I have worn power like a second skin for over three centuries.
Not the crude, snarling dominance of the werewolves, not the brittle, blood-drunk arrogance of the younger vampires. No—my power is quiet. Calculated. Absolute. It lives in the silence before a scream, in the breath before a blade strikes, in the way the council’s eyes drop when I enter the chamber. I do not roar. I do not threaten. I simply am.
And until now, I have been untouchable.
But that ends today.
The journal—Lyra’s journal—was supposed to burn with her body. I watched the flames consume her flesh, her hair, her final scream. I made sure of it. And yet, it survives. Not as ash. Not as memory. But as a weapon. In the hands of her daughter. In the hands of Kaelen Dain.
And they wielded it like a dagger to the heart of the Pact.
I should have killed her the moment she stepped into the Spire. Should have crushed the bond before it could ignite, before it could twist the Alpha-King into a puppet of hybrid sentiment. But I waited. I watched. I let them believe they were winning. Let them expose the truth, as if truth matters in a world built on lies.
It does not.
Truth is a weapon only if no one fears the hand that wields it.
And they will learn to fear mine.
The Eclipse Chamber is silent when I arrive. The council members have scattered like rats, their thrones empty, their voices hushed. Even the Fae, usually so eager to feed on drama, have withdrawn into their corners, their smirks replaced with wariness. They know what I am capable of. They know that a cornered predator is the most dangerous of all.
And I am not cornered.
I am hunting.
I take my seat at the apex, the obsidian throne cool beneath me, the silver veins in the stone pulsing faintly with trapped magic. My fingers curl around the armrests, the onyx claws I wear clicking softly against the stone. I do not call for silence. I do not demand attention.
They come to me.
First, the vampire elder, her pale face sharp with fear. “Malrik, the council cannot ignore the journal. The bond is proven. The purge—”
“The purge,” I interrupt, voice smooth as poisoned silk, “was justified. Lyra Moonblood consorted with a werewolf. She bore a hybrid child. She threatened the Pact. She was executed for treason. That is the truth the council accepted. That is the truth the world believes.”
“But the journal—”
“Is a forgery.” I turn my gaze to her, and she flinches. “Planted by Kaelen Dain to destabilize the packs. To seize control. And Sage—” I let the name roll off my tongue like venom, “—is not Lyra’s daughter. She is a construct. A weapon. Created to destroy the balance.”
“And the blood test?”
“Tainted.” I lean forward. “Magic can be manipulated. Blood can be altered. The bond can be faked with enough hybrid sorcery.”
She hesitates. “And the heat trial?”
“A performance.” My lips curl. “Animals rut. That does not make them mates.”
She says nothing. Just bows her head and retreats.
Good.
Fear is the first step.
The next is action.
I rise, my black robes whispering against the stone, and move to the chamber’s eastern archway. Behind it, a hidden passage descends into the lower levels of the Spire—where the old rituals were once held, where the blood altars still drip with ancient power, where the walls remember every scream.
And where she will soon scream.
The air grows colder as I descend, the torches flickering with blue flame, the scent of iron and decay thick in my lungs. My boots strike the stone with finality, each step a promise. At the end of the corridor, a heavy iron door bars the way. I press my palm to the sigil carved into its surface—bind, break, obey—and it groans open.
Inside, the chamber is small, circular, lit only by a single brazier in the center. The walls are lined with runes—blood runes, pain runes, obedience runes—etched deep into the stone. And in the center, bound to a black iron post by chains of silver and obsidian, hangs a figure.
Lira.
Her crimson gown is torn, her dark hair matted with blood, her face swollen from blows. But her eyes—those venomous, spiteful eyes—still burn with defiance.
“You called me a liar,” she spits as I enter. “You said I failed.”
“You did,” I say, stepping closer. “You let them humiliate you. You let Kaelen crush your ring. You let Sage stand before the council and speak her lies.”
“I did everything you asked!”
“No.” I circle her, my fingers trailing along the chains. “You let your jealousy control you. You became a distraction, not a weapon. And now, the Alpha-King sees through you.”
She laughs, wet and broken. “And what about you? The great Malrik, undone by a journal? By a hybrid witch?”
I stop.
Turn.
And backhand her across the face.
Her head snaps to the side, blood trickling from her split lip. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t beg. Just laughs again, low and guttural.
“You’re afraid,” she whispers. “You’re afraid she’ll expose you. That they’ll know the truth—that you loved Lyra. That you killed her because she chose another.”
My hand flies to her throat, crushing her windpipe, lifting her off the ground. Her feet kick, her face purples, but I do not release her.
“The truth,” I hiss, “is whatever I say it is. And you—” I slam her back against the post, “—are no longer useful.”
She gasps, coughing, blood on her lips. “Then why keep me alive?”
“Because you still have one purpose.” I release her, stepping back. “A message.”
Her eyes narrow. “What message?”
“That I am not beaten.” I reach into my robe, pulling out a small vial of black liquid—shadow venom, distilled from the heart of a dead Fae. “That I will not be humiliated. That I will not be overthrown.” I uncork the vial. “And that if Sage Moonblood wants war—” I grip her jaw, force her mouth open, “—then I will give her one.”
She struggles, but I pour the venom down her throat.
She chokes. Gags. Collapses to her knees, convulsing, her veins turning black beneath her skin. I watch, impassive, as the poison takes hold—twisting her magic, warping her blood, turning her into something other.
Not human.
Not vampire.
Not even truly alive.
A vessel.
A weapon.
And when she rises—her eyes now glowing silver, her fangs elongated, her voice a distorted echo of her own—I smile.
“Go,” I say. “Return to the surface. Let them see you. Let them fear you. And when Sage comes for you—” I step closer, my voice a whisper, “—lead her to me.”
She nods, her movements jerky, unnatural.
And then she’s gone.
I remain in the chamber, the silence pressing in, the scent of venom and blood thick in the air. My fingers trace the sigil on the altar—the same one used to bind Lyra before her execution. The same one that will bind her daughter.
But not yet.
First, I must draw her out.
First, I must make her bleed.
The surface is quiet when I return. The Spire breathes lies, but I know the truth: Sage is not in her suite. Kaelen is not in his war room. They are together—always together now—moving through the halls like shadows, like ghosts, like a single entity forged from fire and fury.
And they will come for me.
They will come to finish what they started.
But I will not wait for them.
I will bring the war to them.
I move to the western balcony, where the moon hangs low and full, its silver light spilling over the city below. The human world sleeps, unaware of the war brewing beneath their feet. Good. Let them remain ignorant. Let them remain prey.
I raise my hand.
And I call the storm.
The sky darkens. Clouds gather. Thunder rolls. And then—
Lightning strikes.
Not once.
But seven times.
Each bolt hits a different tower of the Spire, each one etched with the sigil of a council member. The magic flares—crimson, black, silver—and the wards tremble. The alarms sound. The guards scramble.
And then—
She comes.
Sage.
She bursts onto the balcony, her boots striking stone, her dark hair wild, her eyes blazing silver with power. Kaelen is behind her, a shadow at her back, his fangs bared, his claws extended. They move as one—her magic, his strength, their bond a living thing between them.
“Malrik,” she snarls. “You dare—”
“I do,” I say, turning. “I dare to remind you that I am not your puppet. That I am not your pawn. That I am not weak.”
“You’re finished,” Kaelen growls. “The truth is out. The council knows—”
“The council knows nothing,” I interrupt. “They fear. They hesitate. They wait to see who will win. And when they see the blood—” I smile, “—they will fall to their knees.”
Sage steps forward, her hands glowing with sigils, her voice a whip. “You murdered my mother. You framed her. You’ve been controlling the packs for decades. And now? You think a little lightning will scare us?”
“No.” I step closer. “I think this will.”
I snap my fingers.
And from the shadows—
Lira emerges.
But not as she was.
Her skin is pale, her veins black, her eyes glowing silver. Her fangs are elongated, her movements jerky, unnatural. She wears a tattered version of her crimson gown, and around her neck—
A collar.
Black iron. Etched with runes.
And in her hand—
A dagger.
“You see?” I say, spreading my arms. “I do not need lies. I do not need deception. I have power. And I will use it to destroy you.”
Sage freezes. “Lira?”
Lira doesn’t answer. Just raises the dagger—and plunges it into her own stomach.
She doesn’t scream.
Just smiles.
And then—
Her blood erupts.
Not red.
Black.
And it doesn’t fall to the stone.
It moves.
It snakes across the balcony, forming sigils in the air, pulsing with dark magic. The runes glow—bind, break, obey—and then—
They lash out.
Toward Sage.
She raises her hands, a shield of silver light flaring—
But the black blood surges through it.
Wraps around her wrists.
Her ankles.
Her throat.
And then—
It pulls.
She screams as she’s yanked off her feet, dragged across the stone, her back slamming into the iron post I’ve summoned from the shadows. The chains snap around her—silver, obsidian, etched with the same runes as Lira’s collar—and bind her in place.
“Sage!” Kaelen roars, lunging forward—
But Lira steps in his way, her dagger slashing.
He dodges. Strikes. But she’s not fighting to win.
She’s fighting to delay.
And it’s enough.
I step toward Sage, my fingers trailing along her jaw, her pulse fluttering beneath my touch. “You wanted the truth?” I whisper. “Then hear it. I loved your mother. I loved her more than power. More than life. And when she chose that werewolf—when she betrayed me—I destroyed her. Not for the Pact. Not for duty.” My voice drops. “For love.”
She spits in my face. “You’re a monster.”
“And you,” I say, wiping the blood from my cheek, “are her daughter. Her blood. Her magic. Her weakness.” I step back. “And I will use it to break you. To break him. To break them all.”
“You’ll never win,” she gasps. “The bond—”
“The bond is nothing.” I raise my hand. “And now, you will learn its price.”
The altar rises from the stone.
Black iron. Etched with runes.
And in its center—
A blade.
Not silver.
Not obsidian.
But moonsteel—forged from the heart of a dying star, capable of severing even the strongest bond.
I take it.
Step forward.
And press the tip to her wrist.
“The first cut,” I say, “is always the deepest.”
And then—
I slice.
Her blood wells—crimson, rich, humming with magic.
And as it drips onto the altar—
The runes flare.
The sky splits.
And the Spire trembles.
Because the ritual has begun.
And this time—
There will be no rescue.
Only blood.
And fire.
And the end of everything.