The northern tower does not sleep.
Not truly.
Even in the stillness of night, when the corridors are empty and the candles burn low, it hums—beneath the stone, beneath the silence, beneath the illusion of peace. A quiet pulse. A reminder. The Spire may have fallen, the council may have burned, but power does not vanish. It shifts. It waits. It watches.
And tonight, it watches me.
I stand at the edge of the balcony, barefoot, my robe open at the throat, the cold air kissing my skin. The city sprawls below—dark, restless, alive. The new hall glows faintly in the distance, its sigils pulsing with embedded magic. The sapling in the square still stands, taller now, its roots spreading through the stone, its leaves shimmering with captured moonlight. And in the lower district?
A cradle.
Lyra’s cradle.
The First Blood.
And yet—
I feel no triumph.
Only the weight of a crown I never asked for.
Kaelen sleeps inside. Not restlessly. Not tensely. For the first time since I’ve known him, the Alpha-King is still. The warrior is quiet. The man is home. His breath is warm on my neck, his heartbeat steady beneath my palm. He doesn’t stir when I slip from the bed. Doesn’t wake when I pull on a simple robe—undyed wool, no sigils, no armor—and move to the window.
He trusts me.
Not because I’ve earned it.
But because he believes in me.
And that’s heavier than any throne.
“You’re thinking again.”
I don’t turn. Don’t need to. His 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.
He undresses me slowly—each button, each tie, each layer a promise. His fingers trace the sigils beneath my skin, not as weapons, not as curses, but as part of me. His lips follow, kissing every scar, every mark, every place where the world has tried to break me. And when he reaches the core of me, when his mouth closes over my clit, when his fingers slide inside—
I come apart.
Not silently. Not with restraint.
With a cry—raw, broken, unmistakable—my body arching off the bed, my fingers clawing at the furs. He doesn’t stop. Just drinks me in, his tongue circling, his fingers curling, his name a prayer on my lips.
And when I finally collapse, trembling, gasping, he moves over me, his cock pressing at my entrance, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I do.
And he thrusts.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Claiming.
Every stroke is a vow. Every groan is a promise. Every movement is a reminder—you are mine, I am yours, we are unbreakable. And when he comes, when his body tenses, when his fangs graze my neck, when he whispers my name like a spell—
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.
—
Dawn comes soft.
No fanfare. No warning. Just light—pale gold, then rose, then fire—spilling through the arched windows, painting the room in warmth. Kaelen sleeps beside me, his arm still draped over my waist, his breath steady, his face relaxed. I watch him—really watch him—for the first time in weeks. The lines around his eyes. The scar on his side. The way his fangs catch the light when he breathes.
He’s not just a king.
Not just an Alpha.
He’s a man.
And he’s mine.
I slip from the bed again, quieter this time, and dress in my usual clothes—tight trousers, high-collared tunic, gloves to hide the sigils. No crown. No regalia. Just Sage.
The corridors are 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, not as a chain, not as a curse, but as a connection. A reminder.
I reach the war chamber—a vast hall with a map of the Shadow Continent carved into the stone floor. Candles flicker around the edges, their flames steady. The leaders are already there—wolves, witches, Fae, even a few human representatives. They fall silent as I enter.
“Malrik is gone,” says Taryn, stepping forward. “Vanished in the night. No trace.”
I don’t flinch. Just nod. “Let him go.”
“He could be planning something,” says a vampire elder.
“Or he could be running,” I say. “Either way, he’s no longer our enemy. He’s a man with a past. And that’s enough.”
They murmur.
Some in anger. Some in confusion. Some in awe.
And then—
“What now?” asks the elder witch.
I step to the center, my boots striking stone, my voice clear.
“Now,” I say, “we build. Not as rulers. Not as victors. But as guardians. The Hybrid Accord is not a government. It is a promise. A vow to protect the truth. To shelter the hunted. To ensure that no one else has to burn for who they are.”
I look at them—really look.
“And if anyone tries to break that vow?”
“Then we stop them,” says Taryn, his sword at his side.
“Not with blood,” I say. “With truth. With light. With unity.”
They stare.
Some in awe. Some in fear. Some in hope.
And Kaelen?
He enters the chamber, his shadow-woven armor restored, his fangs bared, his silver eyes blazing. He doesn’t speak. Just takes my hand.
And squeezes.
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.