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 I’m not part of it.
I sit on the stone ledge outside the healing chamber, my back against the cold wall, my injured leg propped on a low stool, the bone still knitting beneath layers of magic and pain. The healers said I’d walk again. Said I’d fight. Said I’d serve. But they didn’t say when. Didn’t say if I’d still be Beta. Didn’t say if Kaelen would still need me—now that he has her.
Sage.
The hybrid witch. The Moonblood heir. The woman who walked into the Spire with fire in her eyes and vengeance in her blood—and left with the Alpha-King’s heart in her hands.
I don’t hate her.
That’s the first thing I have to admit.
Not because I’m noble. Not because I’m kind. But because it’s the truth. I’ve seen hatred up close—Malrik’s, the council’s, the way they twist love into chains, loyalty into weapons. And what I feel for Sage?
It’s not hate.
It’s something quieter. Something heavier.
Respect.
And something darker.
Want.
Not for her body—though I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed the way her dark hair falls across her shoulders, the way her silver eyes blaze when she fights, the way her lips part when she’s exhausted, when she’s broken, when she’s real.
No.
It’s not that.
It’s the way she stands. The way she speaks. The way she refuses to kneel—even when the world tries to crush her.
And the way Kaelen looks at her.
That’s the part that cuts the deepest.
Not because I want her.
But because I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.
Not his lieutenants. Not his enemies. Not even the women who threw themselves at him during treaty feasts, who wore his scent like a prize, who claimed to have shared his bed.
But her?
He looks at her like she’s the only thing keeping him from falling into the dark.
And I know what that’s like.
Because I’ve been the one holding him up for seven years.
Since the purge. Since the night they punished him. Since the council stripped him of his power and he still refused to bow.
I was there.
I saw the blood. Heard the screams. Felt the moonfire burn as they carved that mark into his side—low, hidden, a secret shame meant to break him.
And I stayed.
Not because I had to.
Because I chose to.
And now?
Now he has someone else.
Someone who doesn’t just stand beside him.
Someone who stands against him.
And wins.
The door opens.
I don’t turn.
Don’t have to.
“You’re not supposed to be out here,” Riven says, stepping into the corridor, his silver hair gleaming, his storm-gray eyes sharp with amusement. “The healers said rest. Not brood.”
“I’m not brooding,” I say, voice flat. “I’m guarding.”
“Guarding what?” He leans against the wall beside me, arms crossed. “The door? The silence? Your wounded pride?”
I don’t answer.
Just watch the shadows shift across the stone floor.
“You know,” he continues, “most men would be dead. Crushed by that beam. But you? You stood. You fought. You held the line so they could escape.” He tilts his head. “And now you sit here, like a dog waiting for scraps.”
“I’m not waiting for anything.”
“Aren’t you?” He studies me—really studies me. “You’ve served him for years. Protected him. Fought for him. And now that he has her, you think he doesn’t need you anymore.”
“He doesn’t.”
“And if he did?”
“Then I’d still be here.”
He smiles. “Ah. So you do care.”
“Of course I care,” I snap. “He’s my Alpha. My king. My brother.”
“And Sage?”
I don’t answer.
Just clench my jaw.
“You admire her,” Riven says, voice soft. “Not just her strength. Not just her fire. But the way she makes him feel. The way she makes him human.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s right.
I do.
Not because I want her.
But because I’ve spent seven years watching Kaelen turn into a monster—cold, ruthless, untouchable—and in a few short weeks, she’s made him bleed, made him break, made him love.
And I’ve never seen him more alive.
“You think I’m jealous,” I say.
“I think you’re afraid,” he corrects. “Afraid that if he can be saved by her, then what does that make you? Just another weapon? Another soldier? Another man who stood in the shadows while the real battle was fought in the light?”
I don’t move.
Don’t speak.
Because he’s not wrong.
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
“Then do something about it,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like stop waiting.” He pushes off the wall, his eyes sharp. “Stop watching. Stop hiding. If you care about him—if you care about her—then fight for them. Not from the shadows. Not from the sidelines. But in the open. Where they can see you.”
“And if they don’t want me?”
“Then you’ll know.” He smirks. “And you can go back to brooding.”
And then he’s gone.
The silence returns.
But it’s different now.
Not empty.
Not cold.
Heavy.
Like the weight of a choice.
The door opens again.
This time, it’s Sage.
She steps out slowly, her boots silent on stone, her dark hair loose, her silver eyes sharp with exhaustion but still blazing with defiance. She wears a healer’s tunic—white, loose, barely covering the bandages on her arms, the bruises on her thighs—but she stands tall. Strong. alive.
And she’s looking at me.
Not through me.
Not past me.
At me.
“You’re out of bed,” she says, voice low.
“So are you.”
She doesn’t smile. Just limps forward, stopping a few feet away, her hands clenched at her sides. “They said you saved us. That you held the line while Kaelen carried me out.”
“I did my job.”
“It wasn’t just your job.” Her voice cracks. “You could’ve died. You should’ve died. But you stayed. You fought. You gave us time.”
I don’t answer.
Just look at her—really look. At the way her breath hitches when she moves, at the way her fingers tremble, at the way her eyes glisten with something I can’t name.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
And that’s when it hits me.
Not pride.
Not satisfaction.
Grief.
Because she’s thanking me.
Like I’m just another soldier.
Another name on a list.
Another man who did his duty and will be forgotten.
But I don’t want to be forgotten.
Not by her.
Not by him.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I say, voice rough. “I’ve never seen him hesitate. Until you.”
She freezes.
And then—
She steps closer.
Not fast. Not reckless.
Slow. Deliberate. Like she’s testing me.
“And what about you?” she asks. “Do you hesitate?”
“Not when it matters.”
“And when it does?”
“Then I choose.”
She doesn’t move.
Just watches me—her silver eyes searching mine, her breath shallow, her pulse fluttering in her throat.
And then—
“I saw you,” she says. “In the east hall. When the beam fell. You didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. Just told him to go. To save me.” Her voice breaks. “And I didn’t even know your name.”
“You do now.”
“Taryn.” She says it like she’s memorizing it. “Beta of the Northern Pack. Kaelen’s lieutenant. His brother.”
“That’s me.”
“And what else?”
I don’t answer.
Just look at her—really look. At the way her hair falls across her face, at the way her lips part when she’s searching for truth, at the way her body still trembles with the aftermath of venom and blood magic.
And then—
“I’m the man who’s been standing beside him since the beginning,” I say, voice low. “The one who’s bled for him. Fought for him. Watched him turn into a monster because the world demanded it.” I step closer. “And the one who’s seen him break—just once—when he thought he’d lost you.”
Her breath hitches.
“And I’m the man who’ll do it again,” I say. “Not because he’s my king. Not because he’s my Alpha. But because he’s my brother. And because you—” my voice drops, “—you’re the only thing keeping him from becoming the monster they want him to be.”
She doesn’t move.
Just stares at me—her eyes wide, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling.
And then—
She reaches out.
Not to touch my face.
Not to test me.
To hold my hand.
Her fingers are cold. Weak. But they grip mine—tight, firm, unyielding.
“Then don’t leave,” she says. “Not now. Not when we need you.”
My breath stops.
Because she’s not just asking me to stay.
She’s asking me to choose.
To stand with them.
To fight for them.
To be more than a shadow.
“I won’t,” I say, voice rough. “I’ve never seen him hesitate. Until you. And I’ve never seen him need anyone. Until you. So if you’re asking me to stand with you—” I squeeze her hand, “—then I will. Not for him. Not for the pack. But for you.”
She doesn’t smile.
Just nods, her eyes wet, her breath shaky.
And then—
She pulls me into a hug.
Not gentle.
Not careful.
Hard. Desperate. Like she’s holding onto the last piece of something real.
I don’t move.
Just let her—my body stiff, my breath shallow, my heart a drum against my ribs.
And when she pulls back, her eyes are wet, her cheeks flushed, her voice a whisper.
“Thank you,” she says again. “For seeing him. For saving me. For staying.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
And I mean it.
Not because I have to.
Not because I’m loyal.
But because for the first time in seven years—
I feel like I belong.
The next morning, I wake to sunlight.
Golden. Warm. Streaming through the high windows, painting the stone floor in honeyed light. I’m in the recovery chamber—small, stone-walled, a narrow bed, a single window facing the ruins. My leg still aches, but the bone is mending. The healers said I’d walk in a week. Fight in two. Serve in three.
And I will.
Not as the silent Beta. Not as the man who stands in the shadows.
But as Taryn.
As the one who stayed.
As the one who chooses.
As the one who fights—not just for the king.
But for the woman who made him human.
And as I sit up, testing my weight, feeling the pull in my leg, hearing the distant hum of the northern tower—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 me.
And we are unstoppable.