The silence after Maeve’s revelation 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 suite was dim, the hearth fire reduced to embers that pulsed like a dying heartbeat. The scent of jasmine and iron still clung to the air, thick and heavy, like a vow we hadn’t finished speaking. Outside, Vienna slept beneath a bruised sky, the blood-crystals in the Court’s spires flickering faintly, their crimson glow muted by dawn’s approach. But inside, the world had cracked open.
The blood remembers. The child lives.
Three lines. Eight words. And they’d shattered everything.
I stood at the war map, my fingers still pressed to the parchment, tracing the jagged border of the Hollow Thorne. The Blood Crown rested against my chest, its obsidian spikes warm now, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The runes on my arms glowed faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. But this time, it wasn’t power I felt.
It was rage.
Dain had a child.
A secret heir.
And the blood remembered.
“It could be a trap,” Maeve said, her voice low. She stood by the door, her dark hair loose over her shoulders, her hands still trembling. Her eyes were wide, her breath coming fast. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. “Dain’s always been good at manipulation. He could’ve forged the sigil. He could’ve planted the scroll to lure you out.”
“No,” I said, not turning. “The wax was warm. The scent—old magic, iron, decay. It’s real.”
“And if it is?” Kaelen asked, stepping into the room. His coat was open, his storm-gray eyes burning, his presence a wall, a vow. He didn’t touch me. Just stood beside me, his shadows coiling at his feet, his fangs just visible beneath his lips. “If Dain has a child… what then?”
I finally turned.
My violet eyes locked onto his. “Then we find them.”
“And do what?” he asked, his voice rough. “Kill a child? Hunt down an innocent?”
“They’re not innocent,” I said, stepping closer. “They’re his. And that makes them a threat.”
“Or a victim,” Maeve said, stepping forward. “Onyx, listen to me. You don’t know who this child is. You don’t know what they’ve endured. Dain wasn’t kind to those he used. If this is his heir, they’ve probably been hidden, controlled, broken.”
I didn’t answer.
Just turned back to the map, my fingers pressing into the parchment. The runes on my arms flared—crimson fire lighting the air between us. I could feel it—the truth, the fire, the war. But beneath it, something darker.
Doubt.
Because Maeve was right.
I didn’t know who this child was.
But I knew what they represented.
A challenge.
A threat.
A reason for Dain’s allies to rally, to rise, to fight.
And I couldn’t afford that.
Not now.
Not when the Council had just knelt.
Not when the world was finally starting to believe in me.
“We don’t kill children,” Kaelen said, his voice low. “Not even his.”
“Then what?” I asked, turning to him. “We wait? We let them grow? We let them become the next Dain?”
“No,” he said, stepping into me. “We find them. We protect them. We make sure they’re not used against us.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than any lie ever could.
Because I wasn’t just Onyx Vale.
I wasn’t just the heir.
I was fire.
I was war.
And I was ready.
But I wasn’t a monster.
Not yet.
—
We didn’t speak as we moved.
Not because we were afraid.
But because we were waiting.
The Veil spat us out at dusk, its edges fraying like burnt parchment as we stumbled onto the moss-covered cliffs overlooking the Scottish Highlands. The air was thick with the scent of old magic and decay, the ground soft beneath my feet, the sky above choked with clouds that glowed faintly, like embers in the dark. Torches flickered with cold flame, casting long, shifting shadows that made it impossible to tell where the earth ended and the void began.
The Hollow Thorne was gone.
Not destroyed.
Not burned.
Unmade.
The ancient fae stronghold had collapsed in on itself, its spires of black stone twisted and broken, its walls cracked, its runes shattered. The air hummed with the aftermath of magic—crimson fire fading into embers, the sigils on the ground pulsing like dying stars. The Chamber of Echoes was a ruin, the basin of liquid fire now dry, the obsidian table cracked in two.
And yet—
It was still alive.
Not with Dain’s presence.
Not with his magic.
But with something older.
Something deeper.
“It’s watching us,” I whispered.
“It always is,” Kaelen said, his hand finding mine. “The Hollow Thorne doesn’t just house the fae. It is the fae. Ancient. Cruel. Hungry.”
I didn’t pull away.
Just tightened my grip on his hand, the bond flaring—hot, sudden. I could feel it. Not just his magic. His fear. He was afraid I’d die. Afraid he’d fail me. Afraid he’d lose me.
Good.
Let him be afraid.
Because I wasn’t.
Not anymore.
“Then we don’t give it a choice,” I said, stepping forward. “We go in. We find them. We end this.”
—
The first ward hit like a blade.
Not pain. Not fire.
Rejection.
My body slammed into an invisible wall, the runes on my arms flaring crimson as the magic tore through me. I gasped, stumbling back, my vision blurring. Kaelen caught me before I fell, his hand firm on my hip, his storm-gray eyes burning.
“The wards,” he said, his voice low. “They’re keyed to pure fae blood. You’re not—”
“I am Vale,” I said, stepping into the magic again. “And the Blood Crown answers to no one else.”
I raised my hand.
The runes 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.
And then—
The ward shattered.
Not with sound. Not with light.
With a scream.
Like the air itself was tearing apart.
And we were in.
—
The corridors of the Hollow Thorne were a nightmare of shifting stone and whispering shadows. The walls pulsed with golden sigils, their light flickering like dying stars. The floor was soft, spongy, like walking on flesh. The air was thick with the scent of old magic and decay, the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath. My magic flared, the runes on my arms glowing faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul.
Kaelen moved beside me, silent, deliberate, possessive. His coat was open, his fangs just visible, his shadows coiling at his feet. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me. Just kept pace, his storm-gray eyes scanning the darkness, his body tense, ready.
And then—
I felt it.
A whisper in the dark.
Not from the bond.
From me.
You want him. I can taste it.
I didn’t fight it.
Not this time.
Because I did.
I wanted him.
Not just his touch.
Not just his body.
But him.
The man who’d watched my mother die.
The king who’d taken the Crown to save millions.
The vampire who’d stepped in front of a cursed blade meant for me.
I wanted him.
And I was tired of pretending I didn’t.
“Kaelen,” I said, my voice breaking.
He stilled.
Didn’t look at me.
Just waited.
“Why do you keep doing this?” I asked. “Why do you keep saving me?”
He didn’t answer.
Just turned me, his hands on my hips, his storm-gray eyes searching mine. “Because you’re mine,” he said, his voice rough. “And I’m not letting you go.”
“And if I don’t want to be saved?”
“Then I’ll save you anyway,” he said, stepping closer. “Because I don’t care what you want. I care what you are.”
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.
—
We found the child in the heart of the Hollow Thorne, a hidden sanctum beneath the ruins, lit by a single basin of liquid fire that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and iron, the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath. She was small—no more than ten, maybe twelve—her silver hair loose over her shoulders, her violet eyes wide with fear. She wore a tattered gown of white, her wrists bound in fae iron, her magic locked away, her body trembling.
And I knew.
Not just that she was Dain’s daughter.
But that she was mine.
“Hello, niece,” she whispered, her voice like silk over a blade.
My blood ran cold.
Because she wasn’t afraid.
She was testing me.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said, stepping forward. “I thought you’d be older. Stronger.”
“And I thought you’d be dead,” she said, her voice steady. “But here we are.”
I didn’t flinch. 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.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Because he sent me,” she said. “To deliver a message.”
“And what message is that?”
She smiled—slow, perfect, deadly. “The blood remembers. The child lives. And the fire will burn you all.”
And then—
I felt it.
The shift.
The trap.
She wasn’t just Dain’s daughter.
She was his weapon.
My magic surged—crimson fire lighting the air between us—but before I could move, Kaelen lunged, shoving me behind him just as the girl’s glamour exploded in a wave of golden light.
It hit him full force.
Not pain.
Pleasure.
Heat pooled in his core, his cock thickening, his breath coming fast. Her voice whispered in his ear—You’ll never have her. She’ll destroy you. She’ll burn the world for love.—and for a heartbeat, he believed it.
But then—
My hand found his.
Not a touch.
A claim.
The bond flared—hot, sudden, real—and the glamour shattered like glass.
Kaelen gasped, stumbling back, his vision clearing, his fangs retracting. The girl’s smile was gone, replaced by fury.
“You’ll never have him,” I said, stepping around him, my magic flaring. “He’s not yours. He’s ours.”
“And what are you?” she sneered. “A mistake? A lie? A girl who’ll burn the world for love?”
“I’m the fire,” I said, my voice calm. “And I’m here to remake it.”
And then—
I stepped forward.
Not with anger.
Not with fire.
With need.
My hands fisted in Kaelen’s coat, pulling him down, 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—
The girl lunged.
Not at me.
At the Crown.
But I was faster.
My dagger flashed, slicing through her wrist. She screamed, stumbling back, blood dripping from the wound, black in the low light. The Crown sang louder, its crimson core pulsing, its magic reaching for me.
And I reached back.
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 girl screamed—raw, primal—as the Crown’s magic tore through her, her body convulsing, her violet eyes wide with shock. She tried to run, but the stone floor held her like a vise. The runes on the walls flared golden, then black, then golden again, and the Chamber of Echoes shattered.
And then—
She was gone.
Not with a flicker.
Not with a fade.
With a scream.
Like the air itself was tearing apart.
And I knew.
She wasn’t dead.
But she was broken.
—
Kaelen pulled me close, his body shielding mine, his storm-gray eyes burning. “It’s over,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ve taken back what’s yours.”
“No,” I said, stepping into him. “I’ve taken back what’s ours.”
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.