The silence after she left wasn’t silence at all.
It was a scream.
Not loud. Not raw. But deep—so deep it carved through bone, through blood, through centuries of control. It came from the space where the bond used to hum, warm and steady, like a second heartbeat. Now it pulsed in jagged bursts, not with desire, not with love, but with absence. Like a severed nerve still twitching, still searching for the body it once belonged to.
I stood in the east wing, my hands still outstretched, my fangs still bared, my chest hollow. The fire crackled beside me, casting long shadows across the stone, but the light didn’t reach me. Didn’t touch me. The room was exactly as it had been—shattered stained glass, dust on the floor, the chaise where we’d lain tangled together—but it felt like a tomb. A monument to something that had ended before it had truly begun.
She was gone.
Not taken.
Not stolen.
She had walked.
And I had let her.
I had offered her freedom—true freedom, not the kind bound by magic or duty or political necessity—but the kind that came from choice. From trust. From love so fierce it demanded sacrifice. And she had taken it.
Or so I told myself.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know if she had left to protect me. To spare herself the pain of watching me burn. Or if she had simply realized—finally—that I wasn’t worth the war, the blood, the endless fight.
That I wasn’t worth her.
I turned to the window, my boots silent on the stone, and looked out over Duskhaven. The city was still—too still. No torches lit in the courtyards. No guards on the ramparts. No whispers in the alleys. Even the wind had died, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what I would do.
Nothing.
I would do nothing.
Because for the first time in two hundred and seventeen years, I had no orders to give. No enemies to crush. No throne to defend.
Only grief.
And it was worse than any blade.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Didn’t try.
Just stood at the window, my coat sweeping behind me like a shroud, my hands clasped behind my back, my fangs retracted but my body still coiled, still ready to fight a war that no longer had a commander. The bond pulsed—faint, erratic—like a dying star. I could feel her, not clearly, not vividly, but in fragments: the echo of her breath, the memory of her touch, the scent of storm and lilac and ash that still clung to the chaise, to the air, to my skin.
I didn’t wash it off.
Didn’t want to.
Let it rot into me. Let it remind me of what I’d lost. Of what I’d let go.
—
Dawn came like an insult.
Pale gold bleeding through the broken glass, painting the room in false warmth. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched as the light crawled across the floor, across the chaise, across the dagger she’d left behind—her mother’s blade, the one she’d sworn on, the one she’d pressed to my throat that first night.
She’d taken everything else.
Her coat. Her boots. The scroll.
But not the knife.
And I knew—
It wasn’t an accident.
It was a message.
Not of love.
Not of hate.
Of choice.
She had chosen to leave.
And she had left me the one thing that could have killed me.
Because she knew I wouldn’t use it.
—
The court found me there at noon.
Thorne first. Then the Elders. Then the guards. They didn’t knock. Didn’t announce themselves. Just filed in like mourners at a funeral, their faces unreadable, their eyes sharp. They stood in silence, forming a half-circle around me, their presence heavy, expectant.
“The city is in chaos,” Thorne said at last, his golden-ringed eyes burning. “The werewolves are restless. The humans are hiding. The Blood Market is open again—Silas’s men, trading in your name.”
I didn’t turn. “Let them.”
“You’re not defending the throne?” one Elder asked, voice trembling. “You’re not sending word to the allies? Not preparing for war?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because there is no throne without her.” My voice was low, rough. “No court. No sovereignty. No war worth fighting.”
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
“You would abandon us?” another Elder hissed. “After everything we’ve done? After the Blood Trial? After you declared her your queen?”
“I didn’t abandon you,” I said, turning to face them. “I let her go. And if you think I’m weak for it, then you never understood what strength really is.”
“And what is it?” Thorne asked, stepping forward.
“Letting go.” I looked at him—really looked. At the Beta who had stood beside me through every war, every betrayal, every death. At the man who had called me brother. “You think I don’t want to chase her? To drag her back? To chain her to this throne and never let her leave? I do. Every second. But if I do that—if I make her stay—then I’m no better than Mirelle. No better than Silas. No better than the monster everyone thinks I am.”
Thorne didn’t flinch. Just studied me. “And if she comes back?”
“Then I’ll hold her.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll wait.” I turned back to the window. “A thousand years. A million. Until she sees it. Until she feels it. Until she knows.”
And then—
I walked out.
Not with ceremony.
Not with fury.
With nothing.
The throne room fell silent behind me, but I didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them plot. Let them burn the court to the ground. I had already lost everything that mattered.
—
I didn’t go to the sanctuary.
Didn’t go to the training yard.
Didn’t go to the Blood Hall.
I went to the archives.
Or what was left of them.
The fire had been doused, but the damage was done. Shelves had collapsed. Books had burned. The air still smelled of smoke and ash. But in the center of the room, untouched by the flames, sat a single table—where the High Scribe had placed the scroll.
And beside it—
Her.
Or rather, the memory of her.
I sat on the edge of the table, my coat pooling around me, my boots dangling, my hands resting on the stone. The bond pulsed—faint, erratic—like a dying star. I could feel her, not clearly, not vividly, but in fragments: the echo of her breath, the memory of her touch, the scent of storm and lilac and ash that still clung to the chaise, to the air, to my skin.
I didn’t wash it off.
Didn’t want to.
Let it rot into me. Let it remind me of what I’d lost. Of what I’d let go.
And then—
I saw it.
Not with my eyes.
With the bond.
A flicker. A pulse. A whisper.
She was still in the forest.
Not moving. Not running. Just… waiting.
And I knew—
She hadn’t left to escape.
She had left to think.
And the bond—
It wasn’t dead.
It was waiting.
—
I didn’t go to her.
Not yet.
Instead, I went to the sanctuary.
The real relic sat on the pedestal, its obsidian surface cool and humming with power. The air was thick with the scent of old magic, of fae sigils etched into the walls, of the blood that had been spilled to protect it. I had gathered everything—the scroll, the testimony, the vision from the trial. All of it would be sent to my aunt tonight, carried by Lysandra on silent wings.
And then—
I would wait.
For her answer.
For her judgment.
For her love.
“You’re thinking too loud again.”
I turned.
Kaelen stood in the doorway, his coat gone, his shirt open at the collar, his crimson eyes burning into mine. He didn’t look at the relic. Didn’t look at the scroll. Just looked at me.
“You always show up when I’m about to lose my mind,” I said, a ghost of a smile touching my lips.
“Someone has to.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You’re really going to send it?”
“I have to.” I turned back to the pedestal, placing the relic on the stone. “She needs to know the truth. Not just about you. About us.”
He moved beside me, his hand finding mine, his fingers lacing with mine. “And if she doesn’t accept it?”
“Then I’ll make her.”
He almost smiled. “You’re not afraid of her?”
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” I said, turning to him. “Not anymore.”
“Good.” He lifted my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Because I’m not either.”
I looked up at him—really looked. At the vampire who had not killed my mother. At the man who had protected my relic. At the Sovereign who had claimed me in front of the entire court and said, I tolerate no rivals.
And I knew—
I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
“Stay with me tonight,” I said, voice soft. “Not because you have to. Because you want to.”
He didn’t answer with words.
Just pulled me into his arms, his body shielding mine, his breath warm against my ear. “Always,” he whispered. “Not because I have to. But because I can’t imagine not holding you.”
And the bond—
Pulsed.
Like a vow.
Like a promise.
Like the beginning of something neither of us could stop.
—
I didn’t sleep that night either.
Just sat in the east wing, my back against the wall, my coat wrapped around me like a shroud. The fire had burned low, the embers glowing faintly, casting long shadows across the floor. I held the dagger—her mother’s blade—in my hand, the cold metal biting into my palm. The sigils along the blade flared faintly, reacting to my bloodline, to the bond, to the truth.
I didn’t use it.
Didn’t want to.
But I held it.
Because it was the only thing I had left of her.
And then—
I felt it.
Not through the bond.
Not through magic.
Through her.
A presence. A pulse. A queen.
She was coming back.
And I—
I didn’t move.
Didn’t stand.
Just waited.
Because I had already offered her freedom.
Now it was her turn to choose.
And the bond—
Pulsed.
Like a vow.
Like a promise.
Like the beginning of something neither of us could stop.