The vision from the Blood Pact still claws at the edges of my mind—my mother’s blood on the stone, her scream echoing through the chamber, the boy bound and bleeding, Malrik’s voice like poisoned silk: *Sign it, or your son dies.*
It wasn’t just a memory.
It was a *confession*.
And now, it’s a weapon.
I stand in the private bathing chamber of Kaelen’s quarters, steam curling from the obsidian pool, the air thick with the scent of witch’s herbs and old magic. The water is cool—too cool—but I don’t care. I need to be clear. Need to be sharp. Need to *think*.
Because Malrik knows.
He knows I saw it. Knows I know the truth. And now he’s waiting. Watching. Biding his time until he can silence me for good.
I strip off my gown—black, silver-threaded, the same one I wore at the gala—and step into the water. It laps at my skin, a shock of cold that makes my breath hitch. The mark on my arm pulses—thorns in blood—alive with heat. But it’s not the bond that makes me shiver.
It’s the scar.
Low on my back, just above the curve of my hip—hidden beneath my hair, beneath my clothes. A thin, jagged line, pale against my skin. I’ve had it for years. Never thought much of it. Just another wound from a life spent fighting.
But now—
Now it *burns*.
I twist, trying to see it in the polished silver mirror across the room. Can’t. Not properly. So I reach back, fingers tracing the scar. It’s not just a line. It’s a *pattern*. Faint, almost invisible—like ink pressed too lightly into skin. But there.
A sigil.
And not just any sigil.
The Thorn of Remembering.
My breath stops.
It’s a witch’s mark. A spell woven into flesh, meant to preserve a memory, to lock it away until the right trigger releases it. Only the most powerful witches can cast it. Only the most desperate would *wear* it.
And only one person I’ve ever known had the skill—and the reason.
My mother.
I press my fingers harder against the scar. Focus. *Remember.*
Nothing.
Just pain. Heat. A low, insistent hum beneath my skin.
Then—
A whisper.
Roz…
My name. Her voice. Faint, fractured, like a dream half-remembered.
“Mother?” I whisper.
But there’s no answer.
Just the scar, pulsing like a heartbeat.
I step out of the water. Dry off. Pull on a thin shift—white, sleeveless, meant for sleeping. The fabric clings to my damp skin, the air cool against my back. I sit on the edge of the pool, fingers still pressed to the sigil, heart pounding.
Why didn’t I see it before?
Why didn’t I *feel* it?
Because it was dormant. Hidden. Waiting.
And now—now that I’ve seen her death, now that I’ve tasted her blood in the Blood Pact—it’s *awake*.
But it’s not enough.
I need more.
I need the truth.
And I know exactly who can help me.
—
Kaelen finds me in the study.
It’s a small room—circular, lined with ancient tomes, the shelves carved from wolf-fang and heartwood. A fire burns low in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows. I’m sitting at the desk, a silver mirror in front of me, my back to the door. I’ve pulled my hair up, bared the scar, and I’m tracing the sigil again, trying to *feel* it, to *wake* it.
“You’re quiet,” he says, stepping inside. His voice is a growl, low and rough. His scent hits me—pine, smoke, *him*—and the bond hums beneath my skin, a live wire between us.
“I’m thinking,” I say, not turning.
“About the vision?”
“About my mother.”
He stills. “What about her?”
I take a breath. Then, slowly, I lift the mirror and turn it toward him. “Look.”
He steps closer. Kneels behind me. His breath stirs the hair at my nape. I can feel the heat of his body, the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt. His fingers hover near my back—calloused, warm, *dangerous*.
“What is it?” he asks.
“A sigil,” I say. “Woven into my skin. A memory spell. My mother must have cast it before she died. She knew Malrik would come for her. Knew he’d try to erase the truth. So she put it in me.”
His hand lifts. Hovers. Then, slowly, his thumb brushes the scar.
Fire erupts beneath his touch.
Not pain.
Not pleasure.
Memory.
A room of black stone. Torchlight flickering. My mother—Seraphina Vale—kneeling, hands bound in moon-silk. Blood on her face. Blood on her hands. The Thorn Codex open before her, pages glowing with forbidden magic. And Malrik—standing over her, a silver dagger in his hand. “Sign it,” he says. “Or your son dies.”
She shakes her head. “I won’t betray my bloodline.”
He cuts her. Deep. A scream echoes through the chamber. Then—
A child’s cry. A boy. Bound. Bleeding. Her son.
“No!” she screams. “Not him! Please—”
“Sign it,” Malrik says. “And he lives.”
She looks at the boy. At the Codex. At the knife.
And she signs.
With her blood.
And then—
Malrik kills her anyway.
“Traitors don’t live,” he says. “But their blood does.”
The vision shatters.
I gasp.
Kaelen staggers back, hand clenching into a fist. His golden eyes blaze—fury, guilt, something deeper. “You felt it too.”
“You triggered it,” I say, voice trembling. “Your touch. Your blood. It’s the key.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at his hand, at the faint smear of blood from the Blood Pact still on his palm. Then, slowly, he lifts it. Presses it to the sigil again.
Another vision.
My mother—alive. In her study. Moonlight through the window. She’s writing. A letter. Her hands are steady, but her eyes are red. She finishes. Folds the paper. Seals it with wax. Then she turns to me—me, but younger. A child. She kneels. Presses the letter into my hand. “If anything happens to me,” she says, voice soft, “burn this. Don’t read it. Don’t keep it. Just burn it. Promise me.”
I nod. “I promise.”
She smiles. Kisses my forehead. “Good girl.”
Then she takes a silver needle. Dips it in ink. Presses it to my back. I flinch. She whispers a spell. The pain flares. Then fades.
“This is for later,” she says. “When you’re ready. When you’ve seen the truth.”
“What truth?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Just holds me. “Be strong, Roz. Be fire. Be storm.”
The vision ends.
I’m shaking.
Kaelen pulls me into his chest. Not rough. Not demanding. Just… holding. His arms wrap around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other splayed across my back, fingers still pressed to the sigil. I should fight. Should shove him away. But I can’t. My body is weak. My mind is fractured. And part of me—*most* of me—doesn’t want him to stop.
So I let him.
I press my face into his chest. Breathe in his scent. Feel the steady drum of his heart beneath my ear. And for the first time in years, I let someone hold me.
“You were just a child,” he says, voice rough. “And she gave you this. To protect you. To guide you.”
“And I didn’t even know it was there,” I whisper. “I didn’t remember the letter. I didn’t remember the promise.”
“You were protecting yourself,” he says. “Some memories are too heavy to carry.”
“And now?” I lift my head. Look at him. “Now I have to carry them.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just brushes a strand of hair from my face. His thumb lingers on my cheek. Calloused. Warm. *Real*.
“The sigil,” I say. “It’s not just a memory. It’s a map. A spell. It’s pointing to something—somewhere. But I can’t see it. Not yet.”
“Because it needs more,” he says. “More blood. More magic. More *us*.”
“My mother’s last spell,” I say. “And it can only be activated by Alpha blood.”
His jaw tightens. “You need me.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I need you.”
The bond flares—heat surging, undeniable. My breath comes fast. His pupils dilate. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
“I need you.”
“Not just for the sigil.”
“No,” I say. “Not just for the sigil.”
He leans in. His breath is warm on my neck. His lips brush my ear. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Then let me in.”
And for the first time, I do.
I turn. Press my lips to his.
Not a fight. Not a punishment. A *gift*. A surrender. A promise. His mouth opens under mine, and he kisses me back—slow, deep, *mine*. His hands slide into my hair, fisting gently, pulling me closer. My fingers curl in his shirt, tugging him down. The bond *screams*—heat surging, fire in my veins, lightning down my spine.
Then—
A knock.
Hard. Insistent.
The door.
We pull apart. Breathless. Dazed. The bond hums between us, a live wire, a heartbeat.
“Who is it?” Kaelen growls.
“Commander Veyra,” a voice calls. Female. Calm. Loyal. “Urgent. Malrik’s moving the Codex.”
Kaelen stands. Helps me up. His eyes lock onto mine. “We’re not done.”
“No,” I say. “We’re just beginning.”
—
The war room is deep in the Spire—cold, dark, lit by witch-lanterns that cast long, dancing shadows. Maps cover the walls. Scrolls litter the table. And at the center—Veyra, standing at attention, her golden eyes sharp, her posture rigid.
“Malrik’s ordered the Codex moved,” she says as we enter. “To a hidden vault beneath the Black Forest. He’s using vampire couriers. They leave at dawn.”
My pulse spikes.
“We have to stop them,” I say.
“We can’t,” Veyra says. “Not directly. The couriers are shielded. Fae glamours. Vampire blood wards. If we attack, they’ll destroy the Codex.”
“Then we intercept them,” Kaelen says. “Somewhere neutral. Somewhere they’ll have to drop the shields.”
“Where?” I ask.
“The Veil Pass,” Veyra says. “A narrow mountain route. No magic works there. Not fae, not vampire, not witch. Only raw power. Only *us*.”
Kaelen nods. “We’ll take a strike team. Wolves. A few trusted witches. No fae. No vampires.”
“And me?” I ask.
He turns. “You’re coming. But you’re not fighting.”
“I’m not staying behind.”
“You’re not fighting,” he repeats. “You’re *retrieving*. The moment we have the Codex, you take it. You run. You don’t look back.”
“And if I’m caught?”
“Then I’ll burn the world to get you back.”
The bond flares—heat surging, undeniable. My breath hitches. His eyes burn with something deeper than rage. Something that looks like *love*.
“You need me,” I say. “For the sigil. For the truth.”
“I need you,” he says. “For everything.”
Veyra clears her throat. “I’ll assemble the team. We leave at midnight.”
She turns. Leaves.
And we’re alone.
“You’re not just my responsibility,” Kaelen says, stepping closer. “You’re my *vow*.”
“And you’re mine,” I say. “Whether you like it or not.”
He smiles. Just once. A flash of white in the dark.
And for the first time, I believe him.
—
Later, in the study.
I’m tracing the sigil again. Kaelen’s hand over mine. His blood still on his palm. The bond hums between us, steady, insistent.
“You need to rest,” he says.
“I need to be ready.”
“You are.”
“What if I’m not?” I whisper. “What if I fail? What if I can’t activate the sigil? What if I can’t find the truth?”
He turns me. Pulls me into his chest. “You won’t fail. Because you’re not alone.”
“And if I am?”
“Then I’ll find you.”
“And if you can’t?”
He lifts my chin. Looks into my eyes. “Then I’ll die trying.”
The bond flares—heat surging, pulling us together. My skin burns. His thumb brushes the mark on my arm, and I gasp.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it harder to hate you.”
He smiles. “Then stop trying.”
And for the first time, I do.
Because the truth?
I’m not here to burn the Codex.
I’m here to burn for him.
And I don’t want to survive it.
“You need me,” he says. “Admit it.”
“I need you,” I whisper. “To help me. To fight with me. To *live* with me.”
He kisses me.
Slow. Deep. *Forever*.
And when he pulls back, his voice is a growl.
“Next time,” he says. “No interruptions.”