The northern tower breathes, but I no longer feel part of its rhythm.
It still hums with healing magic—gentle, insistent, like a lullaby woven from wind and water. Moonlight spills through the arched windows, painting silver rivers across the stone floor. Candles flicker in iron sconces, their flames steady, warm. Somewhere beyond the walls, the ruins of the Spire still smolder, but here? Here, there is quiet. Not silence. Not emptiness. But peace.
And I am not at peace.
I sit on the edge of Riven’s bed, my fingers clenched around the journal—my mother’s second confession, the one Kaelen hid from me, the one that rewrote every truth I thought I knew. Malrik didn’t just kill her. He loved her. And she loved him. And when she chose Kaelen instead, Malrik signed her death warrant not out of duty, but out of jealousy.
And Kaelen knew.
He knew, and he said nothing.
He let me believe he was the monster. Let me hate him. Let me fight him. Let me fall for him—while he held the one secret that could’ve shattered me from the start.
And he called it love.
Love that withholds. Love that decides for me. Love that thinks I’m too fragile to carry my own truth.
But I’m not fragile.
I’m not weak.
I’m Sage of the Moonblood line.
And I will not be protected from my own vengeance.
The door opens.
I don’t turn.
Don’t have to.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Riven.
The Fae prince steps inside, his silver hair gleaming, his eyes sharp with amusement. But not tonight. Tonight, his gaze is steady. Concerned. He doesn’t move toward me. Just closes the door, leans against it, arms crossed.
“Kaelen’s looking for you,” he says. “He’s been tearing through the tower. Taryn’s with him. They think you’re in danger.”
“I am,” I say, voice flat. “Just not from Malrik.”
He doesn’t laugh. Just studies me—the journal in my hands, the set of my jaw, the way my breath hitches when I try to swallow. “Ah,” he says softly. “You found it.”
“You knew.”
“Of course I did.” He pushes off the door, moves to the desk, picks up a vial filled with shimmering liquid. “I helped him hide it. Not because I agreed with him. But because I understood why.”
“And why was that?” I snap. “Because he thought I couldn’t handle the truth? Because he thought love meant lying?”
“Because he thought you’d break.” Riven turns, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “And not just emotionally. Magically. You’re a hybrid, Sage. Your magic is tied to your emotions. Your blood. Your truth. And when that truth shifts—when the foundation of your rage cracks—your power destabilizes. You could’ve unraveled. You could’ve died.”
My breath hitches.
“And now?” I whisper. “Now that I know? Now that the foundation’s shattered?”
“Now you’re stronger,” he says. “Because you’re choosing your own path. Not running from pain. Not hiding from truth. But facing it. That’s power. That’s real strength.”
I look down at the journal. “I came here to burn them all. I didn’t come here to fall in love. I didn’t come here to be protected. I came here to make them pay.”
“And now?”
“Now I see that the real enemy isn’t just Malrik. It’s the lies. The secrets. The people who think they know what’s best for me.”
Riven nods. “Then what will you do?”
I stand. My body aches—deep cuts on my arms, whip marks on my thighs, the puncture on my neck—but I don’t care. “I’m leaving.”
He doesn’t stop me. Just tilts his head. “And the bond?”
“I’ll break it.”
His eyes narrow. “You know what that means.”
“I do.”
“Bond-fever,” he says. “Hallucinations. Physical collapse. Madness. Most who try it don’t survive. Even fewer who succeed.”
“Then I’ll be one of them.”
He doesn’t argue. Just moves to the shelf, pulls down a slim book bound in black leather—ancient, etched with Fae runes. “This,” he says, handing it to me, “is the Veil of Severance. A ritual to break a fated bond. It requires blood. Pain. And a willingness to die.”
I take it. “I’m willing.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then I die.”
He studies me—really studies me—and for the first time, I see it.
Respect.
Not pity. Not fear. Not amusement.
Respect.
“Then go,” he says. “But not here. Not in the tower. Malrik’s spies are everywhere. Kaelen will find you. You need isolation. Silence. A place where the bond can’t reach.”
“Where?”
“The Veil Caves,” he says. “Beneath the old city. No magic. No wards. Just stone and shadow. The Fae used them for oath-breaking. For severance. For death.”
“How do I get there?”
He reaches into his robe, pulls out a silver key—etched with runes. “This opens the hidden passage beneath the eastern crypt. Follow the tunnels. Don’t light a torch. Don’t speak. Don’t think of him. Or the bond will pull you back.”
I take the key. “And if he follows?”
“Then you’ll have to fight him.”
“I will.”
He nods. “Then go. Before he finds you.”
I don’t hesitate.
I tuck the journal into my belt. Slide the book into my coat. Clutch the key in my fist.
And I leave.
The corridors are quiet. Empty. The healers have retreated, the guards stationed elsewhere. I move like a shadow—barefoot, silent, my breath steady. The bond hums beneath my skin, a low, insistent thrum, like a heartbeat not my own. I can feel him—Kaelen—somewhere in the tower, searching, calling, aching.
But I don’t answer.
I don’t look back.
I reach the eastern crypt—a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The air grows colder, heavier, the scent of earth and decay thick in my lungs. I find the hidden panel, press the key into the sigil, and the stone groans open.
Inside, the passage is narrow, the walls slick with moisture, the floor uneven. I step inside. The door closes behind me with a finality that echoes in my bones.
And then—
I run.
Not fast. Not recklessly. But with purpose. With every step, I feel the bond weaken—just slightly, just enough. The hum fades. The pull lessens. The ache in my chest dulls.
Good.
I need it weak.
I need it broken.
The tunnels twist, branch, descend. I don’t light a torch. Don’t speak. Don’t think of Kaelen. Don’t think of his hands, his voice, the way he bled for me. I focus on the stone. On the silence. On the cold air in my lungs.
And then—
I see it.
A faint glow ahead.
Not magic.
Not fire.
Bioluminescent moss, clinging to the walls, pulsing with soft blue light. It marks the entrance to the Veil Caves.
I step inside.
The cavern is vast—high ceiling, smooth stone floor, the air still, the silence absolute. No echoes. No magic. No bond.
Just me.
And the ritual.
I kneel in the center, place the book before me, open it to the first page. The runes glow faintly, the words shifting in the old Fae tongue. I don’t need to read them. I know what they say.
Blood of the bound. Pain of the severed. Will of the free.
I pull out my dagger—black iron, etched with Moonblood sigils. My left hand trembles as I press the blade to my palm. I don’t hesitate.
I cut.
Deep.
Blood wells—crimson, rich, humming with magic. I let it drip onto the stone, forming a circle around me. The runes in the book flare—silver, then black, then nothing.
And then—
The bond screams.
Not a sound.
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.
Good.
I press the blade to my other palm. Cut again. Let the blood flow. The circle is complete.
Now comes the pain.
The ritual demands it. The bond resists it. But I will not stop.
I press the blade to my thigh—where Malrik’s whip left its mark—and drag it down. Blood spills. Pain flares. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The bond screams again, louder this time, a psychic shriek that makes my skull throb.
And then—
I begin.
Words in the old tongue spill from my lips—harsh, guttural, each one a knife to the bond. The blood in the circle glows—black, then silver, then ash. The runes in the book burn, the pages curling, the leather cracking.
And the bond—
It frays.
Not broken. Not yet.
But weakening. Stretching. Snapping.
I press the blade to my chest—just above my heart—and drag it down. Blood spills. Pain explodes. My vision blurs. My body trembles. The bond screams—so loud, so raw, so final—that I collapse, my hands clawing at the stone, my breath coming in broken gasps.
And then—
I see him.
Not in the cave.
Not in the flesh.
In my mind.
Kaelen.
His silver eyes blazing. His fangs bared. His voice a roar: *“Sage! Don’t do this! You’ll die!”*
I scream back—silently, desperately—*“I’d rather die than be controlled!”*
And I keep going.
Words. Blood. Pain.
The bond shatters.
Not all at once.
But in pieces.
Like glass under a hammer.
I 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—
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 the cave.
Dark. Cold. The air thick with the scent of decay and old blood. I’m on the stone floor, my body trembling, my wounds still bleeding, the ritual circle cracked, the book in ashes. My magic is scattered. My body is weak. But I’m alive.
And the bond—
It’s gone.
Not weakened.
Not frayed.
Gone.
No hum. No pull. No ache.
Just silence.
And then—
I laugh.
Not with joy.
Not with relief.
With something darker.
Freedom.
I did it.
I broke it.
I’m free.
And then—
The cave trembles.
Not from an earthquake.
From him.
Boots strike stone. Fast. Furious. desperate.
And then—
He’s there.
Kaelen.
His shadow-woven armor torn, his fangs bared, his claws extended, his silver eyes blazing with fury. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at the ritual. Doesn’t see the blood.
Just lunges.
And slams me into the wall.
“You idiot,” he snarls, his voice raw, broken. “You could’ve died! You should’ve died!”
I don’t answer.
Just look at him—his face twisted with rage, his body coiled, his breath hot on my skin.
And I smile.
“I’m free,” I whisper.
He freezes.
And then—
His hand flies to my throat.
Not to choke me.
To grip me.
“You’re not free,” he growls. “You’re broken. You’re bleeding. You’re dying.”
“Then let me die.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at me—his silver eyes searching mine, his breath ragged, his body trembling.
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.
“You’re not dying,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my forehead. “Not today. Not ever. Not while I’m still breathing.”
And then—
I do something I haven’t done in years.
I cry.
Not silently. Not with restraint.
With a sob—raw, broken, unmistakable—my body trembling against his, my fingers clawing at his back.
And he holds me.
Through the tears.
Through the pain.
Through the silence.
And when I finally pull back, my eyes swollen, my breath shaky, he doesn’t let go.
Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek, his voice low, final.
“You broke the bond,” he says. “But you didn’t break us.”
My breath hitches.
“And if I try again?”
“Then I’ll break it back.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
And then—
He kisses me.
Not soft.
Not slow.
With need.
His mouth crashes over mine, not gentle, not careful, but hungry. I gasp, my body arching into him, my fingers clawing at his shoulders. He groans, his hands tightening on my hips, his body pressing me back until the edge of the stone slab hits the back of my thighs.
“Sage,” he growls, breaking the kiss, his forehead pressed to mine. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you,” I pant. “All of you. Now.”
“And if I hurt you?”
“Then hurt me.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just lifts me, lays me down on the stone, and covers me with his body—his weight delicious, his heat searing, his arousal a hard line against my core. His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time, slower, savoring. His hands move—over my ribs, around my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple—and I arch into him, a moan tearing from my throat.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs against my lips. “Like your body’s been waiting for me.”
“It has.”
And it was true.
Every denial, every fight, every moment I’d spent hating him—it had all been a lie. Because my body had known the truth from the start.
I was his.
And he was mine.
Even without the bond.
And as his hands move, as his mouth finds my neck, as his voice whispers my name like a prayer—
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.
Not just a pawn.
Not just a hybrid.
We’re Sage and Kaelen.
And we are unstoppable.