The Eclipse Chamber holds its breath.
Not a whisper, not a shift, not even the flicker of a torch breaks the silence. Twelve council members sit like statues carved from obsidian, their eyes fixed on me—some with pity, some with hunger, some with the cold detachment of executioners. Malrik leans forward, fingers steepled, his fangs just visible beneath a serpent’s smile. He doesn’t need to speak. The air says it all: This is where you break.
Kaelen stands beside me, a wall of shadow and steel, his presence a furnace at my back. I can feel the tension in his body, the coiled restraint in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch toward the dagger at his throat. He wants to refuse. Wants to roar, to shift, to tear the chamber apart. But he doesn’t. Because this isn’t just about me. It’s about the bond. About legitimacy. About whether we live—or burn.
“You know the risks,” Malrik repeats, voice smooth as poisoned silk. “If the blood rejects, the bond is false. And false bonds…” He lets the words hang, heavy with implication. …are punishable by death.
“We know,” Kaelen growls. “Proceed.”
A witch elder rises, holding a silver blade etched with runes. She approaches, her steps silent, her eyes unreadable. “Extend your hands,” she commands.
I do.
So does Kaelen.
She slices across both our palms—one clean cut, precise, deep enough to draw blood but not enough to disable. Mine stings. His doesn’t flinch. Crimson wells, dark and rich, dripping into a crystal chalice held by a vampire acolyte. One drop. Two. Three. The blood pools, swirling like ink in water.
And then—
Nothing.
No spark. No flame. No rejection.
Just silence.
Malrik’s smile tightens. “Wait.”
We do.
Seconds stretch. The blood continues to swirl. Then—
A ripple.
Slow at first. Then faster. The two streams begin to merge, weaving together like vines, like fate, like something inevitable. A soft glow emanates from the chalice—silver and crimson, entwined. The runes on the blade flare. The witch elder inhales sharply.
“The blood accepts,” she announces, voice echoing in the chamber. “The bond is true.”
A murmur ripples through the council. Some nod. Some scowl. Lira, seated in the shadows, clenches her jaw, her fingers digging into the armrest. But Malrik? He doesn’t react. Just sits, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked on me.
“Then the second charge is dismissed,” he says, voice flat. “But the third remains.”
My breath hitches.
“The Moonblood heir,” he continues, “is accused of being a weapon of chaos, a hybrid abomination whose very existence threatens the Pact of Eclipse. She carries the blood of three species. She wields forbidden magic. And she has already proven she cannot control her desires.” He leans forward. “So I ask the council: can such a creature be trusted to stand beside the Alpha-King? To rule the packs? To wear the ring?”
No one answers.
Because they know what’s coming.
And so do I.
“There is one final test,” Malrik says. “A trial by fire. By heat. By instinct.”
My stomach drops.
“The full moon rises tonight,” he continues. “And with it—the werewolf heat cycle. It affects unmated females most severely. But for a bonded pair, it is… transformative.” He smiles. “So we will observe them. Together. In the Ritual Chamber. For twelve hours. No magic. No barriers. Just flesh, blood, and the bond.”
Kaelen’s hand finds mine, his grip iron. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?” Malrik tilts his head. “Or am I simply ensuring the bond is not only true—but unbreakable?”
“It’s a death sentence,” I say, voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. “If the heat overwhelms us—”
“Then you were never meant to survive,” he interrupts. “But if you do? If you endure? Then the council will accept you. As mate. As queen.”
I look at Kaelen.
He looks at me.
And in that moment, I know.
This isn’t just a test.
It’s a crucible.
And if we walk through it—
We walk through it together.
“We accept,” Kaelen says.
Malrik smiles. “Then the trial begins at moonrise.”
We leave the Eclipse Chamber in silence.
The guards escort us back to the suite, their presence a reminder that we’re still prisoners, still on trial, still one misstep from execution. Kaelen doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just walks beside me, his body tense, his jaw tight. I know what he’s thinking. The heat cycle isn’t just physical. It’s primal. It strips away control, reason, restraint. For werewolves, it’s a time of raw instinct—of mating, claiming, possession. And for an unmated female? It’s agony. For a bonded one? It’s ecstasy.
And for us?
It’s both.
The moment the door closes, I turn on him. “You shouldn’t have agreed.”
“I had to.”
“You could’ve refused. Challenged him. Fought—”
“And gotten us both killed.” He steps closer, his voice low. “You think I don’t know what tonight will do to you? To us? But if we don’t do this, they’ll never accept you. They’ll always see you as a threat. A weapon. A stain.”
“And if we do this?” I snap. “What then? I become your broodmare? Your heat-crazed mate, grinding against you in front of the council’s spies?”
“It won’t be like that.”
“How do you know?” I demand. “You’ve never been with anyone in heat. You’ve never—”
“I’ve felt it,” he interrupts, voice rough. “Every full moon for seven years, I’ve felt the pull. The need. The hunger. And I’ve denied it. Because the bond was dormant. Because there was no one.” He steps closer, his heat searing through me. “But now? Now it’s awake. And so am I.”
My breath hitches.
“You think I don’t want you?” he growls. “You think I don’t lie awake every night, imagining what it would feel like to have you beneath me? To hear you scream my name? To feel you clench around me as I—”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“No.” He cages me against the wall, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my hip. “You want the truth? Here it is. I’m going to want you tonight. Badly. And you’re going to want me. And if we don’t touch, if we don’t claim, if we don’t fuck—” his voice drops, “—we’ll both go mad.”
My pulse roars.
“But we won’t,” he says. “Because I won’t let this be about lust. I won’t let them reduce us to animals. This will be about trust. About surrender. About love.”
“And if I can’t stop myself?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll stop for both of us.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I’ll hold you. I’ll kiss you. I’ll let you grind against me until you come. But I won’t enter you. Not unless you ask. Not unless you beg.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll give you what you need.” His voice is a vow. “And I’ll make sure the world knows it was your choice. Not the heat. Not the bond. You.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because he’s not promising pleasure.
He’s promising respect.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
The hours pass like a countdown.
I don’t eat. Can’t. My stomach is a knot of dread and desire. I pace the suite, my boots striking the stone, my magic flaring with every step. The truth-seeker’s sigil pulses behind my ear—truth, truth, truth—as if reminding me that I can’t lie to myself anymore.
I want him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of the heat.
Because of him.
Because of the way he knelt. The way he shattered the ring. The way he carries my mother’s journal over his heart. The way he looks at me—like I’m not just his mate, but his miracle.
And I’m afraid.
Afraid that if I let myself love him, I’ll forget why I came.
Afraid that if I let him inside me, I’ll never be able to hate him again.
Afraid that if I surrender—
I’ll lose myself completely.
The sun sets.
The moon rises.
And the heat begins.
It starts as a whisper—a low thrum in my blood, a warmth in my core, a tingling in my skin. Then it builds. Faster. Hotter. Deeper. My breath comes quicker. My pulse races. My nipples tighten beneath my tunic. My thighs press together, trying to smother the ache.
Kaelen feels it too.
I see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his scent—pine, smoke, wildness—thickens in the air. He doesn’t speak. Just moves to the chest, pulls out a clean tunic, hands it to me.
“Change,” he says, voice rough. “You’ll need to be comfortable.”
I don’t argue.
I strip off my clothes, standing before him in nothing but my skin, the bond mark glowing faintly on my collarbone, the bite still tender on my shoulder. He watches me, his silver eyes dark, intense, but he doesn’t touch. Doesn’t move. Just hands me the tunic—soft, loose, made for movement.
And then—
The guards come.
They escort us to the Ritual Chamber—the same glass tomb where we endured twelve hours of forced touch. But tonight, it’s different. The air is warmer. Thicker. The moonlight streams through the ceiling, silver and heavy, pulsing with magic. The silver chain between the chairs is gone. In its place—
A bed.
Low. Wide. Covered in black fur.
My breath hitches.
“You have twelve hours,” says the witch elder, her voice echoing. “No magic. No barriers. Just you. And the bond.”
The door seals shut.
We’re alone.
Kaelen doesn’t speak. Just moves to the bed, sits on the edge, his boots still on, his body coiled like a storm. I stand in the center of the room, my hands clenched, my breath shallow.
“Come here,” he says.
I don’t move.
“Sage.” His voice is low. Warned.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
He stands, slow, deliberate, and crosses the room. He doesn’t touch me. Just stands in front of me, his presence a wall, his heat a furnace.
“So am I,” he admits. “But I won’t let you face this alone.”
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
Like I’m something fragile. Something sacred.
I stiffen at first. Then melt. My face presses into his chest, my hands clutching his tunic, my body arching into his heat. His arms tighten around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other splayed across my lower back, holding me close.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let the heat find its path.”
“It’s too much,” I pant. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” He nuzzles my hair, his breath warm on my scalp. “You’re not alone. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
And he does.
He holds me as the heat builds, as my body trembles, as my breath comes in ragged gasps. He doesn’t try to calm me with words. Just with touch. With presence. With the steady beat of his heart against my ear.
And then—
I can’t take it anymore.
I pull back, my hands framing his face, my eyes locking onto his. “Touch me,” I beg. “Please. I need—”
“Tell me what you need,” he growls.
“I need you. I need your hands. Your mouth. Your body.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He lifts me, carries me to the bed, and lays me down, his body covering mine, his weight a delicious pressure. His mouth crashes over mine, not gentle, not soft, but needing. I gasp, but he doesn’t let me speak. Doesn’t let me fight. Just takes, consumes, owns.
And I let him.
Because for the first time—
I’m not fighting.
I’m not surviving.
I’m his.
His hands move—under my tunic, over my ribs, around my breast. His thumb brushes my nipple, and I moan, arching into him. His hips grind against mine, his arousal a hard line against my core. I writhe beneath him, my thighs parting, my hands clawing at his back.
“You’re wet,” he growls. “I can smell it.”
“Then do something about it,” I pant.
He doesn’t answer.
Just slides a hand down my stomach, under the waistband of my trousers, his fingers brushing the curls between my thighs.
And then—
He stops.
Pulls back.
Looks down at me, his silver eyes blazing. “Not like this.”
“What?”
“I won’t take you in the dark. Not like this. Not while the council watches.” He cups my face. “I’ll touch you. I’ll make you come. But I won’t enter you. Not unless you ask. Not unless you beg.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll give you everything.” His voice is a vow. “But it has to be your choice. Not the heat. Not the bond. You.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because he’s not just claiming me.
He’s asking.
And that—
That breaks me.
“Then touch me,” I whisper. “Make me yours. But promise me—” my voice cracks, “—promise me you’ll never stop seeing me as me.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans down—
And kisses me.
Slow.
Deep.
And full of something I haven’t felt in years.
Love.
And as his fingers slide between my folds, as he strokes me with a rhythm that makes my back arch and my breath catch, as the bond flares and the moonlight pulses and the world narrows to just us—
I know.
The war isn’t over.
Malrik is still a threat.
The council still a prison.
But I’m not fighting alone.
And I’m not just a weapon.
I’m not just a pawn.
I’m not just a hybrid.
I’m Sage of the Moonblood line.
And I am his.
And he is mine.
And if the world wants to burn—
Let it burn.
Because I’ve already found my fire.