The blade bites.
Not deep. Not yet. Just enough to draw blood—crimson, rich, humming with magic—and send a jolt of pain up my arm. But it’s not the cut that steals my breath. It’s the ritual. The runes on the altar flare—black and silver, writhing like serpents—and the air thickens, charged with ancient, forbidden power. My blood drips onto the stone, pooling in the grooves, igniting the sigils one by one.
And then—
The bond screams.
It’s not a sound. Not a voice. But a sensation—raw, tearing, like something inside me is being ripped out. My back arches. A gasp tears from my throat. My vision blurs. I can feel Kaelen—his fury, his panic, his desperate need to reach me—but the distance between us is a chasm, widening with every drop of blood.
“Sage!” he roars, slamming into Lira with the force of a storm. She flies backward, crashing into the stone railing, her body twitching, her eyes still glowing silver. But she doesn’t stay down. She rises, jerky, unnatural, her movements no longer her own. Malrik’s puppet. His weapon.
And he’s using her to keep Kaelen away.
“You can’t stop it,” Malrik whispers, pressing the blade deeper, just enough to make me flinch. “The ritual has begun. Your blood will bind the bond. Your pain will fuel the magic. And when it’s complete—” his fingers trail down my cheek, cold as death, “—he’ll be mine. Bound to the council. Bound to me. And you?” He smiles. “You’ll be nothing. A hollow shell. A forgotten ghost.”
I don’t answer.
Just spit in his face.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
Just laughs.
And then—
The chains tighten.
Not just around my wrists and ankles. Around my throat. Squeezing. Cutting off my air. My hands claw at the iron, but the runes burn my skin, searing sigils into my flesh—bind, break, obey—feeding on my magic, draining me. I try to summon a spell, to ignite the sigils on my gloves, but my power flickers, weak, scattered. The ritual is disrupting it. Twisting it. Turning it against me.
“You think you’re strong?” Malrik murmurs, stepping back, the moonsteel blade glinting in the stormlight. “You think your hybrid blood makes you special? That the bond makes you untouchable?” He raises the blade. “Let me show you what happens when a true master of blood magic takes what’s his.”
And then—
He cuts again.
Deeper.
Across my forearm.
This time, I scream.
Not from pain.
From the bond.
It’s fracturing. Shattering. Like glass under a hammer. I can feel it—Kaelen’s presence, his strength, his love—slipping through my fingers, dissolving into smoke. He’s still fighting. Still roaring. Still trying to reach me. But the ritual is building a wall between us, brick by brick, drop by drop.
And then—
Lira moves.
Not toward Kaelen.
Toward me.
Her dagger is gone. Replaced by a silver needle, thin and cruel, tipped with something dark—shadow venom, the same poison Malrik used on her. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. Just grabs my arm, the one that’s already bleeding, and drives the needle into my wrist.
Fire erupts.
Not in my skin.
In my blood.
The venom spreads—fast, insidious—twisting my magic, warping my senses. My vision blurs. My thoughts scatter. I can’t focus. Can’t breathe. Can’t fight. The truth-seeker’s sigil behind my ear flares—lie, lie, lie—but I don’t know what’s real anymore.
Am I still me?
Or am I becoming something else?
“Hold her,” Malrik commands.
Lira does.
Her hands are like iron, her grip unyielding. She pins me to the post, her glowing eyes locked onto mine, her breath hot on my face. And then—
Malrik steps forward.
Not with the blade.
With a vial.
Small. Black. Etched with runes.
He uncorks it.
And pours.
Not onto the altar.
Into the wound on my arm.
The liquid is thick, dark, alive. It slithers into my blood, cold and burning at the same time, and I feel it—spreading, consuming, rewriting me. My magic rebels, but it’s too weak, too fractured. The ritual is too strong. The venom is too deep.
And then—
I black out.
Not sleep.
Not unconsciousness.
A void.
And in that void—
I dream.
I’m in the vault beneath the Spire, the same one where I found my mother’s journal. But it’s different. The air is thick with the scent of iron and jasmine. The walls are lined with blood-stained stone. And in the center—
A pyre.
And on it—
My mother.
She’s not burning. Not yet. Just lying there, her silver hair fanned out, her eyes open, her lips moving. I can’t hear her. Can’t reach her. But I know what she’s saying.
“They will say I betrayed my kind. They will say I loved a monster. But the truth is, I loved a man who tried to save me. And the real monster sits on the council’s throne.”
And then—
The flames rise.
She doesn’t scream.
Just looks at me.
And I know—
This isn’t a memory.
It’s a warning.
And I wake up screaming.
Not in the vault.
In a dungeon.
Dark. Cold. The air thick with the scent of decay and old blood. I’m on a stone slab, my wrists and ankles chained to the corners, the iron burning my skin, the runes still feeding on my magic. My arm—where Malrik cut me, where Lira injected the venom, where he poured the dark liquid—throbs with a sick, pulsing heat. My body is weak. My magic is scattered. But I’m alive.
And I’m not alone.
From the shadows—
He steps forward.
Malrik.
His black robes whisper against the stone, his onyx claws clicking softly, his fangs just visible beneath a serpent’s smile. He doesn’t speak. Just watches me—my ragged breath, my trembling body, the fear in my eyes.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice smooth as poisoned silk. “Good. I was beginning to think the venom had killed you.”
“Go to hell,” I rasp.
He laughs. “I’ve already been. And I brought souvenirs.” He reaches into his robe, pulls out a small glass vial—filled with crimson liquid. My blood. “Did you know,” he says, holding it up to the dim light, “that hybrid blood is the most potent magic known to our kind? That it can bind souls, rewrite fate, even control the moon itself?” He smiles. “And yours? It’s stronger than any I’ve ever seen. Stronger than your mother’s.”
My breath hitches.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he says. “I loved her. I studied her. I know what she could do. And you?” He steps closer, his fingers trailing along my jaw. “You’re even more powerful. More dangerous. More beautiful.”
I flinch.
“But you’re also broken,” he continues. “Afraid. Angry. And worst of all—” his voice drops, “—in love.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know everything.” He leans down, his breath cold on my ear. “I know you came here to burn them all. I know you hate me. I know you want justice. But I also know—” his fingers brush the bond mark on my collarbone, “—that you love him. That you’d die for him. That you’d let him destroy you just to keep you alive.”
My breath stops.
“And that,” he whispers, “is your weakness.”
He steps back. “The ritual is not complete. Your blood has been harvested, but the final binding requires more. It requires pain. It requires sacrifice. It requires you.”
“Then kill me,” I say. “If you’re so afraid of what I can do, just end it.”
“Oh, I will.” He smiles. “But not yet. First, I need you to suffer. To break. To beg. Because when you do—when you scream for mercy, when you offer your blood freely, when you beg me to stop—” his eyes gleam, “—that’s when the ritual will be complete. And Kaelen Dain will be mine.”
My pulse spikes.
“You’ll never win,” I whisper. “He’ll come for me. He’ll burn this place to the ground.”
“Let him.” Malrik turns, moving to a stone table where vials, blades, and ancient tomes are laid out. “He’ll find nothing but ashes. And you?” He picks up a silver needle, twirls it between his fingers. “You’ll be gone. Reduced to blood and bone. A footnote in history.”
And then—
He steps forward.
Not with the needle.
With a whip.
Black. Braided with silver thread. Etched with runes.
“Let’s begin,” he says.
The first strike is precise.
Not across my back.
Across my thigh.
Through the fabric of my trousers.
The runes burn—bind, break, obey—searing into my skin, feeding on my magic, draining me. I grit my teeth. Don’t scream. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
He laughs.
And strikes again.
And again.
And again.
Each blow lands with surgical precision—my arms, my shoulders, my back—avoiding vital organs, maximizing pain, minimizing blood loss. He’s not trying to kill me. Not yet. He’s trying to break me. To wear me down. To make me beg.
And I won’t.
I clench my jaw. Focus on breathing. On the bond. On Kaelen. I can’t feel him clearly—just a faint echo, a whisper in the dark—but he’s there. Still fighting. Still coming.
And then—
Malrik stops.
Steps back.
“You’re stronger than I thought,” he says, voice almost admiring. “But even the strongest break. Even the proudest fall.” He picks up a vial—clear this time, filled with a shimmering liquid. “This,” he says, uncorking it, “is moonlight essence. Extracted from the full moon itself. It heightens pain. Amplifies magic. And when injected into a hybrid’s bloodstream?” He smiles. “It makes every wound feel like a thousand.”
My breath hitches.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Just drives the needle into my neck.
Fire erupts.
Not in my skin.
In my bones.
My back arches. A scream tears from my throat—raw, broken, unmistakable. Every wound burns. Every breath is agony. My magic flares—wild, uncontrolled—and the chains rattle, the runes glowing brighter, feeding on the surge.
“Yes,” Malrik murmurs, watching me writhe. “Let it out. Let the pain consume you. Let the magic burn you from the inside.” He leans down, his fangs just visible. “And when you’re ready to beg—I’ll be here.”
I don’t answer.
Just turn my head.
And spit blood in his face.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
Just laughs.
And then—
He leaves.
The door clangs shut.
The torches flicker.
And I’m alone.
Alone with the pain.
Alone with the venom.
Alone with the truth.
I’m not going to survive this.
Not unless Kaelen finds me.
And even if he does—
Will I still be me?
The hours pass like centuries.
I lose track of time. Of breath. Of thought. The moonlight essence keeps me awake, keeps the pain sharp, keeps me from slipping into unconsciousness. My body is a cage of fire. My magic is a storm I can’t control. And the bond—
It’s fading.
Not gone. Not yet. But thin. Fragile. Like a thread stretched to its limit.
And then—
I hear it.
A sound.
Not from the door.
From the walls.
Whispers.
Like voices in the dark.
At first, I think it’s the venom. The pain. The moonlight essence. But then—
One voice stands out.
Familiar.
Soft.
“Sage.”
I freeze.
“Who’s there?” I rasp.
“It’s me.”
Riven.
My mentor. My ally. The Fae prince who taught me the loopholes, who forged my identity, who warned me about Malrik.
But how?
“How are you—”
“Fae magic,” he says, voice faint, like it’s coming from far away. “I can’t reach you. Not yet. But I can speak to you. Through the stone. Through the blood. Through the bond.”
My breath hitches.
“You’re not alone,” he says. “Kaelen is coming. Taryn is with him. They’re tearing the Spire apart. But Malrik has wards. Traps. Illusions.”
“I can’t—” I gasp. “The venom. The ritual. I’m losing myself.”
“Then fight,” he says, voice sharp. “You’re not just a weapon. You’re not just a pawn. You’re Sage of the Moonblood line. And you are stronger than he is.”
“I can’t use my magic.”
“Then use your mind,” he says. “Think. Remember. What did I teach you? That every oath has a loophole. Every spell has a flaw. Every monster has a weakness.”
My breath hitches.
“Malrik loved your mother,” Riven continues. “He killed her because she chose another. And now? He’s trying to break you for the same reason. Because you chose Kaelen. Because you love him.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“And that,” Riven says, voice low, “is his weakness. Not yours. He’s not doing this for power. Not for the council. He’s doing it because he’s afraid. Afraid of being replaced. Afraid of being forgotten. Afraid of love.”
My breath stops.
“So when he comes back,” Riven says, “don’t fight the pain. Don’t fight the venom. Fight him. Use his fear. Use his love. Use the truth.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then die knowing you were right.”
And then—
The whispers stop.
The silence returns.
But I’m not afraid anymore.
Because I know.
Malrik isn’t just a monster.
He’s a man.
And men can be broken.
The door clangs open.
Malrik steps inside, his black robes whispering against the stone, his onyx claws clicking softly. He doesn’t speak. Just watches me—my bruised body, my bleeding wounds, the defiance in my eyes.
“Still fighting,” he says, almost impressed. “Even now.”
“You’re afraid,” I say, voice weak but steady. “You’re afraid I’ll take her place. That I’ll replace you. That I’ll prove you were never enough.”
He freezes.
“You loved her,” I continue. “But she chose a werewolf. A warrior. A man with honor. And you? You’re just a liar. A coward. A monster who hides behind power because he’s too weak to face the truth.”
His hand flies to my throat.
Not to choke me.
To grip me.
“You don’t know anything about me,” he growls.
“I know everything,” I whisper. “And I know this—when Kaelen comes, he won’t just kill you. He’ll make you watch. He’ll make you see what real love looks like. And you’ll die knowing you were never worthy of her. Of me. Of anything.”
His eyes blaze.
And then—
He backhands me.
My head snaps to the side. Blood trickles from my split lip. But I don’t flinch. Just turn back, my gaze steady.
“You’re going to lose,” I say. “And not because of magic. Not because of power. But because you’re alone. And we’re not.”
He raises his hand.
Not to strike.
To cast.
And then—
A roar.
Not from me.
From the walls.
From the stone.
From the bond.
And then—
The door explodes.
Not from a spell.
From a body.
Kaelen.
He crashes into the room like a storm, his shadow-woven armor torn, his fangs bared, his claws extended, his silver eyes blazing with fury. He doesn’t look at Malrik. Doesn’t speak. Just lunges—
And slams him into the wall.
“Sage!” he roars, turning to me, his voice raw with panic. “Hold on—”
But Malrik moves.
Fast.
He grabs a vial from his robe—black, etched with runes—and hurls it at Kaelen.
It shatters.
Smoke erupts.
And Kaelen collapses.
Not dead.
Not unconscious.
But bound.
Chains of shadow wrap around him, pinning him to the wall, the runes glowing—bind, break, obey—feeding on his magic, draining him.
“You’re too late,” Malrik says, rising, his voice calm, cold. “The ritual is complete. Her blood is mine. Her magic is mine. And soon—” he smiles, “—you will be mine.”
Kaelen growls, struggling against the chains. “Sage—run—”
But I can’t.
And then—
Malrik steps toward me.
Not with a blade.
With a ring.
Silver. Onyx. The Alpha’s ring.
“This,” he says, holding it up, “will seal the bond. Not to you. To me. And when I wear it—” his eyes gleam, “—the Northern Packs will kneel. The council will obey. And the world will burn.”
He reaches for my hand.
And then—
I do the only thing I can.
I spit in his face.
And bite down on the truth-seeker’s sigil behind my ear.
Blood wells.
And for the first time—
It flares.
Not with lie.
Not with truth.
With something else.
Power.
And then—
I scream.
Not in pain.
In defiance.
And the Spire trembles.
Because the real ritual has just begun.