The northern tower breathes.
Not with the oppressive, blood-choked rhythm of the Spire, not with the silent menace of Malrik’s chambers, but with something softer. Something alive. Moonlight spills through the arched windows, painting silver rivers across the stone floor. Candles flicker in iron sconces, their flames steady, warm. The air hums with healing magic—gentle, insistent, like a lullaby woven from wind and water. Somewhere beyond the walls, the ruins of the Spire still smolder, but here? Here, there is quiet. Not silence. Not emptiness. But peace.
And he’s still holding me.
Kaelen lies beside me on the narrow healer’s bed, his body a furnace at my back, his arm draped low across my stomach, his breath warm on my neck. I should pull away. Should sit up. Should remind myself that I came here to burn them all—not to be cradled like something fragile. But I don’t. Because for the first time in years, I don’t feel like a weapon.
I feel like a woman.
A woman who was broken. Who was nearly lost. Who was pulled back from the edge by a man who bled for her.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I shift slightly, testing the weight of my limbs. The wounds still ache—deep cuts on my arms, whip marks on my thighs, the puncture on my neck where Malrik injected the shadow venom—but the pain is dulled now, wrapped in layers of healing magic and exhaustion. The moonlight essence has been purged, the ritual’s corruption burned out, but my body is still weak. Still healing. Still mine.
And so is the bond.
It hums beneath my skin, steady and deep, no longer a scream but a purr—a quiet, unshakable truth. Malrik tried to rewrite it. Tried to sever it. Tried to twist it into a leash. But he failed. Because the bond isn’t just magic.
It’s us.
Kaelen stirs behind me, his arm tightening, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“You’re observant.”
He doesn’t laugh. Just nuzzles into my hair, his breath warm. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was flayed and resurrected.”
“Accurate.”
I turn my head, just enough to see him—his silver eyes half-lidded, his dark hair tousled, the silver wolf-mark pulsing faintly at his throat. He looks exhausted. Pale. Shadows cling to the hollows beneath his eyes, his jaw tight with fatigue. I remember now—how he poured his magic into me, how his body weakened, how he nearly bled out to keep me alive.
And I did nothing but scream.
“You gave me your blood,” I say, voice low. “Your magic. You could’ve died.”
“And you would’ve.”
“That doesn’t give you the right.”
“It does.” He rolls onto his side, facing me, his hand sliding up to cup my face. “Because you’re mine. And I’m yours. And if you die, I die. That’s not a choice. That’s the bond. That’s us.”
My breath hitches.
Because it’s not just the words.
It’s the way he says them—like they’re carved into his bones, like they’re the only truth he knows.
And I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of magic.
Because of the way he looked at me when he carried me out of the Spire. The way he held me when I screamed. The way he bled for me without hesitation.
And then—
I do something I haven’t done in years.
I reach up.
Not to push him away.
Not to test him.
To touch.
My fingers trail along his jaw, over the sharp line of his cheekbone, down to the scar that cuts through his eyebrow—a thin, silvery line from an old battle. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his silver eyes dark, intense, waiting.
“You have a lot of scars,” I whisper.
“I’ve lived a lot of wars.”
“Not all of them were fought with blades.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just shifts, rolling onto his back, his hands behind his head, his chest exposed beneath the open collar of his tunic. And there they are—more scars. A jagged line across his ribs, another over his heart, a network of thin, pale marks across his shoulders. Battle wounds. Punishments. Survival.
And one I haven’t seen before.
A crescent-shaped burn, low on his left side, just above the waistband of his trousers. It’s old. Faded. But unmistakable.
A moonmark.
Not like mine—the glowing sigil of the fated bond. This one is different. Cruder. Painful. Like it was carved into him.
“What’s this?” I ask, tracing it with my fingertip.
He tenses.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, starting to pull back.
“No.” He catches my wrist, not roughly, but firmly, his thumb brushing my pulse point. “You should know.”
He takes a breath. Lets it out slow.
“It was the night of the purge,” he says, voice low. “The council had sentenced your mother. I argued. Fought. Tried to stop it. But they overruled me. Declared her a traitor. Ordered her execution.” His jaw tightens. “I refused to stand by. So they punished me.”
My breath stops.
“They took me to the old ritual chamber,” he continues. “Bound me to the post. And Malrik—he carved it into me. With a blade heated in moonfire. Said it was a reminder. That I was no longer Alpha. No longer untouchable. That I had chosen loyalty over power.” His voice drops. “And that if I ever defied them again, the next mark would be on my throat.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Because I came here thinking he was the monster.
And he was the one who was punished for trying to save her.
“You never told me,” I whisper.
“I didn’t want you to see me as weak.”
“You’re not weak.” My fingers press into the scar, not flinching, not pulling away. “You’re the only one who tried to stop it.”
He turns his head, his silver eyes locking onto mine. “And now?”
“Now I see you.” I lean in, pressing my forehead to his. “Not as the king. Not as the Alpha. Not as the monster I thought you were. But as the man who fought for her. Who kept her journal. Who bled for me.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
Like I’m something sacred.
I go willingly, my body arching into his heat, my face pressing into his chest, my hands splayed across his scars. He holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like he’s afraid this is a dream. And maybe it is. Maybe we’re both still broken. Maybe the war isn’t over. Maybe Malrik is still out there, waiting.
But right now?
Right now, I don’t care.
Because for the first time since I walked into the Spire—
I’m not fighting.
I’m not surviving.
I’m his.
And he is mine.
We stay like that for hours—curled together, breathing in sync, the bond humming between us. The healers come and go, checking my wounds, murmuring about recovery, about time, about caution. I don’t listen. Just hold on. To him. To this. To the fragile, trembling thing that’s growing between us—something softer than revenge. Something stronger than hate.
Something like love.
Eventually, the sun sets.
The moon rises.
And the quiet is broken.
The door opens.
Taryn limps inside, his arm in a sling, his face bruised but his stance steady. He doesn’t look at me. Just at Kaelen. “Malrik’s gone,” he says. “The Spire’s sealed. The council’s in chaos. Some are calling for peace. Some for war. But they’re all waiting.”
“For what?” Kaelen asks, still holding me.
“For you.” Taryn’s gaze flicks to me. “For her. For the bond. They want to know if it’s broken. If you’re still Alpha. If she’s still your mate.”
Kaelen doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not broken. It’s stronger than ever.”
“Then prove it.”
“I will.”
Taryn nods, then turns to leave.
“Taryn,” I say.
He stops.
“Thank you,” I say. “For helping him save me.”
He looks at me—really looks—and for the first time, I see it.
The quiet admiration. The loyalty. The respect.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “I’ve never seen him hesitate. Until you.”
And then he’s gone.
The silence returns.
But it’s different now.
Not empty.
Not cold.
Heavy.
Like the weight of something coming.
“We can’t stay here,” I say.
“No,” Kaelen agrees. “We have to return. Face them. Reclaim the Spire.”
“And Malrik?”
“Will come for us.”
“Then we’ll be ready.” I push myself up, wincing at the ache in my limbs. “I’m not hiding. Not anymore. He wants war? Let him have it.”
Kaelen sits up, his hand on my back, supporting me. “You’re not alone.”
“I know.” I turn to him, my fingers brushing the scar on his eyebrow. “But this isn’t just about revenge anymore. It’s about justice. About truth. About breaking the Pact for good.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Then we’ll burn it together.”
And I believe him.
Because he’s not just a king.
Not just an Alpha.
Not just a warrior.
He’s mine.
And I am his.
The next morning, I wake to sunlight.
Golden. Warm. Streaming through the high windows, painting the stone 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.
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.