The Hollow Thorne died screaming.
Not with fire. Not with steel. But with silence—the kind that follows a storm, thick and suffocating, like the world itself is holding its breath. We stood at the edge of the ruins, Kaelen’s arm around my waist, the Blood Crown pressed against my chest, its obsidian spikes warm now, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The sky above was still choked with clouds, their edges glowing faintly like embers in the dark, but the golden sigils that had once lit the walls were gone. Shattered. Broken. The air smelled of moss and decay, of old magic unraveling, of a power that had ruled for centuries now reduced to ash and shadow.
And I felt nothing.
No triumph. No relief. No joy.
Just weight.
“He’s not dead,” I said, my voice low. My fingers curled around the hilt of my dagger, the runes on my arms still glowing faintly in the predawn gloom. “He’s still out there. I can feel it.”
Kaelen didn’t answer at first. Just turned me, his storm-gray eyes searching mine, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw. His touch was firm, possessive, a vow. The bond flared between us—hot, sudden—and I felt it. Not just his magic. His hunger. He wanted to pull me close. To kiss me. To remind me that I was his. But he didn’t. Not here. Not now.
“No,” he said, his voice rough. “He’s not dead. But he’s broken. The Crown rejected him. The magic burned him. He’ll spend the rest of his life running—from you, from the truth, from himself.”
“And that’s enough?” I asked, stepping back. “He framed me. He burned my family. He stole what was mine. And now he just… runs?”
“No,” Kaelen said, stepping into me. “He answers to the Council. To justice. To you.”
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.
—
The Obsidian Court was alive when we returned.
Not with chaos. Not with fear.
With power.
Enforcers lined the halls, their black cloaks cutting through the air like shadows. Blood-crystals pulsed crimson along the walls, their light reflecting off the polished stone. The scent of iron and fire clung to the air, thick and heavy, like the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath. Silas stood at the war room door, his storm-gray eyes sharp, his posture tense. He didn’t ask if I was well. Didn’t flinch. Just gave a slight nod—respect, not pity.
Good.
I didn’t want pity.
I wanted justice.
“He’s here,” Silas said, stepping aside. “In the Chamber of Chains. Bound in fae iron. No magic. No glamour. Just flesh and fear.”
My blood ran cold.
“And the Council?” I asked, stepping forward.
“They’re gathering,” he said. “The witches. The werewolves. The vampires. All of them. They know what you’ve done. They know what you are.”
“And they’ll challenge me,” I said, my voice steady.
“They’ll try,” Kaelen said, stepping beside me. “But they’ll fail.”
I didn’t argue.
Just reached for the Blood Crown, its obsidian spikes pressing into my palm, its crimson core pulsing like a second heart. 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.
And then—
We moved.
Not with hesitation.
Not with fear.
With fire.
—
The Chamber of Chains was deep beneath the Court, a vault of black stone and veined crystal, lit by cold flame that flickered like dying stars. The air was thick with the scent of iron and decay, the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath. Chains hung from the ceiling, their links forged from fae iron, their tips dripping with venom that burned like acid. And in the center—
Dain.
Not in golden armor. Not in a crown of thorns.
Barefoot. Bloodied. broken.
His silver hair hung loose over his shoulders, matted with blood. His violet eyes, once so full of pride, now burned with something darker—fear, shame, desperation. His wrists were bound in fae iron, the metal searing his skin, his magic locked away, his body trembling. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, his head bowed, his breath coming fast.
And I didn’t feel sorry for him.
Not one damn bit.
“Look at me,” I said, my voice low, dangerous.
He didn’t move.
Just stood there, his body trembling, his breath coming fast.
So I stepped forward.
Not with hesitation.
Not with fear.
With fire.
My boot hit the stone with a crack, the sound echoing through the chamber like thunder. The runes on my arms flared crimson, lighting the air between us. I reached for the Blood Crown, its obsidian spikes pressing into my palm, its crimson core pulsing like a second heart.
“Look. At. Me.”
And then—
He did.
His violet eyes snapped up, burning with fury, with hatred, with something that almost looked like regret. But I didn’t care. Not anymore.
“You don’t get to speak my name,” I said, stepping closer. “You don’t get to stand in this Court. You don’t get to breathe the same air as me.”
He laughed—low, broken, utterly false. “You think you’re the heir? You think the magic chose you? You’re a mistake. A lie. A half-blood playing queen.”
“And you’re a traitor,” I said, my magic flaring. “A murderer. A man who burned my family to take what was never his.”
“I did what I had to,” he spat, stepping forward, the chains rattling. “To protect our bloodline. To preserve our legacy. And you—” His smile vanished. “You would have destroyed it.”
“No,” I said, my voice steady. “I would have restored it.”
“And what will you do now?” he sneered. “Kill me? Rule in my place? The Council will never accept a hybrid queen.”
“They already have,” I said, raising the Blood Crown.
The runes on my arms flared—brighter than ever—spreading across my skin like wildfire. The sigils weren’t just glowing.
They were singing.
A low, ancient hum, like the voice of the earth itself. The Crown pulsed in my hand, its crimson core glowing, its magic reaching for me.
And then—
The door opened.
Not with a creak.
Not with a groan.
With silence.
The Council entered—witches in dark robes, werewolves in leather armor, vampires in black cloaks. Their eyes were sharp, their fangs bared, their magic flaring in pulses of crimson, gold, and silver. They didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just took their places around the chamber, their presence a wall, a vow.
And at the center—
Maeve.
Her dark hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes wide, her hands trembling. She didn’t look at me. Just stepped forward, her voice low, commanding.
“The Council is gathered,” she said. “To witness justice. To see truth.”
“And what truth is that?” Dain spat, his voice breaking. “That a half-blood murdered her own family? That she stole the Crown and framed me?”
“No,” I said, stepping forward. “The truth is that you took it. That you burned my family. That you framed me. And that the magic has spoken.”
“And if we don’t believe you?” a witch said, stepping forward. Her eyes were black, her voice cold. “If we say it’s a lie? That you forged the runes? That you used blood magic to trick the Crown?”
“Then I’ll show you,” I said, raising the Crown.
Not with fear.
Not with doubt.
With truth.
My fingers closed around the obsidian spikes.
And the world exploded.
Not with sound.
Not with fire.
With light.
Crimson fire burst from the basin, spiraling upward, forming a column that reached the ceiling. The runes on my body flared brighter, spreading across my skin like living flame. The sigils weren’t just glowing.
They were singing.
A low, ancient hum, like the voice of the earth itself. The blood in the basin churned, then stilled, solidifying into a single, obsidian-black stone.
And then—
I knew.
Not just that I was the heir.
Not just that I was the true sovereign.
But that I was home.
The Council fell silent.
No whispers. No arguments. No defiance.
Just silence.
And then—
One by one, they knelt.
The witches. The werewolves. The vampires.
All of them.
Lowering their heads, their fangs retracting, their magic dimming.
All except Dain.
He stood there, his body trembling, his violet eyes wide with shock. “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’re not worthy. You’re not pure. You’re a half-blood.”
“And you’re a traitor,” I said, stepping forward. “And traitors are punished.”
“What will you do?” he asked, his voice low. “Kill me? Execute me in front of them all?”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “I’ll do worse.”
And then—
I raised the Blood Crown.
Not to strike.
Not to kill.
But to bind.
My fingers closed around the obsidian spikes, the magic surging through me like a river breaking its banks. The runes on my arms flared crimson, then black, then crimson again. The sigils carved themselves into the air, forming a circle around Dain, the chains tightening, the fae iron burning deeper into his flesh.
“You will live,” I said, my voice low, dangerous. “But you will never wield magic again. You will never speak my name. You will spend the rest of your life in silence, in darkness, in chains.”
“And if I refuse?” he spat.
“Then I’ll kill you,” I said, stepping closer. “But I won’t make it quick.”
He didn’t answer.
Just stood there, his body trembling, his breath coming fast.
And then—
The magic screamed.
Not a sound.
A presence.
Thick. Smothering. Alive.
The runes flared—golden, then black, then golden again—and the chains sealed themselves, the fae iron fusing with his skin, his magic locked away, his body convulsing.
And then—
He screamed.
Raw. Primal. Endless.
But I didn’t flinch.
Just turned to the Council, my violet eyes blazing. “This is justice,” I said, my voice low, dangerous. “And it will be served.”
And then—
They rose.
Not with defiance.
Not with fear.
With respect.
And I knew—
The old order had fallen.
And a new one had risen.
—
Kaelen found me on the balcony at dawn.
I was watching the first light creep over Vienna, the bond humming beneath my skin, a quiet, constant pulse. My body ached, my magic sluggish, my fingers trembling as I touched the mark on my neck—still tender, still warm, pulsing faintly beneath my skin like a second pulse. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul.
He didn’t speak.
Just stepped beside me, his presence a wall, a vow. His hand found mine, our fingers entwining, the bond flaring—hot, sudden. I could feel his relief, his fear, his hunger.
“It’s done,” I said, my voice low.
“Not done,” he said, stepping into me. “Just beginning.”
“And what now?” I asked, turning to him. “Do we rule? Do we burn the world down?”
“We rebuild,” he said, his hand cupping my face. “We make it better. Stronger. Ours.”
“And if they challenge us?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Let them,” he said, his voice rough. “We’ve already won.”
And then—
I kissed him.
Not in anger.
Not in war.
But in surrender.
Soft. Slow. Aching.
His lips parted beneath mine, his tongue brushing mine, tentative, searching. My hands tangled in his hair, holding him close, deepening the kiss. His magic flared, lighting the air between us with crimson fire. The runes on my arms glowed, reacting to the shift in my heart, in my soul.
He was choosing me.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of duty.
But because he wanted to.
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.