The Seelie Court wasn’t supposed to hold coronations for witches.
Especially not half-breeds.
Especially not during a Blood Moon.
But here I stood—barefoot on the dais of moonstone, the air thick with ancient magic and the scent of crushed jasmine, the sky above split between twilight and the swollen crimson eye of the moon. My robe was not silver-blue, not the linen of my mother’s memory, but forged from living moonfire—woven by the hands of the Lunar Coven’s last surviving elders, stitched with the blood of those we’d lost, etched with sigils that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. The bond hummed beneath my skin, not as a curse, not as a chain, but as a second pulse, steady, strong, *shared*. And at my side—
Kael.
He didn’t wear the blackened coat of the Northern Packs. Not today. He wore silver armor, forged in the heart of the Blood Moon Forge, inscribed with runes of unity, not dominance. His golden eyes burned, not with possession, not with control, but with *pride*. And when he reached for my hand, his fingers warm, calloused, grounding, the bond flared—a surge of heat that made the ground tremble beneath our feet. My magic rose, not in fire, not in light, but in *recognition*. As if my power knew what my mind had only just begun to accept.
I wasn’t just surviving.
I was *leading*.
“By ancient law,” the High Fae declared, her voice echoing through the moonlit glade, “no witch may be crowned within the Seelie Court. No half-blood may wear the crown of moonfire. No consort may stand equal to a prince.”
The crowd murmured—low, urgent, *hungry*.
But I didn’t flinch.
Just lifted my chin.
“And yet,” she continued, her milky eyes turning to me, “the Blood Moon speaks. The fire dances. The child stirs. And the bond—”
She paused.
Not for drama.
For *truth*.
“The bond has chosen. Not for power. Not for politics. For *balance*.”
A ripple went through the crowd.
Fae shifted. Vampires leaned forward. Werewolves stood taller. Even the Veilbreakers, hidden in the shadows, held their breath.
“The child,” the High Fae said, “is not just a witch. Not just a wolf. Not just a fae. It is all three. And the mother—”
Her gaze locked onto mine.
“The mother is not just a consort. Not just a spy. Not just a weapon.”
She stepped forward, her staff of living willow tapping the moonstone.
“She is the *Queen*.”
The glade erupted.
Not in protest.
Not in outrage.
In *belief*.
Kael’s hand tightened around mine. I could feel his pulse, steady, strong, *his*. The child flared—just for a second—its warmth surging, syncing with the bond, with the moon, with *me*. My magic rose, not in defense, not in anger, but in *harmony*. Silver energy curled from my skin, not burning, not scorching—but *revealing*.
And then—
The crown came.
Not gold. Not silver. Not crystal.
Moonfire.
Forged from the heart of the Blood Moon, shaped by the hands of the Fae High Court, blessed by the spirits of the Lunar Coven. It hovered above me, not floating, not drifting—*pulsing*, like a living thing. And then—
It descended.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
Like a blade.
It touched my brow—and *burned*.
Not with pain.
Not with fire.
With *memory*.
I saw it all.
The raid. The blood. The altar. My mother’s silver-blue eyes, wide with terror, her voice whispering, *“You are more than they say.”*
The ritual. The bond. The moment Kael’s mouth crashed against mine, not in passion, but in agony, our souls twisting, fusing, *burning*.
The dreams. The child. The forest burning with silver flame that didn’t burn but *unraveled*.
Lysander’s vial. The memory of my mother, broken, begging me to trust him.
The training grounds. The witches kneeling. The fire answering.
Kael’s confession. His fear. His love.
And then—
The future.
Me.
Standing in the Obsidian Chamber.
But not as a spy.
Not as a victim.
As *Queen*.
The crown settled.
And the pain—
It didn’t stop.
It *transformed*.
Not fire.
Not ice.
Truth.
And then—
The glade stilled.
Not from silence.
From *recognition*.
The High Fae stepped back. The crowd bowed. Not to me.
Not to the bond.
To the *truth*.
Kael didn’t kneel.
Just turned to me, his golden eyes burning, his voice low. “You did it,” he said. “You’re not just my consort. You’re not just the mother of my child. You’re *hers*. You’re *theirs*. You’re *ours*.”
I didn’t answer.
Just pressed my hand to my stomach, where the child’s warmth pulsed—steady, calm, *unbroken*.
And then—
The coronation wasn’t over.
“By ancient law,” the High Fae said, stepping forward again, “a queen must be tested. A trial of loyalty. A trial of power. A trial of *truth*.”
My breath stilled.
Kael stepped in front of me, his body a wall. “She’s already proven herself,” he growled. “The bond—”
“Is not enough,” the High Fae said, her voice calm. “The child is not yet born. The truce is not yet secure. And the shadow—”
She paused.
“The shadow still walks.”
Vexis.
Even now, even here, his name hung in the air like a curse.
“What trial?” I asked, stepping beside Kael. My voice was steady. Calm. “What do you want from me?”
She didn’t answer.
Just raised her staff.
And the glade changed.
Not in space.
Not in time.
In *truth*.
The moonlit trees faded. The crowd dissolved. The dais cracked open, revealing a pit of blackened stone, its walls etched with runes of binding, of sacrifice, of *blood*. And in the center—
A mirror.
Not glass. Not silver.
Obsidian.
And in it—
Me.
But not as I was.
As I *could be*.
I saw myself—older, harder, my eyes cold, my hands stained with blood. I saw Kael at my feet, not as a mate, but as a prisoner, his golden eyes dull, his body broken. I saw the child—floating, their veins threaded with moonfire, their eyes pits of void—calling me *mother*, but not with love. With *fear*.
And then—
Vexis.
Not in the void.
Not as a shadow.
Standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his voice in my ear—“You were always meant to rule. Not with love. Not with truth. With power.”
My breath caught.
Kael reached for me, but the bond didn’t flare. Didn’t pull. Just… *waited*.
“This is your trial,” the High Fae said, her voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. “Not of strength. Not of magic. Of *choice*.”
“What choice?” I whispered.
“To destroy the mirror,” she said. “Or to embrace it.”
I didn’t move.
Just stared at the reflection—the woman I could become if I let vengeance rule. If I let fear guide me. If I let the bond consume me.
And then—
The child flared.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Love.Its warmth surged, rising like a tide, syncing with the bond, with the crown, with *me*. My magic erupted—not in defense, not in attack—
But in *truth*.
I stepped forward.
Not to the mirror.
To the *memory*.
“I am not her,” I said, my voice clear. “I am not the woman who destroys to rule. I am not the queen who breaks her mate to keep him. I am not the mother who lets fear shape her child.”
I raised my hands.
And then—
Moonfire erupted from my palms.
Not in a wave.
Not in a blast.
In a pulse.
It didn’t burn the mirror.
It revealed it.
For a single, blinding second, the entire glade was flooded with silver light—and in that light, I saw it.
The truth.
Not just in the bond.
Not just in the magic.
But in us.
Kael’s scars. His fears. His love.
And mine.
The hatred. The vengeance. The grief.
All of it—laid bare.
And then—
The mirror cracked.
Not from the fire.
Not from the magic.
From *truth*.
It shattered—slowly, like ice breaking under spring sun—and in the fragments, I saw not the future, but the past.
My mother, not broken, not begging, but *fighting*, her voice rising—“You are more than they say. You are more than they fear. You are the fire that burns in the dark.”
The mirror fell to dust.
And the glade returned.
The trees. The crowd. The moon.
And then—
The High Fae stepped forward.
Not with a staff.
With a blade.
Not of silver.
Not of obsidian.
Of *moonfire*.
She held it out to me, hilt first.
“By ancient law,” she said, “a queen must be tested. And you have passed. Not by strength. Not by fire. By *truth*.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just took the blade.
And then—
She turned to Kael.
“And the Alpha,” she said, “must also be tested.”
His jaw tightened.
But he didn’t flinch.
“You have claimed her,” the High Fae said. “You have protected her. You have fought for her. But have you *trusted* her?”
Kael didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, his body a furnace, his voice low. “I have trusted her with my life. With my pack. With my soul.”
“And with your power?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “With everything.”
She nodded.
And then—
She raised her staff.
And the bond flared.
Not in pain.
Not in fire.
But in need.
It wasn’t the heat cycle. Not the moon’s pull. Not magic.
It was us.
And for the first time, I didn’t fight it.
I just… let go.
Kael stepped into me, his body pressing against mine, his hands finding my waist, pulling me close. The crowd stilled. The whispers died. And then—
He kissed me.
Not in magic.
Not in fire.
Not in desperation.
But in truth.
Slow. Soft. Deep.
No force. No dominance. No bond.
Just need.
His tongue slid against mine, his fingers tangling in my hair, his body arching into me. The bond surged—not in pain, not in fire—but in *harmony*. My magic rose, not to burn, not to fight, but to *soothe*. To *heal*. To *claim*.
And when I deepened the kiss, my nails scoring his back, my body pressing against his, he didn’t pull away.
He *arched* into me.
Because for the first time in our lives—
We weren’t just surviving.
We were *living*.
And we weren’t alone.
The kiss ended slowly, our foreheads pressed together, our breath mingling in the cold air. The child’s warmth pulsed between us, steady, calm, *unbroken*. The crown burned—not with pain, not with fire—but with *truth*.
“It’s not over,” I said, my voice low. “Vexis is still out there. Lysander still watches. The truce is still fragile.”
Kael didn’t flinch. Just brushed his thumb along the bond mark on my neck. “Then we fight,” he said. “Together. Not as Alpha and consort. Not as wolf and witch. As *equals*.”
“And if they demand the bond be broken?” I asked. “If they say the child is a threat? If they—”
“Then we burn the world to keep it safe,” he said, his voice rough. “And if we have to, we’ll die for it.”
My breath caught.
He wasn’t just saying it to control me.
He meant it.
And that—
That was more dangerous than any lie.
Because I wasn’t just fighting for my mother anymore.
I wasn’t just fighting for the truth.
I was fighting for a life.
And I didn’t know how to come back from that.
The High Fae stepped forward, her staff tapping the moonstone. “The coronation is complete,” she declared. “Opal of the Lunar Coven is crowned High Witch. Kael Arcturus is recognized as her equal. The bond is sealed. The truce is honored.”
The crowd erupted.
Not in anger.
Not in fear.
From *belief*.
Wolves howled. Vampires nodded. Fae bowed. And the Veilbreakers—
They *cheered*.
Kael didn’t let go of my hand.
Just pulled me closer, his body a furnace, his breath warm against my neck. “You were magnificent,” he said, his voice rough.
“I was terrified,” I said, pressing my hand to my stomach. The child’s warmth pulsed—slow, steady, *calm*. As if it knew. As if it trusted us.
“So was I,” he said, pulling me into his chest. “But not of them.”
“Then what?” I asked, lifting my head.
“Of becoming you,” he said, brushing his thumb along the bond mark on my neck. “Of losing myself in the fight. Of forgetting why I started this in the first place.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached up and brushed my thumb along the scar on his jaw—the one from the Iron Fangs’ ambush. The one he’d earned protecting me.
And then—
I kissed him.
Not in magic.
Not in fire.
Not in desperation.
But in truth.
Slow. Soft. Deep.
No force. No dominance. No bond.
Just need.
We didn’t return to the Citadel.
Not yet.
Instead, Kael led me to the edge of the glade, to the highest ridge, where the wind tore at our coats and the stars burned cold above. Below, the coronation continued, the fire burning silver, the crowd alive with music and laughter. But we were apart from it. Watching. Waiting.
“You saw it,” I said, my voice low. “In the mirror. The woman I could become.”
He didn’t flinch. Just kept his eyes on the horizon. “I saw her. But I also saw the woman you *are*. The one who chooses love over vengeance. Truth over power. *Us* over *me*.”
“And if I change?” I asked. “If the child’s magic is too strong? If the bond—”
“Then I’ll break it,” he said, not hesitating. “Before I let you die.”
My breath caught.
He wasn’t just saying it to control me.
He meant it.
And that—
That was more dangerous than any lie.
Because I wasn’t just fighting for my mother anymore.
I wasn’t just fighting for the truth.
I was fighting for a life.
And I didn’t know how to come back from that.
The wind howled, tearing at my hair, biting through my coat. But I didn’t shiver. Didn’t pull away. Just stayed in his arms, my head against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. The child’s warmth pulsed—slow, steady, *calm*. As if it knew. As if it trusted us.
And maybe it did.
Maybe it always had.
“Do you think it heard us?” I asked, my voice low.
“I think it *felt* us,” he said, his hand splayed over mine. “And it knew. It knew we’d protect it. That we’d fight for it. That we’d burn the world to keep it safe.”
Tears burned in my eyes.
He wasn’t just saying it to comfort me.
He meant it.
And that—
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
Because I wasn’t just fighting for revenge anymore.
I wasn’t just fighting for the bond.
I was fighting for a future.
And I didn’t know how to come back from that.