The forest didn’t welcome us.
It never did.
Especially not at night.
Especially not during the Blood Moon.
The Northern Wilds stretched before us like a living nightmare—towering pines with bark like cracked obsidian, roots that coiled like serpents beneath the frost-laden earth, and a silence so thick it pressed against my eardrums like a physical weight. The air was sharp with pine and iron, the scent of old blood and older magic. No birds sang. No wolves howled. Even the wind had gone still, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
I stood at the edge of the treeline, my hand pressed low on my belly, where the child’s warmth pulsed in slow, steady waves. The bond hummed beneath my skin—not with tension, not with pain, but with something deeper now. A resonance. A rhythm. Like a second heartbeat, shared, unbroken. Kael was beside me, his coat pulled tight, his golden eyes scanning the darkness. He wasn’t in half-shift, but the wolf was close—too close—his presence a wall of heat and silence.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low. “Not tonight. Not like this.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, not looking at him. My fingers brushed the hilt of the moonfire dagger at my thigh—Lysander’s theft still a wound, even though I’d reclaimed it. “The rogue’s trail leads here. He’s been attacking Northern Pack envoys. Stealing blood. Using forbidden magic. And he’s using *my* sigils.”
“Which means he’s baiting you,” Kael said, stepping into me. “He wants you to come. He wants you alone.”
“Then he’ll get a surprise,” I said, lifting my chin. “Because I’m not alone.”
He didn’t flinch. Just reached for my hand—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 refused to admit.
That I wasn’t just a witch.
I wasn’t just a queen.
I was *his*.
And he was mine.
“Then we go together,” he said, stepping into the forest. “Not as Alpha and consort. Not as wolf and witch. As *equals*.”
I didn’t answer.
Just followed.
The forest swallowed us whole.
The trees closed in, their branches clawing at our coats, their shadows stretching long and jagged across the frozen earth. The moonlight filtered through in broken shards, painting the ground in silver and blood. Every step crunched on frost, every breath hung in the air like smoke. And then—
We felt it.
Not magic.
Not blood.
*Him*.
“He’s close,” I whispered, my fingers tightening on the dagger. “I can feel it. In the bond. In the child. He’s using lunar sigils. *My* sigils.”
Kael didn’t speak. Just held up a hand—*stop*—and crouched low, his golden eyes scanning the darkness. The wolf was surfacing now—his pupils elongating, his breath coming in low growls, his fingers curling into claws. He wasn’t shifting. Not yet. But he was ready.
And then—
We saw it.
Not the rogue.
Not the trail.
A body.
Half-buried in the snow, face down, arms outstretched like he’d been crawling. His coat was torn, his back slashed with deep, jagged wounds—claw marks, but not from a wolf. Too precise. Too ritualistic. And around him—
Sigils.
Etched into the frost with blood.
My sigils.
“It’s not mine,” I said, my voice low. “I didn’t do this.”
“No,” Kael said, crouching beside the body. “But someone wants us to think you did.”
My breath stilled.
Not from fear.
From *recognition*.
Because the sigils weren’t just copied.
They were *twisted*.
Like a mirror reflection. Like a glamour. Like a lie.
“It’s a trap,” I said, stepping back. “He’s not here to kill. He’s here to frame. To turn the packs against me.”
Kael didn’t answer.
Just stood, his body a furnace, his gaze scanning the trees. And then—
He moved.
Fast.
Brutal.
Not toward the body.
But toward the shadows.
And then—
The forest exploded.
Not with sound.
Not with fire.
With *motion*.
A figure lunged from the trees—tall, cloaked, moving with unnatural speed. Kael met him mid-air, their bodies crashing together in a tangle of fang and fury. I drew the dagger, moonfire curling from the blade, but I didn’t attack. Not yet. Just watched. Waited.
The rogue was fast.
But Kael was faster.
He slammed the figure into a tree, his forearm pressing against the throat, his fangs bared. “Who sent you?” he growled, his voice guttural, inhuman. “Who gave you her sigils?”
The rogue didn’t answer.
Just laughed.
And then—
He *changed*.
Not into a wolf.
Not into a vampire.
Into *me*.
His face shifted—silver-blue eyes, dark hair, the bond mark on his neck glowing faintly. He wore my face. My body. My voice.
“You really think you can protect her?” he sneered, his voice *mine* but wrong, twisted. “You think she’ll ever be yours? She was never meant to be tamed. She was meant to *burn*.”
My breath caught.
Not from shock.
From *recognition*.
Because I knew that voice.
Not from the forest.
Not from the rogue.
From the void.
From *Vexis*.
“It’s not him,” I said, stepping forward. Moonfire flared from my palms, not in a wave, not in a blast—
In a pulse.
It didn’t burn the earth.
It revealed it.
For a single, blinding second, the entire forest 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 glamour shattered.
Not from the fire.
Not from the magic.
From *truth*.
The rogue’s face twisted—back to his own. Pale. Gaunt. Eyes black with void-magic. But not Vexis.
One of his puppets.
A vessel.
“You’re not him,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re just a shadow. A whisper. A *lie*.”
He didn’t flinch. Just smiled—too wide, too sharp—and raised a hand.
And in it—
A vial.
Small. Glass. Filled with something dark and pulsing. Etched into the glass—
The sigil of the Unseelie.
“This,” he said, holding it up, “is your mother’s blood. Taken from the void. Used to bind her soul. And soon—”
“You’re lying,” I said, stepping forward. Moonfire curled from my dagger, not burning, not scorching—but *revealing*. “My mother is alive. I’ve seen her. I’ve spoken to her. And she would *never* let you take her blood.”
“Wouldn’t she?” he asked, stepping closer. “Even to protect you? Even to keep you from making the same mistakes she did?”
My pulse spiked.
He was playing me. Manipulating me. Using my love for my mother like a weapon.
And it was working.
“Prove it,” I said, my voice breaking. “Show me the memory. Let me see her face. Let me hear her voice.”
He didn’t hesitate. Just uncorked the vial and poured the dark liquid into the snow at his feet.
The frost turned black.
And then—
She appeared.
Mother.
Not as I remembered her. Not strong. Not fierce. Not the woman who had taught me the old words, who had sworn to protect me, who had fought to the end.
This was different.
She looked… broken. Her silver-blue eyes were dull, her face pale, her body trembling. She was in the void—trapped, not dead, but *suffering*. And then—
She spoke.
“Opal,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “If you’re seeing this, then I’m gone. And you’re with child. I don’t know who the father is. I don’t know if it’s safe. But I know one thing—Vexis is your only hope. He’s the only one who can protect you. Who can protect the child. Trust him. Obey him. Do whatever he says.”
My breath caught.
No.
This wasn’t real.
It was a lie. A trick. A glamour.
But the child—
The child flared.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Recognition.Its warmth surged, rising like a tide, syncing with the memory, with the vial, with *him*. My magic erupted—not in defense, not in attack—
But in *connection*.
And then—
Kael stepped in front of me.
“Enough,” he growled, his voice low. “You’ve said your piece. Now die.”
He didn’t wait.
Just snapped the rogue’s neck.
One twist.
One crack.
And then—
The body collapsed.
But the vial—
The vial didn’t break.
It *pulsed*.
And then—
The forest changed.
Not in space.
Not in time.
In *truth*.
The trees faded. The snow dissolved. The sky 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,” a voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. “Not of strength. Not of magic. Of *choice*.”
“What choice?” I whispered.
“To destroy the mirror,” the voice 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 forest 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 forest returned.
The trees. The snow. The moon.
And then—
Kael stepped forward.
Not with a blade.
Not with fire.
With his hand.
He reached for me—warm, calloused, grounding. The bond flared—a surge of heat that made the ground tremble beneath our feet. My magic rose, not in dominance, not in control, but in *recognition*. As if my power knew what my mind refused to admit.
That I wasn’t just an Alpha.
I was a *man*.
“You’re not him,” I said, my voice soft. “You never were.”
“How do you know?” he asked, his voice rough. “You’ve seen me at my worst. You’ve felt my control. My rage. My need to dominate.”
“And you’ve seen me at *mine*,” I said, stepping into him. “You’ve seen my hatred. My vengeance. My need to destroy. But you didn’t run. You didn’t turn away. You *fought* for me. Even when I tried to push you out. Even when I tried to kill you.”
My breath caught.
“You’re not your father,” she said, her fingers tightening on mine. “You’re *Kael*. And you’re not afraid of becoming him.
You’re afraid of failing *us*.”
I didn’t speak.
Just pulled her into my chest, my arms locking around her, holding her like I was something fragile. Something *hers*.
“I don’t want to fail you,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I don’t want to fail the child. I don’t want to fail the truce. But I don’t know how to lead without fear. Without control.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed her hand to my chest, over my heart. “Then don’t lead with fear,” she said. “Lead with *this*. With what beats here. With what burns between us. With what the child feels when we’re together.”
My breath stilled.
“You don’t have to be him,” she said, lifting her head. “You just have to be *you*. And if that means showing mercy? If that means trusting? If that means loving—”
“Then I’ll do it,” I said, my voice rough. “Even if it breaks me.”
She didn’t smile.
Just kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Real.
No force. No magic. No bond.
Just need.
Her hands found my waist, pulling me closer, her body pressing against mine. The fire roared to life, its flames turning silver, casting long shadows on the walls. The bond flared—not in pain, not in fire—but in harmony. My magic surged, not to dominate, not to control, but to soothe. To heal. To claim.
And when she deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against mine, her fingers tangling in my hair, I didn’t pull away.
I *arched* into her.
Because for the first time in my life—
I wasn’t just surviving.
I was living.
And I wasn’t alone.
We broke apart, breathless, our foreheads pressed together, our breath mingling in the cold air. The child’s warmth pulsed between us, steady, calm, *unbroken*. The fire burned low, its flames still silver, still alive.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, my voice rough. “Not of Vexis. Not of Lysander. Not even of the trial.
I’m scared of losing you.”
She didn’t flinch.
Just reached up and brushed her thumb along the scar on my jaw—the one from the Iron Fangs’ ambush. The one I’d earned protecting her.
“You won’t,” she said, her voice soft. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not for him. Not for the Court. Not for anyone.”
“And if they demand the bond be broken?” I asked. “If they say the child is a threat? If they—”
“Then we fight,” she said, lifting her chin. “Together. We fight for the truth. For the truce. For *us*.”
My breath caught.
She wasn’t just saying it to comfort me.
She meant it.
And that—
That was more dangerous than any lie.
Because I wasn’t just fighting for my pack anymore.
I wasn’t just fighting for the truce.
I was fighting for a life.
And I didn’t know how to come back from that.
“I love you,” I said, the words raw, breaking free like a wound finally opened. “Not because of the bond. Not because of the child. But because you saw me at my worst—and you stayed.”
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed her hand to my chest, over my heart. “Then prove it,” she said, her voice low. “Not with words. Not with fire. With *choice*.”
“What choice?” I asked.
“To trust me,” she said, stepping back. “To let me fight beside you. Not behind you. Not beneath you. *Beside* you.”
My jaw tightened.
It wasn’t just a request.
It was a test.
And I knew—
If I failed, I’d lose her.
“You want to stand beside me?” I asked, stepping into her. “Even when it’s dangerous? Even when it could cost you everything?”
“I already have,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I’d do it again.”
My breath stilled.
Then—
I reached for her hand.
Not to control.
Not to claim.
To *hold*.
“Then stand,” I said, my voice rough. “Not behind me. Not beneath me. *Beside* me. As my equal. As my match. As my *queen*.”
She didn’t smile.
Just stepped into me, her body a furnace, her breath warm against my neck. “Then lead,” she said. “Not with fear. Not with control. With *truth*.”
And then—
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.
My hands found her face, my fingers brushing her jaw, her scars, the rough edge of her stubble. Her breath hitched. Her body stilled. And then—
She kissed me back.
Slow. Soft. Deep.
No force. No magic. No bond.
Just need.
And as the fire burned low, its flames turning silver again, casting long shadows on the walls, I knew—
The game had changed.
Because now, it wasn’t just about power.
It wasn’t just about the bond.
It was about truth.
And I would burn the world to get it.
But as I lay beside Opal, her arms locked around me, her heartbeat syncing with mine—
I couldn’t shake the feeling that the real danger wasn’t out there in the frozen wilds.
It was standing right beside me.
And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kill him anymore.
Or keep her.