The city remembers.
Not in stone. Not in law. Not in the polished halls of the Shadow Continent’s ruling elite, where treaties are signed over blood-red wine and lies are passed off as diplomacy. No—the city remembers in the cracks. In the soot-stained bricks of the lower districts, in the whispers of witches selling truth-telling charms in back-alley markets, in the way the wind carries the scent of old fire through the ruins of the Spire.
And now, it remembers me.
I walk through the eastern quarter barefoot, my boots slung over one shoulder, the cold cobblestones biting into my soles. I wear a simple tunic—undyed wool, coarse weave—no sigils, no armor, no mark of the Moonblood line. Just a woman. Just Sage. The kind of woman who could vanish into a crowd, who could be forgotten.
But they don’t forget.
They see.
From the shadows, eyes follow me. Not with fear. Not with hatred. But with something sharper. Something quieter. Recognition. A mother pulls her child closer, not in warning, but in reverence. A street vendor pauses mid-call, his voice dying in his throat. An old witch with milky eyes and a staff of bone raises her chin as I pass, and I know—she sees more than flesh. She sees the storm beneath my skin. The fire in my blood.
And she nods.
I don’t return it. Just keep walking.
I’ve been gone for seven days.
Seven days since I broke the bond. Since I walked out of the northern tower and left Kaelen standing in the doorway, his voice raw, his body coiled, his silver eyes burning with something I couldn’t name. Seven days since I vanished into the Veil Caves, bled on cold stone, and shattered the magic that bound us. Seven days since I woke in the arms of a man who should have let me go—and didn’t.
And now?
Now I’m back.
Not to fight. Not to flee.
To settle.
The Archive of Whispers looms ahead—a crumbling cathedral buried beneath centuries of rubble, its spires broken, its stained glass shattered. Riven said it was hidden. Protected. That even Malrik hadn’t dared to breach its vaults. But I can feel it now—humming beneath the earth, pulsing like a second heartbeat. The truth is in there. Not just about my mother. Not just about Malrik. About the Pact. About the purge. About the lies that built this world on blood.
And I’m going to tear them all down.
I reach the entrance—a jagged hole in the earth, half-collapsed, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and ancient magic. The obsidian key Riven gave me burns in my palm, warm, alive. I press it to the sigil carved into the threshold—twisted Fae script, words I can’t read but feel in my bones—and the ground trembles.
Then—
The stone splits.
Not with force. Not with violence.
Invitation.I step inside.
The air changes instantly—cold, still, heavy with silence. No echoes. No breath. Just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere in the dark. The walls are lined with shelves—black stone, etched with runes, stacked with scrolls, books, vials of preserved blood, bones strung with silver thread. This isn’t a library. It’s a tomb. A reliquary of secrets.
And I’m not alone.
“I knew you’d come.”
Riven steps from the shadows, his silver hair gleaming, his storm-gray eyes sharp with amusement. He wears a long coat of midnight blue, his fingers steepled, his posture relaxed. But I see it—the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze flicks to the key in my hand.
“You said it was hidden,” I say, voice low. “That even Malrik hadn’t found it.”
“And yet,” he says, smirking, “here you are.”
“Because you wanted me to find it.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just tilts his head. “I wanted you to find the truth. Not the version they fed you. Not the lies Kaelen kept. Not the poison Malrik poured into your veins. The real truth. The one that burns.”
“And what if I’m not ready?”
“Then you’ll burn anyway.” He turns, walking deeper into the archive, his boots silent on stone. “Come. The past doesn’t wait for permission.”
I follow.
The deeper we go, the heavier the air becomes. The shelves grow taller, the runes brighter, the vials darker. Some contain eyes. Others, tongues. One holds a heart, suspended in amber liquid, still beating. I don’t flinch. Just keep walking, my breath steady, my magic humming beneath my skin.
“You broke the bond,” Riven says, not looking back. “And survived. That’s not something many can claim.”
“I didn’t survive,” I say. “I was caught.”
He laughs—low, rich. “You were wanted. There’s a difference.”
“He shouldn’t have followed me.”
“And yet he did.” He stops at a door—black stone, sealed with a sigil of interlocking moons. “Because love isn’t a leash. It’s a choice. And he chose you. Even when you tried to leave.”
I don’t answer.
Just watch as he presses his palm to the sigil. It glows—silver, then black—before the door groans open.
Inside, the chamber is circular, the walls lined with mirrors—cracked, fogged, some shattered. In the center, a pedestal holds a single object: a book bound in human skin, the spine etched with blood-red runes.
“The Archive of Whispers,” Riven says. “Not just a library. A memory vault. Everything spoken in this city—every lie, every confession, every secret—recorded here. By magic. By blood. By oath.”
“And that?” I nod to the book.
“The final testimony of Lyra Moonblood.”
My breath stops.
“They said she died screaming,” I whisper.
“She did,” Riven says. “But not before she spoke. Not before she poured her truth into this book. A Fae oath—sealed with her last breath. That her words would outlive her. That they would be heard when the world was ready.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he says, stepping aside, “you decide.”
I don’t hesitate.
I cross the chamber, my boots silent on stone, my hands steady. I reach the pedestal. Touch the book.
And the world burns.
Not fire. Not pain.
Memory.
I’m in the vault beneath the Spire. The air is thick with iron and jasmine. My mother lies on the pyre, her silver hair fanned out, her eyes open, her lips moving. But now—now I can hear her.
“They will say I betrayed my kind,” she says, voice clear, strong. “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.”
Malrik steps into view. Not the old man I know, but younger. Handsome. Human. He kneels beside her, his face twisted with grief.
“Lyra,” he whispers. “I didn’t want this. I tried to stop it. But the council—they would’ve killed us both.”
“You signed the order,” she says. “You chose power over love.”
“I chose survival,” he snaps. “And I chose to protect you. Even if it meant making you a traitor. Even if it meant they’d burn you alive. At least the world would hate you. At least they wouldn’t know the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” she asks.
He leans close, his voice a whisper. “That I loved you. That I still love you. That I would burn this city to ash if it meant bringing you back.”
And then—
The flames rise.
She doesn’t scream.
Just looks at him.
And I know—
This isn’t a memory.
It’s a confession.
The vision shatters.
I’m back in the chamber, on my knees, the book clutched to my chest, my breath ragged, my eyes wet. Riven doesn’t move. Just watches me—his expression unreadable.
“He loved her,” I whisper. “And he killed her to protect her.”
“Not just her,” Riven says. “You.”
“Me?”
“The council didn’t just want her dead. They wanted the Moonblood line erased. And when they found out she was with child—your child—they ordered a purge. Malrik couldn’t stop it. But he could control the narrative. He could make her a traitor. A monster. So that when you came, no one would believe you. No one would listen.”
“And Kaelen?”
“He tried to stop it. Fought. Argued. Was punished for it. But he couldn’t save her. And when he found you—hidden, alive, under a false name—he didn’t tell you the truth because he was afraid. Afraid that if you knew Malrik loved her, if you knew he killed her to protect you, you’d see him as weak. As complicit. As the reason she died.”
I close my eyes.
Because it makes sense.
Not the lies. Not the hate. But the truth.
Malrik wasn’t just a monster.
He was a man broken by love.
And Kaelen—
Kaelen wasn’t just a king.
He was a man who tried to save me.
And I…
I was the weapon they both feared.
“You came here to burn them all,” Riven says, voice soft. “But the real enemy wasn’t Malrik. Wasn’t Kaelen. Wasn’t even the council.”
“Then what was it?”
“The lie.” He steps closer. “The story they told to keep the world in chains. And now—” he smiles, “—you get to rewrite it.”
I stand.
Still holding the book.
Still feeling the weight of it.
“How?”
“By speaking it.” He gestures to the mirrors. “They’re not just glass. They’re conduits. Show the truth to the city. To the packs. To the witches. To the Fae. Let them see. Let them know.”
“And if they don’t believe me?”
“Then make them.”
I don’t answer.
Just walk to the nearest mirror.
Press the book to the glass.
And push.
Not with magic. Not with force.
With truth.
The mirror flares—silver, then red, then white—and the vision spills out: my mother on the pyre. Malrik kneeling. His confession. Her final words. The flames rising. The silence.
And then—
It spreads.
From mirror to mirror, chamber to chamber, archive to city. The truth floods the streets, the halls, the council chambers. I can feel it—people stopping, staring, listening. Some weep. Some rage. Some fall to their knees.
And I know—
The world is changing.
“It’s done,” Riven says, watching the mirrors. “The lie is broken. The truth is free.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now,” he says, turning to me, “you decide what comes next.”
I don’t answer.
Just close my eyes.
And for the first time in years—
I don’t feel like a weapon.
I don’t feel like a pawn.
I don’t feel like a monster.
I feel like myself.
And I know what I have to do.
I leave the archive without another word. Riven doesn’t follow. Just watches me go, his smirk sharp, his eyes knowing. The city feels different now—lighter, charged, like the air before a storm. People stare, but I don’t look back. Just walk. Through the ruins. Through the markets. Through the blood-stained courtyards.
And then—
I see it.
The northern tower.
Whole. Unbroken. Its moonlit corridors defiant, its wards intact. And in the highest window—
A shadow.
Watching.
I don’t hesitate.
I run.
Up the stairs. Through the corridors. Past the guards who don’t stop me, who don’t speak, who just bow their heads. The door to the chamber is open. And there he is.
Kaelen.
Standing at the window, his back to me, his shadow-woven armor torn, his fangs retracted, his silver eyes reflecting the moonlight. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.
Just waits.
I step inside.
The door closes behind me.
And the silence is absolute.
“You broke the bond,” he says, voice rough.
“I did.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“Because the truth is out.” I hold up the book. “They know. The city knows. About my mother. About Malrik. About you.”
He turns.
His eyes are raw. Not with anger. Not with possession.
With fear.
“And what do you want now?” he asks.
“I want you,” I say. “Not because of the bond. Not because of duty. Not because of war. Because I choose you. Because I see you. Not the king. Not the Alpha. Not the monster I thought you were. But the man who fought for her. Who kept her journal. Who bled for me.”
He doesn’t move.
Just stares at me—his breath shallow, his body coiled.
“And if I can’t give you what you need?” he whispers.
“Then I’ll take it,” I say, stepping closer. “Because I’m not running anymore. I’m not hiding. I’m not broken. I’m Sage of the Moonblood line. And I’m done letting lies decide my fate.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches for me.
And when his hand brushes my cheek, when his thumb traces my lip, when his breath hitches—
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.