The northern border recedes behind us—frozen, silent, scarred—but the weight of what we’ve done lingers in my bones. Not the cold. Not the tension. But the shift. The moment the rogue pack chose to kneel, not in surrender, but in choice, something cracked open in the world. Not peace. Not yet. But the possibility of it. And that’s more dangerous than war.
We ride in silence—Kaelen and I on a single wolf, its fur thick as winter smoke, its gait steady over the black ice. He sits behind me, his arms locked around my waist, his chest a furnace against my back. His breath is warm on my neck, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath my palms. I don’t speak. Don’t need to. The bond hums between us—not as a chain, not as a curse, but as a pulse. A reminder. You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re his.
And he is mine.
The wind carries the scent of pine and snow, but beneath it—faint, insistent—the iron tang of blood. Not fresh. Not spilled. But remembered. Like the land itself is whispering the old wars, the old lies, the old deaths. I close my eyes, lean back into him.
“You’re thinking,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough.
“I’m remembering.”
“Of him?”
“Of all of them.” I open my eyes, watch the valley blur beneath us. “The brother. The healer. The child. The lies they were fed. The rage they believed in. And us—walking in with no weapons, no army, just… truth. Like it was enough.”
“It was.”
“It worked,” I correct. “That’s not the same thing.”
He doesn’t argue. Just shifts, his hands tightening on my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. “You offered them mercy. Not because you had to. Because you wanted to.”
“I didn’t want to,” I say. “I chose to. There’s a difference.”
“And that’s why you’re stronger than they are.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s wrong.
I’m not stronger.
I’m just… different.
The rogue leader didn’t kneel. Didn’t join. Just walked away, bleeding into the snow. And I let him. Because I had to. Because if I’d forced him, if I’d demanded loyalty, we’d have become the council. The purge. The lie.
And that’s the knife edge we walk now.
Not war.
Not peace.
Balance.
—
The northern tower rises before us—its spires piercing the twilight, its arches glowing with embedded sigils, its corridors alive with movement. No longer a prison. No longer a battlefield. A home. The wolf slows as we approach, its breath steaming in the air, its paws crunching on frost-laced stone. Kaelen dismounts first, then lifts me down, his hands lingering at my waist, his silver eyes searching mine.
“You’re tense,” he says.
“I’m alive,” I correct. “That’s what tension feels like when you’re not fighting for it.”
He doesn’t smile. Just cups my face, his thumb brushing my lip. “Then let it in. Let the weight. Let the fear. Let the doubt. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time since I walked into the Spire, I believe him.
We enter together.
The corridors hum—not with magic, not with tension, but with purpose. Messengers dart between chambers. Healers tend to the wounded from the border skirmish. Rebels gather in the war room, maps spread across the stone floor. And in the great hall?
A feast.
Not for victory. Not for celebration.
For witness.
The tables are laden with food—bread from the lower districts, wine from the Fae vineyards, roasted venison from the northern forests. Witches, werewolves, Fae, humans—they sit together, no masks, no barriers, no fear. And at the center of it all?
A flame.
Burning in a basin of black stone—Malrik’s stone, repurposed, cleansed, transformed. A symbol. Not of destruction. But of truth.
Taryn stands at the entrance, his armor repaired, his sword at his side, his leg healed but his gaze sharp. He bows as we pass.
“The packs are with you,” he says. “The witches are mobilizing. The Fae are… watching.”
“Riven?” I ask.
“Vanished,” Taryn says, smirking. “Left a note. Said he’d be back when the real fun starts.”
I don’t smile.
Just nod.
Kaelen doesn’t speak. Just grips my hand tighter, his thumb brushing my knuckles, his presence a wall against the storm. We move through the tower—past the healing chambers, past the war rooms, past the library where I once cornered Malrik, where we first kissed in the rain. The air hums with tension. Not fear. Not doubt. But anticipation.
And then—
She steps into the hall.
Not a warrior. Not a leader. Not a spy.
A child.
No older than six. Silver hair. Storm-colored eyes. Moonblood.
Lyra.
The First Blood.
She doesn’t run. Doesn’t hide. Just walks—barefoot, silent, her small hand clasped in that of a witch with scars on her arms, her mother. And when she sees me?
She smiles.
Not the wary grin of a survivor. Not the guarded smirk of a fighter.
The open, unafraid smile of a child who has never known fear.
My breath catches.
Because I remember what it was like to be twelve and watch your mother burn.
I remember the silence. The smoke. The lies.
And I know—
This child will never know that.
Not while I live.
She runs to me—small feet slapping against stone, her arms outstretched. I crouch, open mine, and she crashes into me, her tiny body warm, her breath sweet with honey cake.
“Sage!” she giggles, her fingers clutching my tunic. “I drew you!”
She pulls back, holds up a scrap of parchment—a child’s drawing, crude but clear. Me. Kaelen. Standing beneath the sapling. The sun above. The words scrawled beneath: HEROES.
My throat tightens.
“You’re very good,” I say, voice rough.
“Will you hang it in your chamber?” she asks, eyes wide.
“I will,” I promise. “Right above the bed.”
She beams. Then turns, runs back to her mother, her laughter ringing through the hall.
And in that moment, I feel it—
Not the bond. Not the magic. Not the weight of a crown.
Hope.
Pure. Unbroken. real.
And I know—
This is why we fought.
This is why we bled.
This is why we live.
—
The feast begins.
Not with speeches. Not with declarations.
With food.
With laughter. With stories. With the quiet hum of people who no longer have to whisper. I sit beside Kaelen at the head table—no throne, no regalia, just wood and candlelight. He doesn’t speak much. Just watches the hall, his silver eyes sharp, his jaw tight. But his hand is on my thigh, warm, calloused, strong. A silent promise. I’m here. I’m watching. I’m yours.
And I am his.
A witch rises—elder, blind, her staff carved with moon runes. The hall falls silent.
“We gather,” she says, voice clear, “not in victory. Not in mourning. But in witness. We have seen the old world burn. We have seen the lie fall. We have seen the first child of the new dawn.” She turns to Lyra, who waves shyly. “And we have seen the ones who made it possible.”
She looks at us.
“Sage of the Moonblood line. Kaelen Dain, Alpha-King. You did not come to rule. You came to break. And in breaking, you built. And in building, you gave us back our names.”
She raises her staff.
And the hall erupts—not in cheers, not in roars, but in silence. A silence so deep, so full, it feels like a vow. A promise. A beginning.
And then—
They rise.
Not in unison. Not in ceremony.
One by one.
Witches. Werewolves. Fae. Humans. Hybrids. Standing. Watching. believing.
And I realize—
This isn’t about me.
It’s about them.
They’re not kneeling.
They’re not bowing.
They’re standing.
And they’re free.
—
Later, we retreat to our chamber.
The corridors are quiet—no messengers, no rebels, no healers. Just silence. Not the silence of emptiness. Not the silence of fear.
The silence of home.
Our chamber is warm—the candles lit, the furs soft, the arched windows open to the night. The scent of pine and smoke—his scent—fills the air, mingling with the faint trace of jasmine—mine. Kaelen closes the door behind us, the click echoing in the stillness. He doesn’t speak. Just turns to me, his silver eyes searching, his breath steady.
“You were quiet at the feast,” I say.
“So were you.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
“About how far we’ve come.” I step closer, my hands lifting to his chest, my fingers tracing the scar on his side—the moonmark. “You were going to kill me, you know.”
“I know.”
“And I was going to kill you.”
“I know that too.”
“And now?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms, his heat searing through my tunic, his heartbeat strong beneath my palm. I go willingly, 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.
“I love you,” I whisper.
Not because I have to.
Not because the bond demands it.
But because it’s true.
He doesn’t move.
Just holds me tighter.
And then—
“I love you too,” he says, voice rough, broken. “Not because of fate. Not because of magic. But because you’re the only thing that’s ever felt real.”
And then—
He lifts me.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Gently.
Like I’m something sacred.
And he carries me to the bed.
The furs are soft beneath me, the candles flickering, the night air cool against my skin. He doesn’t undress me. Not yet. Just kneels beside me, his hands framing my face, his silver eyes searching mine.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
“I want you,” I say. “All of you. Not as king. Not as Alpha. Not as my mate. But as the man who fought for me. Who bled for me. Who let me go—and chased me into the dark.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just leans down.
And kisses me.
Slow. Deep. Endless.
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.
—
Later, I lie awake.
Not because I’m afraid.
Not because the past claws at the edges of my mind.
But because the future is bright.
Kaelen sleeps beside me, his arm draped over my waist, his breath warm on my neck, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath my palm. He’s not restless. Not tense. For the first time since I’ve known him, the Alpha-King is still. The warrior is quiet. The man is home.
And I should be too.
We stood in the square today. We watched the child smile. We felt the hope rise like a tide.
We broke the lie.
We burned the council.
We built something new.
And yet—
I can’t sleep.
Because peace isn’t the end.
And truth isn’t safety.
And I am no longer just Sage.
I am a leader.
I am a symbol.
I am a mother.
I slip from the bed, careful not to wake him. The furs whisper against my skin as I rise, the stone floor cool beneath my bare feet. I pull on a simple robe—undyed wool, no sigils, no armor—and move to the window. The city sprawls below, its spires and ruins bathed in moonlight, the new hall glowing faintly in the distance. The sapling still stands, a slender silhouette against the sky, its leaves shimmering with captured starlight.
It’s beautiful.
It’s fragile.
And it’s mine to protect.
“You’re thinking again.”
I don’t turn. Don’t need to. Kaelen’s voice is rough with sleep, warm with concern. I feel him before I see him—his heat at my back, his hands settling on my hips, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“I can’t stop,” I say, my fingers curling around the windowsill. “We did it, Kaelen. We actually did it. And now… now I have to keep it. Not just for us. For them. For the hybrids who’ll come after me. For the ones who still hide in the shadows, afraid to breathe too loud.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Just holds me, his breath steady, his presence a wall against the quiet. Then: “You don’t have to do it alone.”
“I know.” I lean back into him. “But I have to lead. And I don’t know how. I was trained to survive. To fight. To kill. Not to govern. Not to inspire. Not to… rule.”
“You already are,” he murmurs. “You ruled the moment you walked into that hall and refused to burn Malrik. You ruled when you chose to build instead of destroy. You ruled when you stood before the city and said, ‘We are not afraid.’”
“That wasn’t ruling,” I say. “That was surviving.”
“And ruling,” he says, turning me to face him, “is just surviving on a larger scale.”
I look up at him—his silver eyes sharp even in the dim light, his jaw tight, his fangs just visible when he speaks. He’s not wearing his armor. Not even his tunic. Just the loose pants he slept in, the scars on his chest and side on full display. The ones from battles. From punishments. From love.
And the one on his neck.
The bite.
My bite.
From the night I claimed him in front of the council. From the night I said, “I am not your pawn. I am your queen.”
He sees me looking. Doesn’t flinch. Just lifts a hand, brushes his thumb over the mark. “Still there.”
“Still mine,” I say.
He smiles—just a twitch of his lips, but it’s real. “Always.”
And then he kisses me.
Not with hunger. Not with need.
With certainty.
His mouth moves over mine, slow, deep, grounding, like he’s reminding me who I am. Not just a weapon. Not just a hybrid. Not just a queen.
His.
And he is mine.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my skin. “You don’t have to have all the answers tonight,” he says. “You don’t have to carry it all. That’s what the Accord is for. That’s what I’m for.”
“And what if I fail?” I whisper.
“Then we fail together.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my lip. “But we won’t. Because you’re not just strong, Sage. You’re right. And the world finally sees it.”
I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. “I don’t want to be a symbol,” I say. “I want to be real. I want to be able to walk the streets without people bowing. I want to be able to argue with you without half the city thinking it’s a crisis. I want to be able to love you without it being a political statement.”
He chuckles—low, warm. “Too late for that. Loving me was always a political statement.”
I open my eyes, 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 back to the bed, lays me down gently, then covers me with his body—his weight delicious, his heat searing, his arousal a hard line against my core.
“You’re distracting me,” I murmur, my fingers tangling in his hair.
“Good.” He kisses me 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 don’t have to be perfect,” he says against my lips. “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 his fingers slide inside me, as his mouth closes over my nipple, as he 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.
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.