The northern border smells like snow and blood.
Not the metallic tang of spilled life, not the reek of rotting flesh, but the sharp, clean scent of violence held at bay—iron frozen in the air, smoke curling from distant watchfires, the faintest whisper of wolf musk riding the wind. I stand at the edge of the cliff, my boots silent on black ice, my breath forming clouds in the pale dawn light. Below, the valley stretches—frozen rivers, skeletal trees, the ruins of an outpost still smoldering in the distance. The rogue pack has been here. They’ve left their mark. But they haven’t won.
Not yet.
Kaelen stands beside me, his shadow-woven armor gleaming under a cloak of white fur, his fangs retracted but his presence feral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. Just scans the horizon—his silver eyes sharp, his jaw tight, his body coiled like a storm waiting to break. He’s not the man who held me in the garden. Not the lover who whispered my name in the dark. He’s the Alpha-King. The warrior. The monster the world once feared.
And right now, I need him to be.
“They’re waiting,” I say, voice low. “Not hiding. Not running. They want us to come to them.”
“Of course they do,” he replies. “They think we’ll bring an army. That we’ll burn their homes. That we’ll purge them like the council did.”
“And we won’t.”
He turns to me. “No. We’ll show them something worse.”
“What?”
“Mercy.”
I almost laugh. But the wind cuts it off before it leaves my throat. Mercy. The one thing the old world never had. The one thing I never expected to wield. And yet—here I am, standing on the edge of war, ready to offer it.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’ve forgotten what they’ve done.
But because I remember what we are fighting for.
Not vengeance.
Not control.
Truth.
“You’re sure about this?” Kaelen asks, his hand finding mine. His fingers are warm, calloused, strong. “No guards. No weapons. Just us.”
“If we bring an army,” I say, “we become the threat. If we come in peace, we become the alternative.”
He studies me—really studies me. “And if they attack?”
“Then we defend.” I flex my fingers, the sigils beneath my skin flaring faintly. “But we don’t start the fire.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods. “Then let’s go.”
We descend the path—slow, deliberate, our boots crunching on frost-laced stone. No haste. No fear. Just presence. The wind howls around us, but we don’t hurry. We don’t cower. We walk like we belong here—like the land knows us, like the sky watches us, like the bones of the earth remember our names.
And maybe it does.
The rogue encampment comes into view—tents of wolf hide, fires burning low, sentries posted at the ridge. They see us. Of course they do. A man and a woman, walking alone across frozen ground, no banners, no weapons, no fear. One of them raises a horn. A single note echoes through the valley—harsh, warning, ancient.
We don’t stop.
We don’t run.
We keep walking.
By the time we reach the edge of the camp, the entire pack is gathered—wolves in human form, their eyes sharp, their postures tense, their fangs bared. At the center stands their leader—a broad-shouldered male with a scar across his throat, his hair shorn, his eyes black with hatred. He doesn’t speak. Just stares at Kaelen like he’s looking at a ghost.
“You have no right to be here,” he growls.
“I have every right,” Kaelen says, voice calm, final. “I am the Alpha-King. And you are my kin.”
“You are a traitor,” the man spits. “You bowed to witches. You mated with a hybrid. You let the council fall. You are not our king.”
“And you are not my enemy,” I say, stepping forward. “You are a man who lost someone. A man who was lied to. A man who believes the only way to be free is to burn the world down.”
He turns to me—his gaze sharp, calculating. “And you? The Moonblood whore? The one who claimed the throne with blood and lies?”
I don’t flinch. Don’t reach for magic. Don’t let the anger rise.
Just step closer.
“I am Sage,” I say. “Daughter of Lyra. Heir of the Moonblood line. Co-leader of the Hybrid Accord. And I came here not to fight you. Not to kill you. But to ask you one question.”
“And what is that?”
“What do you want?”
He laughs—low, wet, broken. “I want my brother’s life back. I want my pack’s honor. I want the Alpha throne to be earned in blood, not handed to a half-breed and his pet witch.”
“And if I told you,” Kaelen says, stepping beside me, “that your brother died because he stood in the way of peace? That he attacked a guarded outpost? That he chose violence over truth?”
“I’d say you’re lying.”
“Then see for yourself.”
I raise my hand.
The Archive of Whispers appears—hovering above my palm, glowing with silver light. I don’t speak. Don’t chant. Just open it.
The vision spills out—clear, sharp, undeniable.
His brother. Armed. Snarling. Leading the attack on the outpost. Killing a healer. Burning a child’s cradle. And then—Kaelen, arriving with only two guards, offering peace. His brother refusing. Charging. Being subdued, not killed. Being given a choice: stand down or be imprisoned.
And choosing to lunge.
And dying.
The vision ends.
The camp is silent.
Not with rage.
Not with denial.
With grief.
“He was misled,” the leader says, voice rough. “The council told us you slaughtered him. That you executed him for defiance.”
“And you believed them,” I say. “Because it was easier than believing the truth. That your brother chose war. That he died by his own hand.”
He doesn’t move. Just stares at the ground, his fists clenched, his breath ragged.
“I don’t want your throne,” Kaelen says. “I don’t want your blood. I want your pack to live. To thrive. To be free. But freedom isn’t chaos. It’s choice. And right now, you have one: join us, or remain in the shadows.”
“And if we join?”
“Then you are protected,” I say. “Your children will not be hunted. Your elders will not be exiled. Your blood will not be a curse. You will have a seat at the Accord. A voice. A home.”
He looks at me—really looks. “And if we refuse?”
“Then you walk away,” Kaelen says. “But know this—without the Accord, without unity, the old wars return. The old lies rise. And the next purge won’t spare anyone. Not wolves. Not witches. Not even the Fae.”
The silence stretches.
And then—
One by one, the pack members kneel.
Not in submission.
Not in defeat.
In choice.
The leader doesn’t move. Just watches them. Watches us. And then—
He draws his knife.
My magic flares. Kaelen shifts—just a fraction, but I feel it, the coiled power beneath his skin.
But the man doesn’t attack.
He cuts his palm.
Blood drips onto the snow—black in the dawn light.
And then he steps forward.
“I will not kneel,” he says. “But I will not fight. My pack will join the Accord. But I will not serve.”
I don’t smile. Don’t gloat.
Just nod.
“Then you will live,” I say. “And one day, when you’re ready, you’ll see that peace isn’t weakness. It’s strength.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just turns and walks away.
And I know—
This isn’t victory.
Not really.
But it’s a start.
—
The journey back is quiet.
Not tense. Not triumphant. Just… still. The wind has gentled. The sky has cleared. The land feels different—lighter, as if the weight of war has lifted, if only for a moment. Kaelen walks beside me, his hand in mine, his presence a steady heat against the cold. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.
We did it.
Not with blood.
Not with fire.
With truth.
And it was harder than I thought.
“You were good out there,” he says, voice low.
“So were you.”
“I meant what I said. About not wanting to fight them.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “And I meant what I said too. About mercy.”
He turns to me, his silver eyes searching. “You’re not just a queen, Sage. You’re a leader. And you’re better at it than you think.”
“I don’t want to be a leader,” I say. “I want to be real. I want to be able to walk into a market and haggle over apples. I want to argue with you without half the city thinking the Accord is collapsing. I want to love you without it being a declaration of war.”
He chuckles—low, warm. “Too late for that. Loving me was always a declaration of war.”
I glare at him. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.”
He grins—fully this time—and pulls me into his arms, lifting me off my feet. I gasp, my hands flying to his shoulders, my legs wrapping around his waist. He carries me through the snow, his heat searing through my cloak, his heartbeat strong beneath my palm.
“You’re distracting me,” I murmur.
“Good.” He kisses me—slow, deep, savoring—before his mouth moves to my neck, his teeth grazing the pulse point. I shiver. “You don’t have to be perfect,” he says against my skin. “You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to be you. And that’s enough.”
And then—
He shows me.
Not with words.
With hands.
With mouth.
With heat.
And as the snow falls around us, as the wind whispers through the trees, as the world holds its breath—
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.