SAGE

The northern tower breathes, but the city does not.

It holds its breath.

Not in fear. Not in reverence. But in anticipation. Like the stillness before a storm, like the hush between thunderclaps, like the moment a blade pauses mid-swing—waiting, coiled, ready to fall. The truth is out. My mother’s final words, Malrik’s confession, Kaelen’s defiance—they’ve spread through the streets like wildfire, whispered in blood bars, shouted in alleyways, etched into the stone of the lower districts. The lie is broken. The Pact’s foundation cracked. And now?

Now the world waits.

For war.

For justice.

For me.

I stand at the edge of the highest balcony, the wind tearing at my hair, the moonlight silver on my skin. Below, the ruins of the Spire smolder, its blackened bones jutting into the sky like broken teeth. Beyond it, the city sprawls—dark, restless, alive. And in the distance, the Council Hall rises, its obsidian spires piercing the clouds, its windows glowing with cold, red light. The heart of the old world. The seat of the lie.

And tonight?

Tonight, it burns.

Kaelen stands behind me, silent, a shadow in the doorway. I don’t turn. Don’t need to. I can feel him—the heat of his body, the rhythm of his breath, the low, steady hum of his magic, even without the bond. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch me. Just watches. Waiting. Like the city. Like the storm.

“They’ll call it treason,” I say, voice low.

“They already have,” he replies. “The council’s summoned an emergency session. Malrik’s demanding your execution. The elders are divided. Some want peace. Some want blood.”

“And you?”

He steps forward, boots silent on stone, until he’s beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “I want you. Alive. Free. Unbroken.”

I turn my head, just enough to see him—his silver eyes sharp, his jaw tight, his fangs retracted but his presence feral. He’s not wearing his armor. Just a black tunic, open at the collar, the scars on his chest visible in the moonlight. The ones from battles. From punishments. From love.

And the one on his side.

The moonmark.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You’ve already won. The truth is out. The lie is broken. You can walk away. Live. Be free.”

“And let them rebuild it?” I ask, voice rising. “Let them twist the truth? Let them call my mother a traitor, call Malrik a martyr, call you a monster? No.” I turn to face him fully, my hands clenching at my sides. “I didn’t come here to expose the lie. I came here to burn it. To make sure it never rises again.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just studies me—really studies me. “And if they kill you?”

“Then I die knowing I tried.”

“And if I lose you?”

My breath hitches.

Because he’s not asking as the Alpha-King.

Not as the warrior.

Not as the monster.

He’s asking as the man.

The man who bled for me.

The man who held me when I broke.

The man who let me go—only to chase me into the dark.

“Then you fight,” I say, stepping closer, my hand lifting to his chest, my fingers pressing over his heart. “You fight for me. For us. For the world we’re building. And if I fall—” my voice cracks, “—you make sure it doesn’t die with me.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just covers my hand with his, his warmth searing through my skin, his pulse strong beneath my palm.

And then—

He kisses me.

Not soft. Not slow.

Final.

His mouth crashes over mine, not gentle, not careful, but hungry, like he’s trying to memorize me, like he’s afraid this is the last time, like he’s pouring every unspoken word, every buried fear, every silent vow into this one kiss. 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 stone railing bites into my spine.

“Sage,” he murmurs against my lips, breathless, broken. “If you walk into that hall tonight—”

“Then I walk,” I say, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “And you stand beside me.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

Just nods.

And in that moment, I know—

We’re not just a woman and a king.

Not just a witch and a wolf.

Not just a weapon and a warrior.

We’re fire.

And we’re coming.

The Council Hall is a fortress of shadows.

Not just stone. Not just magic. But memory. Every step I take down the obsidian corridor echoes with the past—the whispers of treaties signed in blood, the screams of the executed, the lies that built empires on betrayal. The walls are lined with portraits—vampires with cold eyes, werewolves with bared fangs, witches with hollow stares. And at the end?

The Chamber of Twelve.

The door is sealed with a sigil of interlocking fangs and claws—a ward meant to keep out intruders, rebels, hybrids. But it doesn’t stop me.

I press my palm to the stone.

And the sigil burns.

Not with fire. Not with magic.

With truth.

The door groans open.

And I walk in.

The chamber is circular, the ceiling high, the air thick with the scent of blood and old wine. Twelve thrones rise in a ring, each carved from black stone, each marked with a sigil—three for each species. The elders sit in silence, their faces shadowed, their eyes sharp. At the center, on a raised dais, sits Malrik—his black robes whispering against the stone, his onyx claws tapping softly, his fangs just visible beneath a serpent’s smile.

And beside me?

Kaelen.

He doesn’t bow. Doesn’t kneel. Just stands tall, his shadow-woven armor restored, his fangs bared, his silver eyes blazing. The council murmurs. Some shift. Some glare. One vampire elder spits at my feet.

“You have no right to be here,” Malrik says, voice smooth, cold. “You are not one of us. You are not even real. A hybrid abomination. A weapon of chaos.”

I don’t flinch.

Just step forward, my boots striking stone, my voice clear, strong.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m not one of you. I’m not a vampire. Not a werewolf. Not a witch. I’m Sage of the Moonblood line. And I’m here to end your lies.”

The chamber erupts.

Shouts. Snarls. Spells flaring in the air. But I don’t move. Just raise my hand—and the Archive of Whispers appears, hovering above my palm, glowing with silver light.

“This,” I say, “is my mother’s final testimony. Her truth. Not the lie you fed the world. Not the story you used to justify her murder. The real truth.”

Malrik stands, his eyes black, his voice a snarl. “You dare bring forbidden magic into this chamber? You dare speak of her as if she were innocent?”

“She was,” I say. “And you know it.”

And then—

I open the book.

Not with words.

With memory.

The vision spills into the chamber—my mother on the pyre, Malrik kneeling, his confession, her final words. The flames rise. The silence falls. And the elders?

They watch.

Some pale. Some tremble. One witch begins to weep. A werewolf elder growls, but not in anger—in grief. And Malrik?

He doesn’t move.

Just stands there, his face twisted, his claws digging into the stone, his breath ragged.

“It’s a trick,” he hisses. “A forgery. A spell.”

“No,” says a voice.

Riven steps from the shadows, his silver hair gleaming, his storm-gray eyes sharp. “It’s a Fae oath. Sealed with her last breath. Unbreakable. Unfakeable. The truth, Malrik. And you’ve been living a lie for decades.”

The council stirs.

Divided. Shaken. The vampire elders glare. The werewolves mutter. The witches watch me—really watch me—with something like hope.

And then—

Malrik laughs.

Wet. Broken. amused.

“You think this changes anything?” he rasps. “You think a memory, a confession, a book will undo centuries of order? The Pact stands. The council rules. And you—” he points at me, “—are still a threat. A weapon. A danger to us all.”

“Then kill me,” I say, stepping forward. “Go ahead. Do it in front of them. Let them see the monster you really are. Let them see the man who murdered the woman he loved to protect a lie.”

He doesn’t move.

Just smiles.

And from the shadows—

They come.

Guards. Vampires. Werewolves. Witches. Dozens of them, fangs bared, claws out, wands raised. They surround us. Circle us. Trap us.

And then—

Kaelen moves.

Not with words.

With action.

He steps in front of me, his body a wall, his voice a roar. “You want her?” he snarls. “You go through me.”

The guards hesitate.

They know what he is. What he’s done. What he’ll do.

And then—

“Stand down.”

Taryn steps into the chamber, his armor repaired, his leg healed, his sword in hand. Behind him, the Northern Pack—wolves in human form, eyes blazing, fangs bared. And beside them?

Witches. Rebels. Fae. Humans. All armed. All ready.

“The truth is out,” Taryn says, voice steady. “The lie is broken. And we’re not letting you bury it again.”

The council stirs.

Some rise. Some flee. Some reach for weapons.

And Malrik?

He doesn’t run.

Just smiles.

And pulls a vial from his robes.

Dark. Pulsing. familiar.

“You think you’ve won?” he whispers. “You think truth defeats power?” He uncorks the vial. “Then let’s see what your precious truth does against this.”

And he throws it.

Not at me.

At the floor.

The vial shatters.

And the Spire’s corruption erupts.

Black tendrils snake across the stone, etching runes—bind, break, obey—and the air thickens, the light dims, the magic twists. I feel it—venom in my veins, shadow in my blood, the ritual’s poison trying to rewrite me.

But I’m not afraid.

Because I’ve already broken one bond.

And I’ll break this one too.

I raise my hand.

And the Moonblood sigils flare.

Not with pain.

With power.

My blood sings. My magic surges. And the corruption?

It burns.

“You don’t get to control me,” I snarl, stepping forward. “You don’t get to own me.”

Malrik laughs. “You’re not strong enough.”

“I’m not alone.”

And then—

Kaelen moves.

Not with rage.

With precision.

He lunges, not at Malrik, but at the dais, slamming his fist into the stone—

And the ward beneath it shatters.

The corruption flickers.

Weakens.

And I strike.

Not with a spell.

With truth.

I press my palm to the floor, and the Archive of Whispers explodes—light pouring from the book, from the mirrors, from the very air, flooding the chamber with my mother’s voice, her final words, her unbreakable oath.

And the corruption?

It burns.

Not slowly.

Not gently.

Violently.

It writhes. Screams. Tries to cling. But the truth is stronger. The memory is deeper. The love is real.

And then—

It’s gone.

The tendrils vanish. The runes fade. The air clears.

And Malrik?

He collapses.

Not from magic.

From grief.

He falls to his knees, his hands clawing at the stone, his voice a broken whisper. “Lyra…”

I don’t move.

Just walk to him.

And kneel.

Not in submission.

Not in pity.

But in truth.

“She loved you,” I say. “And you loved her. But you chose the lie. You chose power. And you lost her.”

He looks at me—his eyes wet, his face broken. “I tried to protect her.”

“And you destroyed her.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Just bows his head.

And in that silence?

The council falls.

Not with blood.

Not with fire.

With truth.

The elders rise. Some flee. Some surrender. Some fall to their knees and weep.

And Kaelen?

He steps to my side, his hand finding mine, his voice low, final.

“It’s over,” he says.

“No,” I say, standing. “It’s just beginning.”

And then—

I look at the thrones.

At the empty seat where the Moonblood witch should have sat.

At the broken sigil of the Pact.

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.

Not just a pawn.

Not just a hybrid.

We’re Sage and Kaelen.

And we are unstoppable.

Sage’s Claim: Blood and Bond

The scent of iron and jasmine clung to the night as Sage stepped across the threshold of the Obsidian Spire, her boots silent on black marble. The vampire council’s gala glittered with blood-red wine and fangs behind smiles, but her eyes were on him: Kaelen Dain, Alpha-King, clad in shadow-woven armor, his silver wolf-mark pulsing at his throat like a second heartbeat. She had memorized his face from the execution decree. She had dreamed of gutting him.

Then his gaze locked onto hers—and the world burned.

A jolt of raw magic tore through her, her blood surging, her skin alight. The ancient bond, long dormant, awakened. Mate. Enemy. Fire and ice. He crossed the room in three strides, fangs bared, voice a growl: “You’re not supposed to exist.” Before she could draw her dagger, the High Elder declared: “The Moonblood heir and the Alpha-King are bound by fate. Their union seals the peace. Refusal is treason.”

Now she is his betrothed, paraded through courts that despise her, trapped in a gilded prison where every touch from him sends forbidden heat through her veins. Her mission—to expose the council’s lies and reclaim her mother’s honor—hangs by a thread. Every day she stays, she risks losing herself to the bond, to the way his hands claim her hips during ceremonial dances, the way his scent drags her into restless dreams.

But when a rival appears in his chambers wearing his ring, and whispers of a past blood-sharing spread like poison, Sage realizes: Kaelen may be the monster who destroyed her family—or the only one who can help her destroy the real enemy. And the bond between them? It could save the world… or reduce it to ash.