The night is a blade between my ribs.
Not from the cold—though the stone of the suite bites through the thin fabric of my tunic, though the wind howls like a wounded beast outside the narrow windows. Not from the silence—though it’s thick, suffocating, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps, the occasional murmur of guards, the pulse of the bond beneath my skin, steady and insistent, a second heartbeat I can’t silence.
No.
The night is a blade because of what I saw.
Because of what I felt.
Because of what I am.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my boots off, my gloves in my lap, my fingers tracing the sigils etched into the leather—the containment charm, the truth-seeker, the Mark of Unveiling Riven gave me. They hum faintly, responding to my magic, to my fear, to the storm inside me. I press a fingertip to the truth-seeker’s mark behind my ear, then bite down, letting a drop of blood well. It flares—warm, certain—proof that I’m still me. Still Sage. Still the woman who came here to burn them all.
But am I?
The ritual chamber replays in my mind like a curse: Kaelen’s hands on me, his voice in my ear, his body pressed against mine, his arousal a hard line against my ass. The way I arched into him. The way I moaned. The way I came—not from touch, not from penetration, but from the bond, from the magic, from the raw, animal possession of it.
And then—
His hand on the laces of my trousers.
Not asking.
Taking.
And me—
Letting him.
Wanting him.
Needing him.
Until the door burst open.
Until Malrik’s voice cut through the heat, the haze, the surrender.
“Is this how you prepare for your trial, Moonblood? By spreading your legs for the Alpha-King?”
I flinch.
Not from the memory of his words.
From the memory of my own silence.
I didn’t deny it.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t fight.
I just stood there, half-undressed, trembling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, my heart still pounding with the truth I can’t name.
And Kaelen—
He shielded me.
He threatened Malrik.
He demanded the trial begin tomorrow.
But he didn’t say I was innocent.
He didn’t say I was pure.
He didn’t say I was his mate—not his mistress, not his weakness, not his distraction.
He just said I was his.
And now—
Now I don’t know what that means.
The door opens.
I don’t turn.
Don’t have to.
I know his presence. Know his scent. Know the way my body reacts—heart stuttering, breath catching, skin burning.
“Sage.”
His voice.
Low.
Rough.
Like gravel and smoke.
I stay still.
“You should rest,” he says, stepping closer. “The trial is at dawn. You’ll need your strength.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just moves to the stone chest, pulls out a clean tunic, lays it on the bed. Then he sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, far enough that he doesn’t touch me.
“Malrik will try to break you,” he says. “He’ll say the bond is corrupt. That you’re unstable. That you’re not fit to be Alpha’s mate.”
“And what will you say?”
He turns, his silver eyes locking onto mine. “I’ll say the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That you’re stronger than any of them. That the bond chose you. That you’re not a weapon. You’re not a pawn. You’re not a distraction.” His voice drops. “You’re my mate. My queen. My future.”
My breath hitches.
“Then why didn’t you say it?” I whisper. “When he called me a mistress? When he said I was spreading my legs for you? Why didn’t you—” my voice cracks, “—why didn’t you defend me?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I did. I said you were mine. That’s not a denial. It’s a claim. A vow. A promise.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s all I have.”
“No.” I pull back. “You have the truth. You have her journal. You have the proof that Malrik framed my mother. You have the memory of your father’s honor. You have the power of the Northern Packs. And you have me.” I look at him, my eyes blazing. “So why are we letting him win?”
He studies me. Then, slowly, he reaches into the inner pocket of his tunic and pulls out the journal.
Lyra’s journal.
“Because I was afraid,” he says, voice raw. “Afraid that if I used this too soon, he’d destroy it. That he’d say it was forged. That he’d say I planted it. That he’d say you were lying.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t care.” He opens it, flips to the last page—her final words. “Now I’ll stand before the council and say it myself. That Malrik murdered your mother. That he framed her. That he’s been controlling the packs for decades. That I tried to stop it. That I kept this hidden to protect you.”
My breath hitches.
“And when I’m done,” he says, “I’ll look him in the eye and say—” his voice turns dangerous, “—that if he touches you again, I’ll rip his heart out with my bare hands.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Not from fear.
From hope.
From the crack in his armor, the fissure in his control, the raw, unfiltered truth in his voice.
And then—
“You should rest,” he says again, softer now. “Let me help you.”
I don’t answer.
Just stand, stripping off my torn tunic, letting it fall to the floor. My chemise is next, then my trousers, until I’m standing before him in nothing but my skin, the bond mark glowing faintly on my collarbone, the bite still tender on my shoulder.
He doesn’t move.
Just watches me, his eyes dark, intense, unreadable.
“You don’t get to look at me like that,” I say, voice low. “Not after what happened in the chamber. Not after you touched me in front of them.”
“I didn’t touch you for them,” he growls. “I touched you for you. For the bond. For us.”
“And the hand on my thigh? The palm on my core? The fingers on my breast?”
“I was claiming what’s mine.”
“In front of the council?”
“In front of the world.” He stands, slow, deliberate, his boots echoing on stone. “Let them see. Let them know. Let them understand that you’re not just my mate. You’re my queen. And if they try to take you from me—” he steps closer, his voice a velvet threat, “—they’ll burn.”
My breath hitches.
“Then prove it,” I whisper. “Not with words. Not with threats. With action. With truth.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for me.
Not to undress me.
Not to take me.
But to heal me.
His hands hover over the bite on my shoulder, then press gently, pouring his energy into the wound, stabilizing the magic, anchoring the mark. I gasp, arching into him, my back pressing against his chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper. “But not like you think.”
“I know.” His lips brush my ear. “It’s the pain of trust. Of surrender. Of love.”
My breath stops.
And then—
He pulls back.
Steps away.
“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll be here.”
I don’t argue.
Just climb into bed, pulling the covers over me, my body still humming with the echo of his touch. He doesn’t join me. Just sits in the chair by the fire, his armor still on, his eyes scanning the room, his presence a shield.
And I—
I close my eyes.
But I don’t sleep.
The dawn comes like a judgment.
Gray light bleeds through the windows, painting silver streaks across the floor. The air is thick with tension, with the weight of what’s coming. I rise slowly, my body stiff, my mind racing. Kaelen is already awake, standing by the hearth, his shadow-woven armor gleaming in the low light, his silver eyes sharp, alert.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
He nods, then steps forward, offering me a cloak—black, heavy, lined with wolf fur. “For the cold,” he says.
I take it, wrapping it around me, the scent of him—pine, smoke, wildness—wrapping around me like a vow.
“No gloves,” he says.
“Why not?”
“They’ll want to see your hands. Your sigils. Your magic.” He steps closer, his voice low. “Let them see. Let them know you’re not afraid.”
I don’t answer.
Just nod.
And then we go.
The Eclipse Chamber is already full when we arrive.
The council sits in their obsidian thrones, twelve seats carved from the same black stone as the Spire itself. Vampires on the left, their pale faces sharp with anticipation. Werewolves on the right, their Alphas cloaked in furs, eyes wary. Witches and Fae in the center, silent, calculating.
And at the apex—
Malrik.
He smiles when we enter.
“Ah, the accused and her protector. How… predictable.”
Kaelen doesn’t bow. Doesn’t speak. He takes his seat and folds his hands in his lap, his presence a storm.
I stand before the council, my spine straight, my chin lifted, my hands bare, my sigils visible. The truth-seeker’s mark behind my ear pulses faintly—lie. Not big. Not yet. But there.
“The trial begins,” Malrik says, steepling his fingers. “We gather to determine the legitimacy of the bond between Sage of the Moonblood line and Kaelen Dain, Alpha-King of the Northern Packs. Accused of treason, instability, and corruption of sacred ritual, the Moonblood heir must prove her worth. If she fails—” his eyes gleam, “—she will be executed. And the bond will be severed.”
A ripple runs through the chamber.
Even the Fae stir.
“The first charge,” Malrik continues, “is corruption of the Binding Ritual. Witnesses report that during the stabilization, the accused became… overcome. That she moaned. That she trembled. That she came beneath the Alpha-King’s hands.”
Gasps ripple through the council.
“She did not,” Kaelen growls. “The bond surged. The magic peaked. It was not corruption. It was truth.”
“And yet,” says a vampire elder, her voice like glass, “she was on her knees. His hand was between her thighs. His body pressed against hers. Is this how a mate behaves? Or a mistress?”
My breath hitches.
“She is my mate,” Kaelen says, cold. “And if you question her honor again, I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”
“Then let her prove it,” Malrik says. “Let her speak. Let her explain why she moaned. Why she trembled. Why she came.”
All eyes turn to me.
The truth-seeker’s sigil pulses—truth. Not a lie. Not a deception. But the truth is worse.
Because I did moan.
I did tremble.
I did come.
And I can’t lie about it.
So I don’t.
“I came,” I say, voice clear, steady, “because the bond is real. Because the magic is real. Because he is real. And when he touches me—” my voice drops, “—I can’t pretend I don’t want him. I can’t pretend I don’t need him. I can’t pretend I don’t love him.”
Gasps.
Shocked silence.
Even Kaelen freezes.
But I don’t stop.
“You want to know why I moaned?” I demand. “Because his hands make me burn. You want to know why I trembled? Because his voice makes me weak. You want to know why I came? Because the bond isn’t just magic. It’s us. And if that makes me unstable, then so be it. But I won’t deny it. I won’t hide it. I won’t be ashamed.”
Malrik’s smile falters.
“And the bite?” he asks. “The mark on your shoulder. Was that consensual?”
“Yes,” I say. “I asked for it. I begged for it. I wanted the world to know I was his.”
“And the ring?”
“He hasn’t given it to me. Not yet. But he will. When the time is right. On my terms. Not yours.”
“And Lira?”
My breath stops.
“She says he fed from her. That they shared a bed for three nights. That she’s his true mate.”
The chamber holds its breath.
And then—
“Ask him,” I say, voice low. “Go on. Ask him if I’m lying.”
Malrik turns to Kaelen. “Did you feed from her?”
“Once,” Kaelen says, cold. “Years ago. After a battle. I was injured. She offered. I didn’t refuse. But I didn’t take. And I didn’t mark her.”
“And the ring?”
“She stole it.” His voice turns dangerous. “And I crushed it.”
“And the bite on her neck?”
“A scratch. From a political meeting. She got too close. I warned her. She didn’t listen.”
Malrik studies us. Then, slowly, he smiles.
“Very well,” he says. “The first charge is dismissed. But the second remains.”
He turns to me.
“You claim the bond is real. That it chose you. That you love him.” His eyes gleam. “Then prove it. With blood.”
My breath hitches.
“A blood test,” he says. “We’ll draw from both of you. Mix it. And if the bond is true, the blood will merge. If not—” his voice drops, “—it will burn.”
Kaelen stands. “You know the risks.”
“I do.” Malrik smiles. “But if she’s innocent, she has nothing to fear.”
I look at Kaelen.
He looks at me.
And in that moment—
I know.
This isn’t just a test.
It’s a trap.
Because if our blood burns—
I’ll die.
And so will he.