The first time I truly hated Kaelen, I was sixteen.
Not because he’d taken the Blood Crown.
Not because he’d let the world believe I’d betrayed my family.
But because he’d stood in the shadows the night my mother died, his storm-gray eyes burning, his fangs retracted, and he’d done nothing.
I’d seen him there—just for a heartbeat—before the fire swallowed the estate, before the guards dragged me out screaming, before they branded me traitor and cast me into the dark. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t tried to stop it.
And for ten years, I carried that image like a blade.
Now, standing in the throne room of the Obsidian Court, the Blood Crown pressed against my chest, its obsidian spikes warm, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, I realized something:
I didn’t hate him anymore.
Not because he didn’t deserve it.
But because I no longer needed it.
The throne room was silent—no whispers, no murmurs, no enforcers moving through the shadows. Just the slow, steady pulse of blood-crystals in the walls, their gold light reflecting off the polished obsidian floor. The air smelled of iron and fire, of old magic and newer promises. My boots were silent as I walked forward, my gown of crimson shimmering, the runes on my arms glowing faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul.
Kaelen stood at the center of it all, his coat open, his fangs just visible, his shadows coiled at his feet. He didn’t look at me. Just watched the throne—empty now, its obsidian spikes dull, its crimson core lifeless. It wasn’t his anymore. Not truly. The Crown had chosen me. And he’d knelt.
Not in submission.
But in surrender.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low, rough. “You’ve already won. The Council obeys. The courts are united. Dain’s broken. You don’t need my apology.”
“I don’t want your apology,” I said, stopping a few feet from him. “I want the truth.”
He turned.
His storm-gray eyes burned into mine, shadows flickering at the edges of his vision. “You already know it.”
“I know what you did,” I said, stepping closer. “I know you let Dain take the Crown. I know you let him frame me. I know you watched my mother die and did nothing.”
He didn’t flinch.
Just stood there, his jaw tight, his presence a storm, a vow.
“And I know why,” I continued. “You did it to keep the Council from collapsing. To prevent war. To save millions.”
“And?” he asked, stepping into me. “Does that make it right?”
“No,” I said, my voice breaking. “It doesn’t. But it makes it human.”
His breath caught.
Because I was right.
He wasn’t just a king.
Not just a monster.
He was a man.
And for the first time, I saw him—not as the enemy, not as the tyrant, not as the vampire who’d stolen my birthright—but as someone who’d carried a weight too heavy to bear alone.
“You let me burn,” I said, stepping closer. “You let me hate you. You let me believe I was nothing.”
“Because you needed it,” he said, his voice rough. “You needed your fire. Your rage. Your purpose. And if I’d told you the truth—”
“I would’ve walked away,” I finished, my voice breaking. “I would’ve burned it all down before I let myself believe I was anything more than a weapon.”
“Exactly,” he said, stepping closer. “And now that the magic has spoken, now that the blood has sung—you can’t deny it.”
“I’m not just the heir,” I said, my violet eyes blazing. “I’m the true sovereign.”
“And I’m not just the king,” he said, his hand sliding to my hip, pulling me close. “I’m the man who stole the Crown to save millions.”
“And the man who let me hate you,” I said, my voice soft. “Because I needed my fire.”
“And now?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Now,” I said, leaning into him, “I let you love me.”
And then—
I kissed him.
Not in anger.
Not in war.
But in forgiveness.
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 the fever.
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.
—
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 Chamber of Echoes deep beneath the Hollow Thorne, a hidden sanctum 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 old blood and iron, 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.
And then—
I saw it.
The Blood Crown.
Not on a pedestal. Not in a case.
Chained to the stone slab at the center of the chamber, its obsidian spikes glinting in the dim light, its crimson core pulsing like a second heart. The magic sang—a low, ancient hum, like the voice of the earth itself. The runes on my arms flared brighter, spreading across my skin like wildfire.
“It’s here,” I whispered.
“And so is he,” Kaelen said, stepping in front of me, shielding me with his body.
And then—
Dain appeared.
Not from the shadows.
Not from the door.
From the air itself—like he’d been waiting in the silence, woven into the very fabric of the night. He stepped forward, his silver hair loose over his shoulders, his violet eyes blazing. His smile was slow, perfect, deadly.
“Hello, niece,” he purred, his voice like silk over a blade. “Did you really think you could take back what’s mine?”
“It was never yours,” I said, stepping around Kaelen, my violet eyes burning. “It was hers. And now it’s mine.”
“You’re not worthy,” he spat. “A half-blood playing queen. A weapon with a pretty face. The magic will reject you. It will kill you.”
“Then let it try,” I said, stepping forward. “Because I’m not leaving without it.”
He laughed—low, melodic, and utterly false. “You think you’re strong? You think your little bond makes you powerful?”
And then I felt it.
The shift.
The trap.
He wasn’t fighting me.
He was distracting me.
My magic surged—crimson fire lighting the air between us—but before I could move, Kaelen lunged, shoving me behind him just as Dain’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. Dain’s 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. Dain’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?” Dain 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—
Dain lunged.
Not at me.
At the Crown.
But I was faster.
My dagger flashed, slicing through his wrist. He 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.
—
Dain screamed—raw, primal—as the Crown’s magic tore through him, his body convulsing, his violet eyes wide with shock. He tried to run, but the stone floor held him like a vise. The runes on the walls flared golden, then black, then golden again, and the Chamber of Echoes shattered.
And then—
He was gone.
Not with a flicker.
Not with a fade.
With a scream.
Like the air itself was tearing apart.
And I knew.
He wasn’t dead.
But he was broken.
—
Kaelen carried me back to the surface, his steps silent, his presence a storm. I clutched the Blood Crown to my chest, its magic humming beneath my fingers, its power a quiet, constant pulse. The runes on my arms still glowed faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul.
And then—
I felt it.
A whisper in the dark, not from the bond, but from me.
You want him. I can taste it.
I didn’t fight it.
Not this time.
Because I did.
I wanted him.
And I was tired of pretending I didn’t.
I turned to him.
He was awake.
Watching me.
Waiting.
And I knew—
He’d been waiting for me to choose him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the fever.
But because I wanted to.
So I did.
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.
—
Later, when the city slept and the stars burned cold above, I found him in the war room.
Alone.
Standing over the map, his fingers tracing the borders of the Hollow Thorne, the Blood Crown glowing at his throat. The runes on his arms still flared faintly, reacting to the shift in his blood, in his soul.
“You should be resting,” I said, stepping beside him.
“I can’t,” he said, his 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 him, my hand sliding to his hip, pulling him close. “Then we find them,” I said. “Together.”
He leaned into me, his breath warm against my neck, his body arching into mine. “You’re not as cold as you pretend,” he whispered.
“No,” I said, my voice rough. “I’m not.”
“And you never were.”
And as I held 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.