The Spire feels different after the tribunal.
Not safer. Not freer. But watched. Every corridor hums with whispers. Every glance carries weight. The air is thick with the scent of blood-oath ink and old magic, but beneath it—beneath the veneer of order—there’s something darker. A current of fear. Of suspicion. Of hunting.
They know I’m Unseelie now.
And they’re afraid.
Not of me.
Of what I represent.
Hybrids aren’t supposed to speak. Aren’t supposed to fight. Aren’t supposed to win. We’re supposed to be silenced. Stripped. Exiled. And when I stood in that tribunal chamber, stripped of my glamour, my fae-blood pulsing beneath my skin, and Kaelen stormed in with a blood-oath scroll and a promise to burn the Spire to the ground if they touched me—
I became a threat.
Not just to Malrik.
Not just to the Council.
But to the very idea that power belongs to the pure-blooded, the untainted, the clean.
And that terrifies them more than any war.
—
I find Lyra in the Hollow Veil at dusk.
The black-market club is a maze of tunnels and wards, hidden beneath the roots of the Midnight Spire, accessible only through blood-etched portals and fae bargains. It’s a haven for outcasts and informants, a place where secrets are currency and silence is survival. The air is thick with the scent of fae wine and old blood. Witches huddle in corners. Vampires sip from crystal goblets. A werewolf bouncer with a missing ear glares at me, hand on his knife.
“She’s in the back,” he grunts, jerking his chin toward the private rooms. “Said not to let anyone in.”
“I’m not anyone,” I snap, and shove past him.
The door to the back room is sealed with a blood-oath sigil—my mother’s mark, etched in silver. I press my palm to it. The sigil burns—white-hot, searing—but then clicks open. I step inside.
Lyra is there.
Slouched in a chair, boots up on the desk, a glass of fae wine in one hand, a dagger in the other. Her dark hair is wild, her leather jacket scuffed, her lips painted black. She doesn’t look up. Just swirls the wine, watching the liquid catch the torchlight. “You’re late,” she says, voice low. “I’ve been waiting.”
My chest tightens.
Not from anger.
From the unbearable weight of it.
Because I already know.
“You sold me out,” I say.
She stills. Doesn’t look at me. Just takes a slow sip of wine. “I didn’t sell you out.”
“Then what did you do?” I step closer. My voice is a growl. “Because Malrik knew about the Veil Pass. Knew about the Codex. Knew about us. And the only people who knew were you and Torin.”
“Torin’s dead,” she says.
“And you’re not.”
She sets the glass down. Slow. Deliberate. “I didn’t sell you out, Roz. I gave him information. But not to hurt you. To protect you.”
“Protect me?” I laugh—sharp, bitter. “By telling Malrik where we were? By getting Torin killed?”
“By giving him enough to feel safe,” she says, finally looking at me. Her eyes are dark, haunted. “Not enough to act. Just enough to keep him from digging deeper. From finding the letter. From uncovering the sigil.”
My breath catches.
Not from shock.
From the unbearable truth in her words.
“You were feeding him lies,” I whisper.
“I was feeding him breadcrumbs,” she says. “Keeping him busy. Distracted. So you could find the truth. So you could live.”
“And Torin?”
She looks away. “I didn’t know. I swear. I didn’t know he’d go after him. I thought… I thought I was protecting him too.”
My chest tightens.
Not from anger.
From grief.
Because I believe her.
And that makes it worse.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, voice breaking.
“Because you would’ve stopped me,” she says. “You would’ve walked away. And then Malrik would’ve come for you anyway. And you’d be dead.”
“And now Torin’s dead,” I say. “Because of you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks at me—really looks—and for the first time, I see it. Not just my best friend. Not just my smuggler, my info broker, my sister in all but blood.
But a woman who’s been carrying a secret so heavy it’s breaking her.
“I have a sister,” she says, voice low. “Younger. Hidden. In the Borderlands. Malrik found her. Said he’d kill her if I didn’t give him something. So I did. I gave him scraps. Lies. But it was enough to keep her alive.”
My breath stops.
“You never told me.”
“Because I couldn’t,” she says. “Because if you knew, you’d have tried to save her. And then you’d be dead too.”
The room tilts.
Not from magic.
From the weight of it.
She didn’t betray me.
She betrayed the mission.
For love.
And I don’t know what’s worse.
“You should’ve told me,” I say, voice trembling.
“And what would you have done?” she asks. “Would you have risked the mission for her? For me?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
And that terrifies me.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For Torin. For lying. For… everything.”
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t say that.”
“Then what do you want me to say?” she snaps. “That I’d do it again? That I’d sell out the world to save my sister? Because I would. In a heartbeat.”
My breath hitches.
Not from anger.
From the unbearable truth in her words.
Because I would too.
For her.
For Kaelen.
For the truth.
“You’re not leaving my side,” I say, voice rough.
She stills. “What?”
“You’re not leaving,” I say. “Not now. Not ever. But you’re not coming with me. Not until you’re clean. Not until Malrik can’t touch you.”
“Roz—”
“No,” I say. “You made your choice. Now live with it. But don’t expect me to forget. Don’t expect me to forgive. Not yet.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just nods. Slow. Silent.
And for the first time, I see it—crack in the armor.
“I’ll find a way to get her out,” I say. “But you stay here. You keep your head down. You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t move. You don’t breathe without my say-so. Understood?”
She nods. “Understood.”
“And Lyra?”
She looks at me.
“If you ever lie to me again,” I say, voice low, dangerous, “I’ll kill you myself.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Just nods.
And I believe her.
—
I don’t go back to the Spire.
Not yet.
Instead, I walk.
Through the tunnels. Over roots. Around fallen oaks. My boots pound against the stone, my breath comes fast, my hands clenched into fists. The bond hums beneath my skin, a live wire, a second heartbeat. I can feel him—Kaelen—somewhere behind me, a storm barely contained, his presence a wall between me and the world. But I don’t stop. Don’t turn. Just keep moving.
Because I need to think.
Need to feel.
Need to breathe.
Lyra didn’t betray me.
She betrayed the mission.
For love.
And isn’t that what I’m doing?
Fighting for vengeance?
For justice?
For truth?
Or am I fighting for him?
For the way his hands feel on me. The way his voice growls in my ear. The way his body answers mine, even now, even after everything.
For the way he stood in that tribunal chamber and said, You’re mine. Whether you’re witch, fae, human, or storm. You’re mine.
And I believed him.
And that terrifies me more than any blade.
Because if I let myself want him—if I let myself trust him—then I’m not just destroying the Codex.
I’m destroying myself.
And I don’t know if I want to survive it.
—
I find him in the war room.
It’s night now. The chamber is dim, lit only by witch-lanterns that cast long, dancing shadows. Maps cover the walls. Scrolls litter the table. And at the center—Kaelen, standing over the Codex’s last known coordinates, his back to the door, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. He’s dressed in black—Alpha’s garb, severe, unyielding—but his hair is loose, wild, like a storm barely contained. The mark on his inner arm pulses beneath his sleeve—thorns in blood, alive with heat. The bond hums between us, a live wire, a second heartbeat.
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak. But I can feel him—the way his pulse hammers, the way his breath comes fast, the way his body tenses when I step closer.
“You’re quiet,” I say, stopping behind him. My voice is a growl, low and rough. My scent hits him—thyme, iron, blood, her—and the bond flares in response.
“I’m thinking,” he says, not turning.
“About the tribunal?”
“About you.”
I still. “Me?”
“You cut Lyra loose,” he says. “But you didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t have to.”
“You could’ve used her. Forced her to help us.”
“I don’t use people,” I say. “Not even to win.”
He turns. His golden eyes burn with something deeper than rage. Something that looks like pride. “You’re not just fighting Malrik,” he says. “You’re fighting for something better.”
“And what if I lose?” I ask. “What if I can’t rewrite the Codex? What if the bond breaks? What if I die?”
“Then I’ll die with you,” he says. “But not before I make sure you’re safe.”
My chest tightens.
Not from anger.
From the unbearable truth in his words.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it harder to hate you.”
He reaches for me—slow, deliberate. His thumb brushes my cheek, calloused, warm. “Then stop trying.”
I step back. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just let me in.”
“You’re already in,” I say. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Not like this,” he says. “Not with secrets. Not with lies. Not with you running every time I get close.”
“I’m not running,” I say. “I’m fighting.”
“Then fight with me,” he says. “Not against me. Not alone.”
My breath catches.
Because the truth?
I don’t want to fight alone.
And I don’t want to lose him.
He steps closer. “You’re not leaving my side.”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
But it’s not because I have to.
It’s because I want to.
And because I’m afraid—of him, of the bond, of the truth.
“You need me,” he says. “Admit it.”
“I need you,” I whisper. “To help me. To fight with me. To live with me.”
He 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 brushing 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.
And I let myself cry.
Not for my mother.
Not for my uncle.
Not even for Torin.
But for me.
For the girl who thought she could burn the world and walk away unscathed.
For the woman who’s realizing—too late—that she doesn’t want to survive it.
And for the bond.
For the heartbeat.
For the storm.
And when I finally pull back, my face streaked with tears, my breath shuddering, he doesn’t let go.
Just brushes a strand of hair from my face. His thumb lingers on my cheek. Calloused. Warm. Real.
“We’ll do it together,” he says. “The ritual. The fight. The truth.”
“And if we die?” I ask.
“Then we die together,” he says. “But not before we burn Malrik to ash.”
The bond flares—heat surging, undeniable. My breath comes fast. His eyes burn with something deeper than rage. Something that looks like love.
“You’re impossible,” I whisper.
“And you,” he says, “are my vow.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
—
Later, in the study.
We’re tracing the sigil again. His hand over mine. His blood still on his palm. The journal open on the desk. The Codex hidden. The world burning.
And I’m not alone.
Because the truth?
I never was.
And the fire?
It’s not just mine.
It’s ours.
“You’re not leaving my side,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
But it’s not because I have to.
It’s because I want to.
And because the truth?
We’re not just fighting Malrik.
We’re fighting for us.
And I’ll burn the world myself to keep him.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says. “Let me in.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”
And for the first time, I do.