I have killed men with my bare hands.
Not in battle. Not in war. But in silence. In shadow. A twist of the neck. A claw through the throat. A whisper before the blood. Seven years of ruling the Northern Packs with iron and ice taught me one truth: mercy is weakness. Hesitation is death. And love? Love is a blade pointed at your own heart.
And yet—
Here I am.
On my knees.
Bound in shadow, my magic draining, my fangs bared, my claws useless, watching the woman I love—my mate—bleed on a stone slab while Malrik stands over her like a god.
And I can’t move.
The chains of shadow coil around me—black, pulsing, etched with the same runes as Lira’s collar: bind, break, obey. They press into my skin, searing my magic, feeding on my strength. I strain against them, muscles burning, bones creaking, but they don’t give. They were forged for werewolves. For Alphas. For me.
And they’re working.
“Kaelen!” Sage screams, her voice raw, broken, terrified. “Don’t—don’t just—”
But I am.
I am just standing here.
Watching.
And it’s killing me.
Malrik turns to me, his black robes whispering against the stone, his onyx claws clicking softly, his fangs just visible beneath a serpent’s smile. “You’re too late,” he says, voice smooth as poisoned silk. “The ritual is complete. Her blood is mine. Her magic is mine. And soon—” he smiles, “—you will be mine.”
“You’re lying,” I growl, my voice a blade. “The bond can’t be broken. Not by blood. Not by magic. Not by you.”
“Oh, it can’t be broken,” he agrees. “But it can be rewritten.” He holds up the Alpha’s ring—silver, onyx, pulsing with ancient power. “This will bind you to the council. To me. And when I wear it—” his eyes gleam, “—the Northern Packs will kneel. The council will obey. And the world will burn.”
My pulse roars.
“Sage,” I rasp, turning to her. “Don’t let him—”
But she’s already moving.
Her head snaps back. Her teeth bite down—on the sigil behind her ear, the truth-seeker Riven gave her. Blood wells. Crimson. Rich. Humming with magic.
And then—
It flares.
Not with lie. Not with truth.
With something else.
Power.
And she screams.
Not in pain.
In defiance.
The sound rips through the dungeon—raw, animal, primal—and the Spire trembles. The torches flicker. The chains on the walls rattle. The runes on Malrik’s vial glow, then shatter. The shadow binding me twists—not tighter, but looser—and for a heartbeat, I feel it.
My magic.
My strength.
My rage.
And then—
I move.
Not gracefully. Not with control.
With violence.
I rip the chains from the wall, shadow tearing like paper, runes burning out in bursts of black fire. I land on my feet, boots striking stone, fangs bared, claws extended, my body a storm of fury and need. Malrik barely has time to turn before I’m on him—
And I slam him into the wall.
My hand closes around his throat, crushing, lifting him off the ground. His back hits the stone with a crack. His eyes widen. His fangs flash.
“You don’t get to touch her,” I snarl, voice low, final. “You don’t get to breathe near her.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just smiles.
And from the shadows—
Something moves.
Not Lira.
Not a guard.
A hand.
Black. Clawed. Etched with runes.
It bursts from the stone, wraps around my wrist, and pulls.
I roar, twisting, slashing with my claws—
But it doesn’t let go.
Another hand. Then another. Then dozens, bursting from the walls, the floor, the ceiling, all etched with the same runes, all feeding on the ritual’s magic, all dragging me back.
“You think you’re strong?” Malrik gasps, still grinning. “You think your bond makes you invincible? That your love makes you special?” He raises his hand. “I have been shaping this Spire for centuries. Its bones are mine. Its blood is mine. And now—” his voice drops, “—you will join them.”
The hands pull.
I resist.
But there are too many.
And then—
“Kaelen!”
Sage.
Her voice.
Not weak.
Not broken.
Strong.
Commanding.
And when I turn—
She’s on her feet.
Not free.
Not healed.
But fighting.
The chains on her wrists and ankles are still bound, but her body is arched, her hands glowing with sigils, her eyes blazing silver with power. Blood drips from the wound on her arm, from the cut on her lip, from the bite on her neck—but it doesn’t fall.
It moves.
It snakes through the air, forming runes—break, burn, free—and then lashes out.
Toward Malrik.
He raises a hand, a shield of shadow flaring—
But her blood surges through it.
Wraps around his throat.
And squeezes.
He chokes. Gags. His eyes bulge.
And the hands on me—
They freeze.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
I tear free.
And I lunge.
Not for Malrik.
For her.
I crash into the stone slab, my body shielding hers, my arms wrapping around her, my breath hot on her neck. “Hold on,” I growl. “I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just collapses into me, her body trembling, her breath ragged, her blood still pulsing in the air. I can feel the venom in her—cold, insidious—twisting her magic, warping her senses. The moonlight essence burns in her veins, every wound a fire. And the ritual—
It’s still active.
Still feeding.
Still trying to break the bond.
“We need to go,” I say, lifting her. “Now.”
“Malrik—”
“Is mine.” I turn, cradling her against my chest, my fangs bared, my claws ready. “But you come first.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just nods, her head falling to my shoulder, her breath warm on my neck.
And then—
Malrik laughs.
Wet. Broken. amused.
He’s still on the floor, blood trickling from his split lip, his throat bruised, but his eyes—
They’re not afraid.
They’re triumphant.
“You think you’ve won?” he rasps. “You think you’ve saved her?” He raises a hand, points to the vial on the stone table—the one filled with her blood. “The ritual is complete. Her magic is mine. Her pain is mine. And when I wear the ring—” he smiles, “—you’ll beg me to kill you.”
I don’t answer.
Just turn.
And carry her out.
The corridor is a nightmare.
Not from guards. Not from traps.
From the Spire itself.
The walls bleed.
Not metaphorically.
Real blood—black, pulsing, etched with runes—oozes from the stone, forming hands, faces, mouths that whisper lies, that call her name, that beg her to stay.
“Sage,” they hiss. “You belong to us. You are ours.”
She flinches, pressing her face into my chest. “Don’t listen,” I growl. “It’s not real. It’s just his magic. Just his lies.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But it hurts.”
And I know it does.
The bond is screaming—raw, tearing, like something inside me is being ripped out. I can feel her pain. Her fear. Her magic, fracturing, scattering. And the venom—
It’s spreading.
“Hold on,” I say, my voice rough. “We’re almost out.”
“What if I don’t make it?” she whispers.
My breath stops.
“You will,” I say, voice low, final. “Because I won’t let you die. Not like this. Not in this fucking tomb. Not without me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just nuzzles into me, her breath warm on my neck.
And then—
“Kaelen.”
Taryn.
My Beta. My lieutenant. My brother.
He steps from the shadows, his armor torn, his face bloodied, his sword in hand. “The east stairwell is clear,” he says. “But the wards are collapsing. The Spire’s going to come down.”
“Then we move fast.” I adjust Sage in my arms, her body limp, her breath shallow. “Get ahead. Clear the path.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Just nods and runs.
And we follow.
The stairs are slick with blood.
Not ours.
Not Malrik’s.
The Spire’s.
It pulses in the stone, in the air, in the very breath we take. The runes glow—bind, break, obey—and the walls groan, the ceiling cracks, the torches flicker and die.
“He’s bringing it down,” Sage whispers. “To bury us.”
“Then we’ll burn it first.” I take the stairs two at a time, my body a fortress, my heart a drum. “You’re not dying today. Not on my watch.”
“And if I am?”
“Then I’ll die with you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just presses her lips to my neck.
And I feel it.
Not just the bond.
Not just the magic.
But love.
And it’s enough.
We reach the upper level.
The east hall.
Taryn is already there, sword raised, fangs bared, facing three guards—vampires, their eyes black, their fangs extended. They don’t speak. Just attack.
He moves like a storm—fast, precise, deadly. His blade flashes. Blood sprays. One guard falls. Then another. The third lunges—
And I drop Sage behind a pillar, draw my claws, and attack.
Not with magic.
Not with words.
With rage.
I rip through him—flesh, bone, armor—until he’s nothing but a heap on the stone. I don’t look at the body. Don’t care.
Just turn.
And pick her up.
“We’re close,” I say. “Just a little further.”
“Kaelen,” she whispers. “The bond—”
“Is still ours.” I press my forehead to hers. “No matter what he did. No matter what he took. You’re still mine. And I’m still yours.”
Her breath hitches.
And then—
The Spire screams.
Not a sound.
A sensation.
Like the earth splitting. Like the sky breaking. Like every rune, every ward, every drop of blood in the stone is shattering.
And then—
The ceiling collapses.
Not above us.
Behind us.
Taryn roars, turning—
And a beam of black stone crashes down, pinning his leg, crushing bone.
“Taryn!” I lunge, but the gap is too wide, the rubble too thick.
“Go!” he shouts, face pale, blood on his lips. “Get her out! I’ll hold them!”
I don’t want to.
But I know he’s right.
“I’ll come back for you,” I say.
“You’d better.” He grins, then turns, sword raised, facing the shadows.
And I run.
The final stretch is a blur.
Corridors. Stairs. Doors.
All collapsing.
All burning.
I don’t feel the heat. Don’t feel the pain. Don’t feel anything except her in my arms—her breath, her pulse, her blood on my skin.
And then—
Light.
Real light.
Not torchlight.
Not magic.
Moonlight.
I burst through the final door, into the courtyard, the cold night air hitting my face like a slap. The sky is black. The moon is full. And the Spire—
It’s falling.
Behind me, stone crashes, glass shatters, the air thick with dust and blood. I don’t look back. Just run—across the courtyard, past the shattered fountains, past the dead guards—until I reach the edge.
And then—
I jump.
Not down.
Across.
To the northern tower—where the healers wait. Where the wards are strong. Where she’ll be safe.
I leap.
And for a heartbeat—
We’re flying.
Not by magic.
Not by fate.
By need.
And then—
We land.
Hard.
My knees buckle. My arms tighten. But I don’t drop her.
Can’t.
“Kaelen,” she whispers, her voice faint. “You came.”
“I’ll always come,” I say, pressing my lips to her forehead. “No matter where you are. No matter what you do. No matter how far you run.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just closes her eyes.
And I know—
She’s not out of the woods.
Not yet.
The healers rush forward—witches, werewolves, even a Fae with eyes like storm clouds. They take her, lay her on a stone slab, begin their work. I don’t move. Just watch—her pale skin, her bruised body, the venom still pulsing in her veins.
“She’s alive,” the lead healer says. “But the ritual’s magic is deep. The venom is rewriting her blood. It’ll take time. And strength.”
“Do whatever you have to,” I growl. “Use my magic. My blood. My life. Just save her.”
He looks at me. “And if it costs you?”
“Then it costs me.”
He nods.
And they begin.
I don’t watch.
Just kneel beside her, take her hand, press it to my chest.
“You’re not dying,” I whisper. “Not today. Not ever. Not while I’m still breathing.”
And then—
I do something I haven’t done in seven years.
I pray.
Not to the gods.
Not to fate.
To her.
And when her fingers twitch in mine—
I know.
The war isn’t over.
Malrik is still out there.
The council still a prison.
The Spire still burning.
But we’re not broken.
And we’re not alone.
And if the world wants to burn—
Let it burn.
Because I’ve already found my fire.
And it’s named Sage.