The northern tower breathes, but I no longer belong to 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 the bed in the recovery chamber—Kaelen’s bed, our bed, the one where we first made love, where he held me after the bond broke, where he whispered promises into my skin like they were spells. The furs are rumpled. His scent—pine, smoke, wildness—still clings to the pillow. I press my face into it, inhaling deeply, letting the memory of him flood my senses.
And then I pull back.
Because I can’t do this.
Can’t stay.
Can’t pretend that love is enough.
The healers said I’m healed. Whole. Strong. The venom purged, the wounds sealed, the magic stabilized. Riven’s Fae oath did its work—sealed the debt, sealed the pain, sealed the lies. I should feel victorious. I should feel free.
But I don’t.
I feel like I’m drowning.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see it—the journal. My mother’s second confession. The truth that rewrote everything. Malrik didn’t kill her out of duty. He killed her because she loved Kaelen. Because she chose him. And Kaelen—
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,” Kaelen says, voice rough, low, edged with something I can’t name. Worry. Anger. Need.
I don’t answer.
Just sit there, my hands clenched in the furs, my breath steady, my body still.
He steps inside, boots silent on stone, shadow-woven armor repaired, fangs retracted, but his eyes—silver, sharp, searching—are locked on me. He takes in the scene: the open chest, the journal on the bed, my stillness, the way my fingers tremble when I try to swallow.
And he knows.
Of course he knows.
“You’re leaving,” he says, not a question.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, coiled, tense, like a storm held in check. “After everything. After the bond. After the ritual. After I bled for you—you’re just going to walk away?”
“I’m not walking away,” I say, voice flat. “I’m walking toward.”
“Toward what?”
“The truth.” I pick up the journal, hold it out to him. “Not the lies. Not the secrets. Not the version of the past that keeps me safe. The real truth. The one Malrik and you are both hiding.”
He doesn’t take it.
Just looks at me—his jaw tight, his breath shallow. “And if the truth destroys you?”
“Then let it.”
“You think I didn’t tell you to hurt you?” His voice rises. “You think I kept that secret because I wanted to control you? To manipulate you? To own you?”
“No,” I say, standing. “I think you kept it because you were afraid. Afraid that if I knew Malrik loved her, if I knew he killed her because she chose you, then I’d see you differently. I’d see you as the reason she died. And you couldn’t handle that.”
He flinches.
And for the first time—
I see it.
The crack in his armor.
The fear beneath the fury.
“Maybe,” he says, voice raw. “Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I didn’t want you to look at me and see the man who got your mother killed. Maybe I didn’t want you to hate me for that, too.”
“Then you should’ve let me decide,” I say. “Not made the choice for me.”
“And if I had?” He steps closer, his hand lifting, hovering near my face. “If I’d told you the night we met? That Malrik loved your mother? That he killed her because she loved me? What would you have done?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Would I have believed him?
Would I have turned my dagger on him instead?
Would I have run?
Would I have broken?
“You wouldn’t have trusted me,” he says. “You would’ve thought I was manipulating you. That I was using her memory to control you. And you would’ve been right to doubt. Because the truth is manipulation. It’s a weapon. And I didn’t want to be the one who wielded it against you.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
The truth is a weapon.
And he just handed me a blade coated in poison.
“You should’ve trusted me,” I whisper. “You should’ve let me choose.”
“I do trust you,” he says. “With my life. With my kingdom. With my heart. But I don’t trust the world. I don’t trust Malrik. I don’t trust the council. And I sure as hell don’t trust the past.”
“And what about us?” I ask, voice breaking. “Do you trust us?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“More than anything.”
“Then why lie?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You withheld the truth.”
“And I’d do it again.”
The words hang between us.
Heavy.
Final.
And they cut deeper than any blade.
Because he’s not sorry.
He’s not begging.
He’s not trying to fix it.
He’s standing there, in all his Alpha strength, in all his king’s pride, and saying he’d do it again.
And that—
That breaks me.
Not because he kept the secret.
But because he doesn’t see it as a betrayal.
He sees it as love.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
Because if love means lies, then what does hate look like?
I turn away.
Walk to the chest.
Pick up the journal.
And throw it at him.
It hits his chest, falls to the floor.
“You want to protect me?” I say, voice cold. “Fine. Protect me from you.”
“Sage—”
“No.” I step back, my hands trembling. “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 you—” my voice cracks, “—you made me forget why I came.”
“And now you remember?” he asks, voice low.
“Now I see,” I say. “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.”
He takes a step forward.
I take one back.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t touch me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me.”
His jaw tightens.
“And if I don’t let you go?”
“Then I’ll make you.”
He doesn’t move.
Just watches me—his silver eyes blazing, his body coiled, his breath steady.
And I know.
He could stop me.
He could pin me to the wall.
He could claim me with a bite.
He could force the bond to hold me.
But he won’t.
Because he’s not Malrik.
He’s not a monster.
He’s Kaelen.
And even when I hate him—
He still lets me go.
I turn.
Walk to the door.
My body aches.
My magic is still weak.
But my will?
My will is fire.
“Sage,” he says, voice rough. “If you walk out that door—”
“Then I walk,” I say, not looking back. “And you stay.”
The door closes behind me.
And the silence returns.
But it’s different now.
Not peace.
Not quiet.
Not even grief.
It’s something colder.
Something sharper.
Loss.
I don’t go far.
Just to the chamber next door—the one Riven uses when he visits. The Fae prince isn’t here, but his scent lingers—ozone and old wine, danger and charm. His shelves are lined with forbidden texts, his desk scattered with sigil sketches, his window open to the night.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
Stare at the journal in my hands.
And I realize—
I don’t want to burn them all anymore.
Not Malrik.
Not the council.
Not even Kaelen.
I just want to be free.
Free from the lies.
Free from the secrets.
Free from the love that feels like a cage.
And as the moon climbs higher, as the northern tower breathes around me, as the bond hums beneath my skin like a dying star—
I make a decision.
I’m leaving.
Not to run.
Not to hide.
But to find the truth—on my own terms.
And if that means breaking the bond?
Then so be it.
Even if it kills me.
I pack fast.
Not much—just my dagger, the obsidian key Riven gave me, the Fae oath book, my gloves, my boots. I leave the healer’s tunic behind, pull on my old clothes—tight trousers, high-collared tunic, the sigils beneath glowing faintly. I don’t look in the mirror. Don’t need to. I know what I’ll see—pale skin, dark circles, silver eyes blazing with something that’s not quite rage, not quite grief, but something deeper.
Something like freedom.
The corridor is 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.