The silence after the storm is the loudest sound in the Spire.
Not the distant echo of guards’ boots on stone. Not the low hum of magic in the walls. Not even the pulse of the bond beneath my skin, steady and deep like a second heartbeat. It’s the silence of something shifting—something breaking, something rebuilding—like the breath before a scream, the stillness before a fire.
We won.
Not completely. Not yet. Malrik still sits on his obsidian throne, still smiles like a serpent, still watches me with eyes black as void. But the truth is out. The journal is real. The purge was a lie. And the council—cowardly, calculating, fractured—has done nothing. No vote. No arrest. No execution.
Just silence.
And in that silence, power shifts.
I feel it in the way the guards don’t meet my gaze. In the way the witches whisper as I pass. In the way Lira’s smirk has turned brittle, her crimson gown suddenly too tight, her confidence fraying at the edges.
We won.
And I should be triumphant.
Should be standing on the balcony, letting the wind carry my laughter into the night, my mother’s journal in my hands like a banner.
But I’m not.
I’m on the floor.
Curled on the obsidian stone, my body wracked with tremors, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my vision swimming with shadows. The bond is screaming. Not in ecstasy. Not in desire. But in agony.
Bond-fever.
It hits me like a blade to the gut—slow at first, a low throb in my blood, a warmth in my core, a tingling in my skin. I thought I was past it. Thought the heat cycle had burned it out, that the ritual had anchored the mark, that the truth had quieted the magic.
I was wrong.
It’s not the bond that’s unstable.
It’s me.
Because I let myself believe.
Let myself hope.
Let myself love.
And now the bond is punishing me for it.
“Sage.”
His voice.
Low.
Rough.
Like gravel and smoke.
I don’t look up. Can’t. My body is a cage, my muscles locked, my breath shallow. I hear him before I see him—boots striking stone, armor hissing as he kneels beside me, his heat searing through the cold.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I shake my head. “Don’t—”
“Sage.”
And then—
His hands are on me.
Not gentle. Not careful.
Commanding.
His fingers frame my face, forcing my head up, his silver eyes locking onto mine. They’re not soft. Not tender. But they’re not cold, either. They’re fire. Fury. Fear.
“You’re burning,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
And he’s right.
I’m not fine.
My skin is on fire. My blood is boiling. My bones feel like they’re cracking, like the magic is tearing me apart from the inside. The truth-seeker’s sigil behind my ear flares—truth, truth, truth—as if reminding me that I can’t lie to myself anymore.
I’m not just a weapon.
I’m not just a pawn.
I’m not just a hybrid.
I’m Sage.
And I’m breaking.
“You need to let me in,” he says, voice low. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“You do.” He lifts me, cradling me against his chest, his strength effortless, his presence a fortress. “You’re not weak for needing me. You’re not less for letting me see you like this.”
“I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Too late.” He carries me to the bed, lays me down, his body a shield between me and the world. “You’re mine. That means I see everything. The fire. The fury. The fear. The fucking tears.”
My breath hitches.
“And right now,” he says, stripping off his tunic, his chest bare, his scars on display—old wounds, battle marks, the silver wolf-mark pulsing at his throat—“you need me to hold you. So I will.”
He lies beside me, pulls me into his arms, his heat a furnace at my back, his chest pressed against mine, his heartbeat a drum against my ear. 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 fever find its path.”
“It hurts,” I pant. “It’s not supposed to hurt like this.”
“It’s not the bond,” he says. “It’s you. You’ve been fighting it for weeks. Denying it. Hating it. And now?” His voice drops. “Now you’ve let yourself believe. And the bond is claiming what’s always been his.”
My breath hitches.
“You think I don’t know what you’re afraid of?” he growls. “You’re afraid that if you let me in, you’ll forget why you came. That if you love me, you’ll stop hating them. That if you surrender—” his lips brush my ear, “—you’ll lose yourself.”
“I don’t want to lose myself,” I whisper.
“You won’t.” He nuzzles my hair, his breath warm on my scalp. “You’ll find yourself. In me. In us. In the truth.”
And then—
The fever spikes.
It hits me like a wave—white-hot, insatiable—ripping through my veins, my heart, my soul. My back arches. A scream tears from my throat—raw, broken, unmistakable. My fingers claw at his arms, not to push him away, but to pull him closer. My body presses into his, my thighs parting, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” He holds me tighter, his voice a velvet threat. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
And he doesn’t.
He holds me as the fever 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.
“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 rolls me onto my back, 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 you’re fevered. Not while the bond is screaming.” 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 fever. 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 fever breaks 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.
The fever breaks at dawn.
Not with a roar, not with a climax, but with a slow, aching ebb—like the moonlight retreating from the obsidian floor, like the storm passing after days of delirium. My body is limp, drenched in sweat, trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. Kaelen’s arms are still around me, his chest rising and falling against my back, his breath warm on my neck. His hand rests low on my stomach, just above the waistband of my trousers, where his fingers had been only moments ago—stroking, claiming, driving me to the edge and back again.
I came.
Not once.
Twice.
And each time, it wasn’t just the fever. It wasn’t just the bond.
It was him.
His voice. His touch. The way he looked at me—like I was something sacred, something worth fighting for.
And now—
Now I don’t know what to do.
Because I came here to burn them all.
Not to fall in love.
Not to let him hold me like I belong to him.
Not to whisper his name like a prayer.
But I did.
And I don’t regret it.
That’s what terrifies me most.
The silence returns.
But it’s different now.
Not the silence of something shifting.
But the silence of something settled.
Like the calm after the fire.
Like the peace after the war.
Kaelen stirs, his arms tightening around me, his lips brushing my shoulder, just above the bite. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“The future.”
He lifts his head, his silver eyes locking onto mine. “And?”
“I don’t know what it looks like.”
“Neither do I.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “But I know this—whatever it is, it’s ours. Not the council’s. Not Malrik’s. Ours.”
My breath hitches.
“You think I don’t know what you’re afraid of?” he says, voice low. “You’re afraid that if we win, if we burn the council and break the Pact, what then? Will you still want me? Will the bond be enough? Or will you walk away, your vengeance complete, your mother’s name cleared, and leave me standing in the ashes of everything I’ve ever known?”
My breath stops.
Because he sees it.
The crack in my armor. The hesitation. The doubt.
“I don’t have all the answers,” he says. “But I know this—I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that you’re mine. Not because of the bond. Not because of fate. But because you chose me.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“And if I don’t believe you?” I whisper.
“Then I’ll keep trying.” He leans in, his lips brushing mine, soft and slow and full of something I haven’t felt in years.
Hope.
And when he pulls back, he whispers—
“Prove it.”
I don’t answer.
Just take his hand.
And lead him to the bed.
Not to claim me.
Not to mark me.
But to hold me.
And for the first time—
I let him.
The next morning, I wake to sunlight.
Golden. Warm. Streaming through the high windows, painting the obsidian floor in honeyed light. Kaelen is beside me, his head on my chest, his breath steady, his body relaxed. The journal lies on the stone chest, closed, silent.
And I know.
The war isn’t over.
Malrik is still a threat.
Lira still a viper.
The council still a prison.
But we’re not fighting alone.
We’re not just a weapon.
We’re not just a pawn.
We’re not just a hybrid.
We’re Sage and Kaelen.
And we are unstoppable.