The air inside the Hollow Thorne tasted like old blood and forgotten oaths.
Not decay. Not rot. But something deeper—something that had festered beneath centuries of lies, carved into the stone like scripture. The walls pulsed with golden sigils, their light flickering like dying stars, casting long, shifting shadows that made it impossible to tell where the floor ended and the void began. The ground was soft beneath my boots, spongy, like walking on flesh. The scent of moss and magic clung to the air, thick and heavy, like a vow we hadn’t finished speaking. My magic flared beneath my skin, the runes on my arms glowing faintly, reacting to the shift in my blood, in my soul. The Blood Crown pressed against my chest, its obsidian spikes warm, its crimson core humming in time with my heartbeat.
And I knew—
This place wasn’t just broken.
It was alive.
“It’s watching us,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the low, rhythmic pulse of the walls.
“It always is,” Kaelen said, his hand finding mine. His fingers were firm, possessive, a tether in the dark. His storm-gray eyes burned, scanning the shifting corridors, his coat open, his fangs just visible beneath his lips. His shadows coiled at his feet like serpents ready to strike. “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 her. We end this.”
—
The corridors twisted like veins.
Not straight. Not logical. But alive—shifting, pulsing, breathing. The walls whispered as we passed, their golden sigils flaring in response to my presence. The air thickened with every step, pressing down like a weight. My magic surged, the runes on my arms flaring crimson, spreading across my skin like wildfire. The Blood Crown hummed against my chest, its power a constant pulse, a reminder: I was not an intruder.
I was heir.
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 yet—
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 Hollow Throne.
Not the Blood Crown.
Not the weapon of sovereignty.
But the seat of betrayal.
Carved from black stone, its back shaped like twisted thorns, its arms inlaid with golden sigils that pulsed with cursed light. It sat at the center of the chamber, empty, silent, waiting. And yet—
I felt it.
Not just the magic.
But the memory.
The night my mother died.
The night Dain took the Crown.
The night I was branded traitor.
All of it had happened here.
And the throne remembered.
“It’s a trap,” Kaelen said, stepping in front of me, shielding me with his body. “The magic’s too still. Too quiet. Dain wouldn’t leave this unguarded.”
“He didn’t,” I said, stepping around him. “He left it for me.”
“To do what?”
“To sit,” I said, my voice low. “To claim it. To become what he wanted me to be.”
“And what’s that?”
“A weapon,” I said, stepping forward. “A queen forged in vengeance. A ruler who burns instead of builds.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then I break it,” I said, my hand closing around the hilt of my dagger.
But before I could move—
The throne spoke.
Not with sound.
Not with voice.
With memory.
The air shimmered, and suddenly—
I was not in the Chamber of Echoes.
I was in the past.
—
The night was thick with storm.
Lightning split the sky above the Hollow Thorne, illuminating the spires of black stone, the golden sigils pulsing with light. The air smelled of iron and fire, of old magic and newer promises. I stood in the throne room—no, not me. Her. My mother. Queen Seraphine Vale, her violet eyes blazing, her silver hair loose over her shoulders, her gown of white shimmering with protective runes. She sat on the Hollow Throne, her back straight, her presence a storm, a vow.
And Dain stood before her.
My uncle.
His silver hair tied back, his violet eyes cold, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. He didn’t look at her. Just watched the door, his body tense, ready.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low. “Step down. Let me rule. The Council is crumbling. The courts are at war. You’re too weak to hold it together.”
“I am not weak,” she said, her voice steady. “I am just. And I will not let you twist the bloodline for your own ambition.”
“Ambition?” he laughed—low, melodic, and utterly false. “I’m saving it. You’re too soft. Too human. Too hybrid. The purebloods will never accept you. They’ll tear this kingdom apart.”
“Then let them,” she said. “If they would rather burn than evolve, then they deserve the ashes.”
And then—
He moved.
Not with rage.
Not with fury.
With precision.
His dagger flashed, slicing through her throat in a single, clean motion. She didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. Just fell forward, her blood pooling on the stone, black in the dim light. The runes on her gown flared—crimson fire lighting the air—before fading into silence.
And then—
He reached for the Blood Crown.
It sat beside her, resting on a pedestal of obsidian, its crimson core pulsing. He took it, his fingers trembling, his breath coming fast. And then—
He looked up.
And saw me.
I was there—sixteen, hidden in the shadows, my hands pressed over my mouth, my eyes wide with horror. I hadn’t meant to come. Hadn’t meant to see. But I’d heard the shouting. I’d followed the scent of blood.
And now—
He saw me.
His eyes burned into mine.
And he smiled.
Not with warmth.
Not with regret.
With triumph.
“You’ll be the perfect scapegoat,” he whispered.
And then—
The memory shattered.
—
I gasped, stumbling back, my vision blurring, my heart pounding like a war drum. Kaelen caught me before I fell, his arms wrapping around me, his presence a wall, a vow. “Onyx,” he said, his voice low. “What did you see?”
I couldn’t speak.
Just 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.
“He killed her,” I said, my voice breaking. “He killed her and framed me. He didn’t just steal the Crown. He orchestrated it. Every lie. Every betrayal. Every death.”
Kaelen didn’t flinch.
Just held me closer, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, his thumb brushing my jaw. “And now you know,” he said. “Not just what he did. But why.”
“Because I’m not pure,” I said, my voice rising. “Because I’m not what he wanted. Because I’m a hybrid. A mistake. A lie.”
“No,” he said, stepping into me, his storm-gray eyes burning. “You’re not a lie. You’re the truth. And the throne can’t hold you because it’s built on lies.”
And then—
I felt it.
A shift.
A ripple.
Not from the bond.
From the throne.
It shuddered.
Not with magic.
With fear.
Because I wasn’t just Onyx Vale.
I wasn’t just the heir.
I was fire.
I was war.
And I was ready.
“Then let it burn,” I said, stepping forward.
And 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 they remembered.
“You don’t have to destroy it,” Kaelen said, stepping beside me. “You can claim it. Reforge it. Make it yours.”
“And become what he wanted?” I asked, my voice low. “A queen of vengeance? A ruler who sits on a throne of blood?”
“No,” he said, stepping into me, his hand sliding to my hip, pulling me close. “You become what you choose. Not because of the past. Not because of the bond. But because you want to.”
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.
So 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—
I stepped past him.
And placed my hand on the Hollow Throne.
Not to claim it.
Not to sit.
But to break it.
The moment my fingers touched the stone—
It screamed.
Not with sound.
Not with magic.
With truth.
The sigils flared golden, then black, then golden again. The stone cracked, then shattered, collapsing into dust that swirled in the air like ash. The basin of liquid fire flickered, then died. The Chamber of Echoes trembled, the walls pulsing with light, the floor shaking beneath our feet.
And then—
It was over.
The throne was gone.
Not destroyed.
Not burned.
Unmade.
“It’s done,” Kaelen said, stepping beside me. “The past can’t hold you anymore.”
“No,” I said, stepping into him. “It’s not done. It’s just beginning.”
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.