The air in the Obsidian Court had changed.
Not in scent—though the iron and jasmine still clung to the stone like a vow—but in weight. In silence. The enforcers moved differently now. Not like shadows, but like sentinels. The blood-crystals pulsed gold instead of crimson, their light steady, calm, as if the very walls had exhaled after centuries of holding their breath. Even the hearth fire burned lower, its embers glowing like dying stars, its warmth a whisper instead of a roar.
Power had shifted.
And I was no longer at its center.
I stood at the edge of the war room balcony, coat open, shadows coiled at my feet, my storm-gray eyes scanning the city below. Vienna stretched beneath me, its spires piercing the bruised sky, its streets quiet in the early dusk. The Council had knelt. The Crown had spoken. Onyx Vale was queen. Kaelen was her equal. And I—
I was still alive.
That was something.
But it wasn’t enough.
I’d served Kaelen for over a century. Fought at his side. Bled for his rule. Watched him carry the weight of a stolen crown like it was his cross to bear. I’d believed in him. Trusted him. Followed him into fire.
And now?
Now he had her.
Not just as mate. Not just as queen.
As home.
I could feel it in the bond between them—the way it hummed beneath the skin of the Court, the way it pulsed in the silence between words, in the way they touched without thinking, kissed without hesitation. It wasn’t just magic. It was surrender. It was trust. It was the kind of love that remade a man.
And I was glad for him.
Truly.
But gods, it hurt.
Because I’d never had that.
Never even wanted it.
Not until I saw it.
Not until I watched Kaelen—cold, ruthless, untouchable Kaelen—bend like a blade under her fire and rise again, forged anew.
And now, standing here, watching the city breathe beneath a sky that didn’t care, I felt it—
Not jealousy.
Not bitterness.
Longing.
—
The summons came at midnight.
No knock. No announcement. Just the soft click of the door, the whisper of footsteps on stone. I didn’t turn. Just kept my gaze on the city, my hands braced against the balcony railing, my shadows curling like smoke at my feet.
“You’re brooding,” Kaelen said, his voice rough.
I didn’t answer.
Just waited.
He stepped beside me, his presence a storm, his storm-gray eyes burning. He looked different now—softer, somehow. Not weaker. Never that. But unburdened. The weight of centuries had lifted, and in its place, something brighter. Something alive.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, watching the city, his jaw tight, his fangs just visible beneath his lips.
Then—
“You’ve been avoiding her,” he said.
“Her?” I asked, my voice flat.
“Don’t play dumb,” he said, turning to me. “Onyx. You haven’t spoken to her since the Council meeting. You’ve been in the shadows, watching, silent. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I’m doing my job,” I said.
“Your job is to protect her,” he said. “Not to pretend she doesn’t exist.”
“I’m not pretending,” I said, finally turning to him. “I’m adjusting.”
“To what?”
“To the fact that you have a queen,” I said, my voice low. “That you have a mate. That you don’t need me the way you used to.”
He didn’t flinch.
Just stepped into me, his hand gripping my shoulder, his grip firm, a vow. “I’ll always need you,” he said. “Not as a weapon. Not as a shadow. But as a brother.”
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And that terrified me more than any lie ever could.
Because I wasn’t just Silas, Lieutenant of the Obsidian Court.
I wasn’t just the man who’d bled for his king.
I was fire.
I was war.
And I was ready.
But I didn’t know what I was fighting for anymore.
—
The next morning, I left.
No farewell. No explanation. Just a note on the war room table—Scouting the northern border. Return in three days.—and the Veil swallowing me whole.
I didn’t go north.
I went west.
To the Black Forest.
To the Iron Den.
Not because I had orders.
Not because I was investigating threats.
Because I needed to move.
The air in the Veil was thick, the walls pulsing with golden sigils that burned against my skin. My magic flared, the runes on my arms glowing faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. I didn’t care. Just walked forward, my boots silent on the stone, my shadows coiling at my feet.
And then—
I was there.
The Iron Den.
Not a fortress. Not a castle.
A beast.
The werewolf stronghold rose from the Black Forest like a living thing, its walls of blackened wood and iron twisting toward the sky, its gates guarded by Alphas with golden eyes and fangs bared. The air was thick with the scent of pine and blood, the ground hard 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 walls ended and the void began.
“Silas,” a voice said.
I turned.
Garrik stood there, Alpha of the Iron Den, his golden eyes sharp, his posture tense. He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just gave a slight nod—respect, not pity.
Good.
I didn’t want pity.
“You’re not expected,” he said.
“I’m not here officially,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m here to speak to your healer.”
He didn’t ask why.
Just stepped aside. “She’s in the infirmary. But she won’t see just anyone.”
“Then she’ll see me,” I said, my voice low. “Or I’ll wait until she does.”
He didn’t argue.
Just turned, leading me through the winding corridors of the Den—stone and wood fused together, the walls pulsing with silver sigils, the air thick with the scent of old magic and decay. The infirmary was deep beneath the stronghold, a vault of black stone and veined crystal, lit by a single basin of liquid fire that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the scent of iron and moss, the weight of centuries pressing down on every breath.
And then—
I saw her.
She stood at the center of it all, her back to me, her dark hair loose over her shoulders, her hands stained with blood. She wore a tunic of gray wool, her arms bare, the runes on her skin glowing faintly—witch-born, but not of the Wychwood Coven. Her magic flared beneath her skin, not weak, not broken—waiting.
And then—
She turned.
Her eyes were green—bright, sharp, alive. Not with glamour. Not with power. But with something deeper.
Truth.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, her voice low.
“No,” I said, stepping forward. “But I am.”
She didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, her presence a storm, a vow. “Then say what you came to say.”
I didn’t.
Just reached for her.
Not with magic.
Not with force.
With need.
My fingers brushed her wrist.
And the world exploded.
Not with sound.
Not with fire.
With light.
Not crimson. Not gold.
Silver.
A low, ancient hum, like the voice of the earth itself. 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 vampire-born. They weren’t just fae.
They were royal.
Old. Ancient. The script of the first Bloodline.
And then—
I knew.
Not just that she was a healer.
Not just that she was strong.
But that she was mine.
—
She didn’t pull away.
Just stared at me, her green eyes wide, her breath coming fast. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she whispered.
“It did,” I said, my voice rough.
“We’re not fated,” she said. “Werewolf and vampire. It’s impossible.”
“And yet,” I said, stepping closer. “Here we are.”
She didn’t answer.
Just looked at me—really looked—and I felt it. Not just her magic. Her fear. She was afraid I’d use her. Afraid I’d leave. Afraid she’d burn for me.
Good.
Let her be afraid.
Because I wasn’t.
Not anymore.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She hesitated.
Then—
“Lyra,” she said. “I’m Lyra.”
“Silas,” I said, stepping closer. “Lieutenant of the Obsidian Court. Formerly of no one. Now—” I reached for her hand. “Yours.”
She didn’t take it.
Just looked at me, her green eyes burning. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” I said. “I’ve spent my life in the shadows. Following orders. Bleeding for a king who didn’t know how to love. And now—” I stepped into her, my hand cupping her jaw, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “Now I’ve found something worth stepping into the light for.”
Her breath caught.
Because I was right.
And that terrified her more than any lie ever could.
—
We didn’t speak as we walked.
Not because we were afraid.
But because we were waiting.
The Veil spat us out at dawn, its edges fraying like burnt parchment as we stumbled onto the moss-covered cliffs overlooking Vienna. The city below was still wrapped in shadow, the spires of the Court piercing the sky like fangs, blood-crystals pulsing faintly in their veins. The bond hummed beneath my skin—low, steady, alive—but it wasn’t just relief I felt.
It was weight.
Lyra walked beside me, her hand in mine, her presence a storm, a vow. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. Just walked forward, her boots silent on the slick stone.
And I followed.
Because I would always follow.
—
The Court was silent when we returned.
No cheers. No fanfare. No enforcers rushing to greet us. Just the quiet hum of blood-crystals in the walls, the slow, steady pulse of the hearth fire. The suite was untouched—blankets smooth, chalice empty, the scent of jasmine and iron still clinging to the air. It felt like a dream. Like none of it had happened.
But the bond was real.
And so was she.
I closed the door behind us, the lock clicking like a vow. I didn’t speak. Just stepped into her, my hands on her hips, my presence a storm. My fangs were just visible beneath my lips, shadows coiling at my feet. The bond flared—hot, sudden—and I felt it. Not just her magic. Her hunger. She wanted to touch it. To claim it. To see.
“Let me,” I said, my voice low.
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
I didn’t rush. Didn’t push. Just worked in silence, my fingers tracing the edge of her tunic, my touch firm but gentle. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. The runes on her arms flared—brighter than ever—spreading across her skin like wildfire, climbing up her neck, her chest, her face. The sigils weren’t just witch-born. They weren’t just werewolf.
They were royal.
Old. Ancient. The script of the first Bloodline.
And then—
I reached for her.
My fingers brushed her skin, my storm-gray eyes searching hers. “May I?”
She didn’t answer.
Just lifted her arms, letting me take her.
I held her like it was sacred—like it was alive. My magic flared, silver fire curling around my fingertips, seeping into her skin. The bond pulsed, its silver core glowing faintly, responding to my touch. But it didn’t sing. Not like it had for Onyx and Kaelen.
Because it wasn’t about power.
It was about truth.
“It’s not just a bond,” I said, my voice rough. “It’s a vow. A contract. It binds us—not by force, but by need.”
“And if the need fades?” she asked, stepping closer. “If it burns out?”
“Then we burn with it,” I said, stepping into her. “Because I don’t care what happens. I care what you are.”
Her breath caught.
Because I was right.
She wasn’t just Lyra, healer of the Iron Den.
She wasn’t just a rogue werewolf.
She was fire.
She was war.
And she was ready.
—
Later, when the city slept and the stars burned cold above, I found her in the war room.
Alone.
Standing over the map, her fingers tracing the borders of the Hollow Thorne, the runes on her arms still flaring faintly, reacting to the shift in her blood, in her soul.
“You should be resting,” I said, stepping beside her.
“I can’t,” she said, her voice low. “Not yet. Not while he’s still out there. Not while his blood still walks this world.”
I didn’t argue.
Just reached for her, my hand sliding to her hip, pulling her close. “Then we find them,” I said. “Together.”
She leaned into me, her breath warm against my neck, her body arching into mine. “You’re not like the others,” she whispered.
“No,” I said, my voice rough. “I’m not.”
“And you never were.”
And as I held her, the scent of pine 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.