The silence after the Hollow Throne shattered was deeper than the dark.
Not empty. Not peaceful. But cleansed. Like the air itself had exhaled, like the stone beneath my boots had softened, like the golden sigils on the walls had dimmed—not from weakness, but from release. The scent of old blood and iron still clung to the air, thick and cloying, but it was fading now, replaced by something lighter, something older: the crisp tang of mountain wind, the faint sweetness of night-blooming jasmine. 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. But it wasn’t just power I felt.
It was truth.
The throne was gone.
Not destroyed. Not burned.
Unmade.
And with it, the last weight of Dain’s lie.
“It’s done,” Kaelen said, stepping beside me. His voice was low, rough, his storm-gray eyes scanning the ruins of the Chamber of Echoes. The basin of liquid fire had gone dark, its surface still as glass. The walls pulsed with golden light, their rhythm slower now, calmer. His coat was open, his fangs just visible, his shadows coiled at his feet like loyal hounds. He didn’t touch me. Just stood close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, the hum of his magic, the weight of his presence. “The past can’t hold you anymore.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my boots silent on the stone, the Blood Crown glowing at my throat. The runes on my arms flared—brighter than ever—spreading across my skin like wildfire, climbing up my neck, 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.
“No,” I said, my voice breaking. “It’s not done. It’s just beginning.”
Because I knew—
The throne wasn’t the only thing Dain had twisted.
He had poisoned the bloodline itself.
And now, it was time to reclaim it.
—
We left the Hollow Thorne at dawn.
No fanfare. No army. Just the two of us, stepping through the Veil with the Blood Crown pulsing against my chest, its magic humming beneath my skin. The air in the corridor 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—
We were back.
Vienna.
The Obsidian Court rose before us like a blade against the sky, its spires still humming with residual magic, blood-crystals pulsing in slow, steady rhythm. The city stirred beneath us, waking in fractured light as dawn bled through the storm clouds. The air smelled of iron and fire, of old blood and newer promises. Enforcers moved in silence—no chaos, no panic. Just purpose. The war wasn’t over. Not truly. But the turning point had come. And we’d won it.
—
The war room was alive when we entered.
Not with shouting. Not with chaos.
With order.
The blood-crystals pulsed gold now—steady, warm—reflecting off the polished stone, casting long shadows across the war map. The Council had gathered—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, silver, and gold. But they didn’t challenge us. Not anymore.
They knelt.
Not in submission.
But in acknowledgment.
Onyx stepped forward, her boots silent on the stone, the Blood Crown glowing at her throat. She didn’t speak. Didn’t raise her voice. Just stood at the center of it all, her presence a storm, a vow. And the room stilled.
“The old order is dead,” she said, her voice low, rough. “Dain’s lies. His blood purism. His fear. It ends here.”
No one argued.
“The Blood Crown has chosen,” she continued. “Not a pureblood. Not a fae. Not a vampire. It chose me. A half-blood. A hybrid. A weapon turned queen.”
Still, silence.
But I felt it—the shift. The tension. The unspoken challenge.
Then a witch stepped forward—Elyra, High Seer of the Wychwood Coven. Her eyes were black, her voice cold. “And what of the bloodline?” she asked. “The Vale bloodline is cursed. Tainted. If you claim it, you risk unleashing the same madness that drove Dain to betrayal.”
Onyx didn’t flinch. Just turned to me, her violet eyes locking onto mine. “The bloodline isn’t cursed,” she said. “It’s awake. And it remembers.”
Every head turned.
Every eye burned.
“The Hollow Throne is gone,” she said, stepping to the center of the room. “But the blood remains. And I will not let it be poisoned again. I will not let fear dictate our future. I will not let lies shape our truth.” She raised the Blood Crown, its crimson core pulsing. “I am Onyx Vale. Heir of Seraphine. Keeper of the Crown. And I will not hide.”
The silence was deafening.
Then—
One by one, they nodded.
Not in surrender.
But in recognition.
—
After the meeting, we returned to the suite.
No cheers. No celebration. Just silence as the door clicked shut behind us. The hearth fire burned low, its embers pulsing like a heartbeat. The scent of jasmine and iron still clung to the air, thick and heavy, like a vow.
Onyx didn’t speak.
Just walked to the balcony, her boots silent on the stone, the Blood Crown glowing at her throat. I followed, my presence a storm, a vow. She didn’t look at me. Just watched the city, her violet eyes burning.
“They’ll challenge us,” I said, stepping beside her. “The ones who stayed silent. The ones who bowed but didn’t believe.”
“Let them,” she said, her voice low. “We’ve already won.”
I didn’t smile. Just reached for her, my hand cupping her jaw, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “You’re not just a queen,” I said, my voice rough. “You’re a storm. And I’m not letting you face them alone.”
Her breath caught.
Because I was right.
She wasn’t just Onyx Vale.
She wasn’t just the heir.
She was fire.
She was war.
And she was ready.
—
But the night wasn’t done with us.
Not yet.
Because as we stood on the balcony, the bond humming beneath our skin—
The door opened.
Not with a creak.
Not with a groan.
With silence.
Maeve stepped inside, her dark hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes wide, a single scroll clutched to her chest. She looked like she’d run through the Veil herself—her cloak torn, her hands trembling, her breath coming fast.
“Onyx,” she whispered.
Onyx turned, her violet eyes sharp. “Maeve. What is it?”
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, closing the door behind her, and held out the scroll.
Sealed with silver wax.
Shaped like a crescent moon cradling a star.
Wychwood Coven sigil.
Onyx took it, her fingers trembling. The wax was still warm, the scent of old magic and iron clinging to the paper. She didn’t need to open it to know what it said.
But she did anyway.
Inside, a single line, written in a hand she recognized instantly:
The blood remembers. The child lives.
No signature.
No threat.
Just a truth.
And she believed it.
Because Dain wasn’t just her uncle.
He was the man who’d betrayed their family.
Who’d framed her.
Who’d taken the Blood Crown and left her to burn.
And now—
He had a child.
A secret heir.
And the blood remembered.
—
Onyx didn’t speak.
Just handed me the scroll.
I read it once.
Then again.
And then—
I knew.
Not just that Dain had a child.
But that the war wasn’t over.
It had only just begun.
“He’s afraid,” Onyx said, her voice low. “Which means we’re close.”
“Or it’s a trap,” Maeve said, stepping forward. “He’s always been good at manipulation. He could be trying to lure you out. To isolate you.”
“He’s not wrong,” I said, my voice low, dangerous. “Dain’s not reckless. If he’s sending a warning, it’s because he’s desperate.”
“Then we use it,” Onyx said, stepping to the balcony. “We let him think he’s in control. We let him think he’s winning. And then—” She turned, her violet eyes locking onto mine. “We take everything from him.”
I didn’t smile. Just stepped into her, my hand cupping her jaw, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “You’re not just a queen,” I said, my voice rough. “You’re a storm. And I’m not letting you face him alone.”
Her breath caught.
Because I was right.
She wasn’t just Onyx Vale.
She wasn’t just the heir.
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 Blood Crown glowing at her throat. The runes on her arms still flared 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, my 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 as cold as you pretend,” she whispered.
“No,” I said, my voice rough. “I’m not.”
“And you never were.”
And as I held her, 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.
—
The dream came that night.
Not a vision. Not a memory. But a pull—deep, insistent, like the tide dragging me under. I stood in the Chamber of Echoes, but it wasn’t ruined. It was whole—its spires of black stone twisting toward the sky, its walls carved with golden sigils that pulsed with light. The air was thick with the scent of moss and magic, 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.
And then—
I saw her.
The child.
But not as she was.
As she would be.
Older. Stronger. Her silver hair loose over her shoulders, her violet eyes blazing. She wore a gown of white, but it was stained with blood—black, thick, unnatural. Her wrists were no longer bound in fae iron. They were bare. And on her left hand—
A ring.
Not just any ring.
Dain’s ring.
The sigil of the Hollow Thorne carved into obsidian, the stone glowing with cursed light. The same ring he’d worn the night he betrayed us. The same ring he’d used to seal the oath that framed me.
She looked at me—really looked—and I felt it. Not just her magic. Her hunger. She wanted the Crown. She wanted my throne. She wanted my life.
And she would burn the world to get it.
“The blood remembers,” she whispered, her voice like silk over a blade. “And it will have its due.”
And then—
She raised her hand.
The ring flared—crimson fire bursting from the stone, spiraling upward, forming a column that reached the ceiling. The runes on the walls flared golden, then black, then golden again. The Chamber of Echoes shattered.
And I woke.
Sweating. Gasping. My heart pounding like a war drum.
Kaelen was already awake, his storm-gray eyes burning, his hand on my hip, his presence a wall, a vow.
“You saw her,” he said, my voice low.
I didn’t answer.
Just nodded.
“Then we don’t wait,” he said, pulling me close. “We go to her.”
“Or she comes to us,” I said, my voice breaking.
“Then we meet her in the fire,” he said, his lips brushing my temple. “And we burn her out.”
—
We left at dawn.
No fanfare. No army. Just the two of us, stepping through the Veil with the Blood Crown pulsing against my chest, its magic humming beneath my skin. The air in the corridor 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—
We were there.
The Hollow Thorne.
Not a castle.
Not a fortress.
A beast.
The ancient fae stronghold rose from the Scottish Highlands like a living thing, its spires of black stone twisting toward the sky, its walls carved with runes that pulsed with golden light. The air was thick with the scent of moss and magic, 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 walls ended and the void began.
“It’s watching us,” I whispered.
“It always is,” Kaelen said, my 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 my 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 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, my 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.