—quiet, insistent—every time our arms brushed, every time our breaths synced, every time I remembered the way he’d carried me through the Veil, torn Dain apart, whispered, I’ve got you, like it was the only truth he’d ever known.
I didn’t need him.
Not really.
But gods help me, I wanted him.
—
The Chamber stilled as we entered.
No whispers. No murmurs. No shifting of robes or clinking of goblets. Just silence—thick, suffocating, final. The Witch Elder sat at the head of the Council, her veil of smoke parted just enough to reveal eyes sharp with calculation. The Werewolf Alpha growled low in his throat, his claws flexing against the stone. The Fae Envoy smiled—slow, perfect, deadly—her golden eyes locked onto Kaelen like she already owned him.
And Lysara?
She wasn’t here.
Good.
Let her hide in the shadows. Let her lick her wounds. I’d seen the look in her eyes when I’d kissed Kaelen in front of the entire Court. The fury. The betrayal. The quiet, seething knowledge that he’d chosen me.
And he had.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the fever.
But because he wanted to.
—
“You have no right to speak,” the Fae Envoy said, her voice like silk over a blade. “You are not a Council member. You are not mated. You are not even pure.”
I didn’t flinch.
Just stepped forward, my silver hair loose over my shoulders, my violet eyes blazing. The runes on my arms flared—faint, but present—reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. “I don’t need a seat to speak the truth,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence. “And the truth is this: Dain stole the Blood Crown. He framed me. He murdered my mother. And he’s still out there—plotting, lying, watching.”
“And you expect us to believe you?” the Werewolf Alpha sneered. “A half-blood with a grudge? You’ve got no proof. No witnesses. Just magic—unstable, unpredictable, dangerous.”
“She has proof,” Kaelen said, stepping beside me. His voice was low, but it carried—like thunder before a storm. “And I’ll vouch for her.”
“You?” the Witch Elder asked, her voice muffled by smoke. “The king who let her be taken? The vampire who let a fake recording turn the Court against her? You expect us to trust your word?”
“No,” I said, stepping in front of him. “You expect to trust mine.”
I reached into the fold of my gown and pulled out the scroll.
Maeve’s scroll.
The one from the Wychwood archives.
It was old. Worn. The edges frayed, the ink faded. 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 unrolled it slowly, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of the words settle.
And then—
I threw it into the center of the Chamber.
The parchment fluttered like a dying thing, landing at the feet of the Witch Elder. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at it, her veil of smoke parting just enough to reveal eyes wide with shock.
“That’s a forgery,” the Fae Envoy said, her voice sharp. “A trick. A lie.”
“Then test it,” I said, stepping forward. “Use your magic. Your truth-seeing. Your honor.”
She didn’t answer.
Just turned to the Witch Elder.
And the Witch Elder—slowly, deliberately—reached down and picked up the scroll.
Her fingers traced the ink, her magic flaring in pulses of silver smoke. The Chamber held its breath. The blood-crystals dimmed. The torches flickered low.
And then—
She spoke.
“The magic is real,” she said, her voice muffled but clear. “The ink is aged. The parchment is original. The signature—faded, but legible—is that of a Turned vampire enforcer, deceased fifty years ago. The words—” She paused, her veil shifting. “The words are true.”
The Chamber erupted.
Not with cheers. Not with outrage.
With fear.
The Werewolf Alpha stood, his claws bared, his growl low and dangerous. “Then Dain ordered the massacre. He framed her. He stole the Crown.”
“And Kaelen took it,” the Fae Envoy said, her golden eyes blazing. “He let the lie stand. He let the world believe he was the monster.”
“To prevent war,” Kaelen said, stepping forward. “To keep the Council intact. To save millions.”
“And what about her?” the Witch Elder asked, her voice cutting through the noise. “What about the girl who lost everything? The daughter who was branded a traitor? The heir who was left to burn?”
“She survived,” I said, stepping beside him. “And now she’s back.”
“And what do you want?” the Werewolf Alpha growled. “Revenge? Power? The throne?”
“I want the truth,” I said, my voice steady. “I want justice. And I want the Blood Crown returned to its rightful ruler.”
“And who is that?” the Fae Envoy asked, her smile slow, dangerous. “You? Or him?”
“Neither,” I said.
And then—
I raised my hand.
The runes on my arms flared—brighter than ever—spreading across my skin like wildfire, climbing up my neck, my chest, my face. The sigils weren’t just witch-born. They weren’t just fae.
They were royal.
Old. Ancient. The script of the first Bloodline—the House of Vale, the original keepers of the Crown.
The Council gasped.
Even the Witch Elder leaned forward, her veil parting just enough to reveal eyes wide with shock.
“Impossible,” the Fae Envoy whispered. “That bloodline was eradicated.”
“Not eradicated,” I said, stepping forward. “Hidden.”
“You’re not just the heir,” the Witch Elder said, her voice low. “You’re the true sovereign. The Blood Crown will answer to no one else.”
“Then she’s a threat,” the Werewolf Alpha growled. “A hybrid queen? Unstable. Unpredictable. She could tear the Council apart.”
“Or she could unite it,” Kaelen said, stepping in front of me, shielding me with his body. “If you’re smart enough to see it.”
“She could also destroy us all,” the Fae Envoy said, her voice cold. “Half-bloods don’t belong on thrones. They belong in the shadows.”
Onyx didn’t flinch.
Just stepped around him, her violet eyes blazing. “Then let me stay in the shadows,” she said, her voice low, dangerous. “And let me burn your thrones to ash.”
The Chamber stilled.
Even the blood in the basin seemed to pause.
And then—
She raised her hand.
Blood dripped from her palm, falling into the basin.
And the magic answered.
Crimson light burst from the basin, spiraling upward, forming a column of fire that reached the ceiling. The runes on her arms flared brighter, spreading across her skin like a living crown. The sigils weren’t just glowing.
They were singing.
A low, ancient hum, like the voice of the earth itself. The Council delegates stumbled back. The torches flickered out. The crystals dimmed.
And then—
It stopped.
The light faded. The hum silenced. The blood in the basin turned black, solidifying like stone.
Onyx stood at the center of it all, her chest rising and falling too fast, her hand still outstretched, blood dripping onto the stone.
And I knew.
Not just that she was the heir.
But that she was more than that.
She was the Crown’s true sovereign.
And I had stolen it from her.
—
The silence after the Blood Oath was worse than any scream.
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 Chamber of Oaths had emptied fast, the Council delegates slipping away like shadows, their whispers sharp with fear and fury. The Witch Elder had vanished into her veil of smoke without another word. The Werewolf Alpha had growled something under his breath—*“Hybrid queens don’t last long”*—before storming out. Only the Fae Envoy had lingered, her too-perfect smile gone, replaced by cold, calculating hate.
And then there was me.
Standing in the center of it all, blood still drying on my palm, the runes on my arms pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. I could feel them—the weight of their stares, the edge of their knives, the quiet promise of betrayal. They didn’t see a queen.
They saw a threat.
And I was done pretending otherwise.
—
Kaelen walked beside me in silence, his presence a wall, a storm, a vow. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. Just kept pace, his storm-gray eyes scanning the corridors, his body tense, ready. The bond hummed between us—low, steady, alive—but he didn’t reach for me. Didn’t try to soothe. He knew better.
I wasn’t fragile.
I wasn’t broken.
I was awake.
And the truth was a blade in my ribs.
I’d come here to burn the Obsidian Court to the ground.
But I hadn’t come to destroy Kaelen.
I’d come to reclaim what was mine.
And now—now that the magic had spoken, now that the blood had sung—I realized something:
I wasn’t just the heir to the Blood Crown.
I was its true sovereign.
And Kaelen—cold, ruthless, guilty Kaelen—had known.
He’d known who I was.
He’d known what I was.
And he’d let me believe I was here to destroy him.
“You should’ve told me,” I said, my voice low, steady.
He didn’t look at me. Just kept walking. “And what would you have done if I had?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I deserve the truth. Not lies wrapped in fate.”
“It wasn’t a lie,” he said, stopping, turning to face me. “The bond is real. The fire between us is real. The way I feel—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “I didn’t hide who you were to manipulate you. I hid it because I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Not then. Not until the magic confirmed it.”
“And if it hadn’t?” I asked, stepping into him. “If the blood had rejected me? If the runes hadn’t flared? Would you have told me then?”
He didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze. “No. Because some truths aren’t meant to be forced. They’re meant to be found.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than any lie ever could.
I would’ve called him a liar. I would’ve walked away. I would’ve burned it all down before I let myself believe I was anything more than a weapon.
But now—now that the magic had spoken, now that the blood had sung—I couldn’t deny it.
I was Onyx Vale.
Daughter of Elira.
Heir to the Blood Crown.
And the man I’d sworn to destroy was the only one who’d ever tried to save me.
—
The suite was quiet when we returned.
Too quiet.
No whispers. No shadows. No lingering scent of honeysuckle to warn me of Lysara’s games. Just the soft crackle of the hearth, the faint hum of the blood-crystals in the walls, the slow, steady pulse of the bond beneath my skin.
I didn’t sit. Didn’t speak.
Just paced, my boots silent on the stone, my fingers tracing the edge of the dagger at my hip. The runes on my arms still glowed faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. I could feel the Crown now—distant, dormant, but alive. It knew me. It remembered me. And it was waiting.
Kaelen stood by the balcony, his back to me, his coat open, his hands resting on the railing. The moon hung low over Vienna, casting silver light across his shoulders, his hair, the sharp line of his jaw. He looked like a king. A monster. A man who’d carried the weight of a stolen crown for too long.
And he was mine.
Not by bond.
Not by magic.
By choice.
“They’ll come for me,” I said, stopping. “The Council. Lysara. Dain. They won’t let a hybrid queen take the throne.”
“Then they’ll die,” he said, turning. “Every last one.”
I almost smiled. “You’d burn the world for me?”
“I already have,” he said, stepping closer. “And I’d do it again.”
The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I felt it. Not just his words. His truth. He wasn’t just protecting me. He wasn’t just claiming me.
He was fighting for 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.
At the door stood Maeve.
My childhood friend. My sister in all but blood. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, a single scroll clutched to her chest. She’d seen everything. The kiss. The magic. The way my body had arched into his like I was starving.
“Onyx,” she whispered.
I pulled back, my breath coming fast, my lips still tingling from his touch. “Maeve. What is it?”
She didn’t answer. Just stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and held out the scroll.
Sealed with crimson wax.
Shaped like a serpent coiled around a rose.
Dain’s mark.
My blood ran cold.
“It appeared on my bed,” Maeve said, her voice low. “No note. No warning. Just… this.”
I took it, my fingers trembling. The wax was still warm, the scent of old blood 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.