The dreams start the night after we take the Codex page from Morana.
Not nightmares. Not visions. Not even memories. But *whispers*—soft, insidious, curling through the dark like smoke through cracked stone. They don’t come when I’m afraid. Or angry. Or even grieving.
They come when I’m *still*.
When my body is slack with sleep. When my breath is slow. When the bond hums beneath my skin like a lullaby, and Kaelen’s arm is draped over my waist, his breath warm on my neck.
That’s when it speaks.
Destroy me, it says. And you destroy them all.
I wake with a gasp, my body drenched in sweat, my heart hammering like a war drum. The chamber is dark. The fire is low. Kaelen stirs beside me, his grip tightening, his voice rough with sleep. “Roz?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. My fingers press to the sigil on my back—the Thorn of Remembering—still glowing faintly, still pulsing with the memory of my mother’s hands, her voice, her final warning. Be strong, Roz. Be fire. Be storm.
But what if fire isn’t the answer?
What if the storm only drowns the innocent?
“You’re trembling,” Kaelen murmurs, rolling toward me. His hand finds mine, calloused and warm. “Another dream?”
I nod. Don’t look at him. Can’t. Because if I do, I’ll see the truth in his eyes—the same truth I’ve been running from since the moment I stepped into this cursed Spire.
I don’t want to destroy the Codex anymore.
Not because I’ve lost my nerve.
Not because I’ve fallen for him.
But because I’m starting to believe the thing I came to burn might be *alive*.
And it’s begging me not to kill it.
—
By morning, the whisper has settled into my bones.
It doesn’t speak in words anymore. Just in *feeling*—a low, insistent thrum beneath my skin, like the heartbeat of something ancient, something wounded. I feel it when I walk through the halls, when I pass the sealed vaults of the Thorn Archive, when I touch the stolen page hidden in Kaelen’s study. It pulses, faint but undeniable, like a plea.
I am not your enemy, it murmurs. I am your mother’s last spell. I am the memory of every bloodline she tried to protect. And if you burn me, you burn them with me.
I don’t tell Kaelen.
Not yet.
Because I don’t know if it’s real. Or if it’s just guilt wearing the mask of magic. Torin said the Codex was alive. Malrik said it was power. My mother—before she died—said it was a prison.
But what if it’s all three?
What if destroying it doesn’t free the bloodlines—but *ends* them?
I spend the day in the war room, tracing sigils into the map table with a silver stylus, trying to find a third path. Not destruction. Not surrender. But *change*. A way to rewrite the Codex without killing it. A way to free the magic without freeing Malrik.
But every time I draw a new sigil, the stolen page pulses in its glass case—soft, cold, *alive*—and the whisper returns.
You don’t have the power, it says. Not alone. Not even with him.
“Then what do I need?” I whisper, pressing my palm to the glass.
It doesn’t answer.
But the mark on my arm—thorns blooming in blood—flares, sudden and hot, like a warning.
—
Kaelen finds me there at dusk.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just steps into the chamber, his boots silent on the stone, his presence a wall between me and the world. He’s dressed in black again—Alpha’s garb, severe, unyielding—but his hair is loose, his jaw shadowed, his scent thick with pine and smoke and something darker, something that smells like *need*.
He stops behind me. His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and heavy. I don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. Just lean back, just slightly, letting his heat seep into my bones.
“You’ve been here for hours,” he says, voice low.
“I’m close,” I say. “There’s a way. I just… can’t see it yet.”
He turns me. Gently. His golden eyes burn with something deeper than rage. Something that looks like *fear*.
“You’re not sleeping,” he says. “You’re not eating. You’re not *talking*.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
I hesitate.
Because the truth?
I don’t know if I can say it out loud.
Because once I do, it becomes real.
And I might not be strong enough to face it.
“The Codex,” I whisper. “It’s… speaking to me.”
His jaw tightens. “What’s it saying?”
“That if I destroy it, I’ll kill thousands. That it’s not just a book. It’s a *being*. A prison. A memory.”
He stills. Looks at me. Really looks. And for the first time, I see it—doubt. Not in me. In *himself*.
“You believe it?” he asks.
“I don’t know what to believe,” I say. “But I feel it. In my blood. In my dreams. It’s not lying. It’s… afraid.”
He exhales. Long. Slow. Like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“Then we don’t destroy it,” he says. “We free it.”
“How?”
“By rewriting it. By breaking the chains Malrik forged. By restoring the truth.”
“And if it resists?”
“Then we fight it,” he says. “Together.”
The bond flares—heat surging, sudden and fierce. My breath hitches. His pupils dilate. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“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.
—
That night, the dream comes again.
But this time, it’s not a whisper.
It’s a *voice*.
Roz, it says. Daughter of Thorns. Heir of Blood.
I’m standing in a forest of black stone, the sky a bruised purple, the air thick with the scent of old magic and iron. Before me, the Codex—not a book, but a *tree*. A massive, twisted thing, its trunk made of thorns, its branches heavy with glowing pages that flutter like trapped souls. At its roots, a woman—my mother—kneels, her hands pressed to the bark, her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent prayer.
“Mother?” I whisper.
She doesn’t look up. But the tree speaks.
You would burn me, it says. But I am not your enemy. I am your mother’s last spell. She bound her life to mine to keep the truth alive. To protect the bloodlines from those who would twist them. But Malrik broke the seal. He stole my heart. He turned me into a weapon.
“Then help me fix it,” I say. “Help me free you.”
I cannot, it says. Not without a key. Not without the blood of the one who forged me.
“The one who forged you?”
Your father, it says. The witch who loved your mother. The man who wrote the first sigil. The man Malrik killed.
My breath catches.
I’ve never known his name. Never seen his face. My mother never spoke of him. Only said he died before I was born.
But now—
Now I know the truth.
He didn’t just die.
He was *murdered*.
And his blood—his magic—is the only thing that can unlock the final page.
“Where is it?” I ask. “His blood?”
In the Hollow Veil, it says. In the chamber beneath the old coven. In the vial your mother hid.
“And if I take it?”
Then you will have a choice, it says. Destroy me. Rewrite me. Or become me.
“Become you?”
The Codex needs a guardian, it says. A vessel. A voice. And you… you are already half of me.
Then the dream ends.
I wake screaming.
Kaelen is on me in an instant—pulling me into his arms, his hands cradling my head, his voice a low growl in my ear. “Shh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
I cling to him, my body trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The bond flares—heat surging, undeniable. My skin burns. My thighs press together, trying to suppress the ache that blooms low in my belly.
“It told me,” I whisper. “The Codex. It told me the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That my father wasn’t just a witch. He was the one who *made* it. That Malrik killed him. That his blood is the key.”
Kaelen stills. Looks at me. “And if we find it?”
“Then we have a choice,” I say. “Destroy the Codex. Rewrite it. Or… become its guardian.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine, his scent flooding my senses.
“Then we find it,” he says. “Together.”
“And if I choose to become it?”
“Then I’ll stand beside you,” he says. “As your mate. As your Alpha. As your *vow*.”
The bond flares—heat surging, fire in my veins, lightning down my spine.
“You’re impossible,” I whisper.
“And you,” he says, “are my fire. My storm. My *ruin*.”
And for the first time, I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the magic.
But because of the way he looks at me—like I’m the only truth in a world of lies.
Like I’m not just worth saving.
Like I’m worth *becoming*.
—
We leave at dawn.
Not with an army. Not with a plan. Just the two of us—riding through the Black Forest on silent wolves, the stolen Codex page hidden in my coat, the Thorn of Remembering pulsing against my back. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the sky a bruised gray, the trees arching over us like a cathedral of shadow.
Kaelen rides ahead, his presence a wall between me and the world. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look back. But I can feel him—the bond hums beneath my skin, a live wire, a second heartbeat. It’s stronger now. Sharper. Not just desire. Not just need. But *recognition*. Like my body knows it was made for his, even if my mind still fights it.
We reach the Hollow Veil by midday.
It’s a ruin wrapped in silence—crumbling stone, overgrown ivy, the bones of an ancient coven buried beneath the roots of a dead tree. This was my mother’s sanctuary. Her prison. The place where she died.
I dismount. My boots crunch on broken glass. The air is thick with the scent of old magic and decay. I press my palm to the earth—just above the hidden chamber—and whisper the sigil she taught me as a child.
The ground splits.
A stairway descends into darkness.
Kaelen steps beside me. His hand finds mine—calloused, warm, *real*.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”
And for the first time, I do.
Because the truth?
I never was.
And the fire?
It’s not just mine.
It’s *ours*.
We descend.
The chamber is small, lit only by a single witch-lantern that pulses with faint blue light. In the center—a stone altar. On it—a glass vial, filled with dark liquid that swirls like smoke. My father’s blood.
I step forward. My breath comes fast. My fingers tremble.
“This is it,” I whisper. “The key.”
Kaelen doesn’t move. Just watches. Guards. *Stays*.
I reach for the vial.
And the Codex speaks—
Choose wisely, it says. For once the key is turned, there is no return.
My fingers close around the glass.
Cold.
Alive.
And for the first time, I know—
This isn’t just about vengeance.
Or justice.
Or even love.
This is about *legacy*.
And I don’t know if I’m ready.
But I know this—
I won’t run.
Not from the truth.
Not from the fire.
Not from him.
“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.
“Then why,” I whisper, “does your scent still cling to her?”