The tunnels beneath Elderglen were not built for kings.
They were built for rats, for secrets, for blood spilled in silence. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and rotting roots, the walls slick with moisture that shimmered like oil under the faint glow of bioluminescent fungi. No torches. No sigils. No light but what we carried—two flickering witch-lanterns Dain had given us, their flames burning cold and blue, casting long, jagged shadows that danced like wraiths.
And yet—
I walked these tunnels like a man returning home.
Not because I’d been here before. I hadn’t. But because they reminded me of the ones beneath the palace, the hidden paths I’d used as a child to escape the elders’ rituals, the ones where I’d bled out my witch blood so no one would know I was impure. These tunnels were darker. Deeper. More dangerous. But they were also true.
And so was she.
Seraphina moved beside me, silent, her storm-gray eyes scanning the shadows, her hand resting on the knife at her hip. She wore black leather now—no gown, no illusion—her hair pulled back, her body coiled like a blade ready to strike. She hadn’t spoken since we left Dain’s lair. Not a word. Just that look—sharp, focused, alive—and the way her breath hitched every time the bond pulsed between us.
It wasn’t pain anymore.
Not since the ritual.
The Blood Concordance had changed. Not broken. Not erased. But transformed. The screaming need, the molten hunger—it had quieted, settled into something deeper. A hum. A current. A thread of fire that connected us not just by blood, but by truth. We didn’t need to touch to feel it. Didn’t need to speak. Just exist, and the magic knew.
And it knew what we were about to do.
“The Obsidian Spire,” she said, voice low. “He wants us to walk into his trap.”
“Of course he does,” I said, stepping over a puddle of black water. “But he doesn’t know we’re not walking. We’re striking.”
“And if he’s already moved Mira?”
“Then we burn the spire to the ground and find her in the ashes.”
She didn’t flinch. Just nodded, her jaw tight. “Kaelen should be here by now.”
“He will be.”
And he was.
Not with fanfare. Not with noise.
Just a flicker in the shadows ahead—a shift in the air, a ripple in the darkness—and then he was there. Kaelen. My Beta. My shadow. My brother in all but blood. He wore the dark leathers of the Ironfangs, his wolf-mark glowing faintly on his neck, his golden eyes sharp, his body coiled with lethal grace.
“You’re late,” he said.
“You’re early,” I replied.
He didn’t smile. Just stepped forward, his gaze flicking to Seraphina. “She’s still alive?”
“For now,” I said. “Veylan’s magic is in her blood. We need to break it before it consumes her.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we kill him,” Seraphina said, stepping forward. “And burn his magic to ash.”
Kaelen looked at her. Then at me. And for the first time, I saw it—
Not just loyalty.
Not just duty.
But recognition.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
“We both have,” I said.
He nodded. “Then let’s end this.”
—
We didn’t take the front gates.
Didn’t risk the sentry vines or the surveillance sigils that lined the spire’s outer walls. Instead, we took the old path—the one few knew existed. A forgotten tunnel, sealed with blood and thorn, its entrance hidden beneath a collapsed archway in the slums. I pressed my palm to the stone, letting my blood drip onto the ancient runes. They flared—black, then crimson—before the wall groaned open.
Inside, the air was colder. Stale. The scent of old blood clung to the walls, mixed with the faint, metallic tang of fear. The tunnel sloped downward, narrowing with every step, until I had to crouch, then crawl. My coat snagged on unseen thorns. My skin burned where the barbs scraped me. But I didn’t stop.
Not until I reached the grate.
A small, rusted opening, barely wide enough for a hand. But enough.
I pressed my eye to it.
And saw her.
Mira.
She hung from the ceiling in a chamber of black stone, her wrists bound in thorned iron, her body limp, her silver hair matted with blood. The collar around her neck pulsed with dark magic, its sigil glowing like a wound. Her chest rose and fell too slowly. Her breath was shallow. But she was alive.
And she wasn’t alone.
Veylan stood before her, his long coat of black silk trailing behind him, his face pale, his eyes like chips of ice. He held a dagger of living thorn, its blade dripping with something dark—witch blood, no doubt. And beside him—
Lirien.
She wore a gown of crimson silk, her hair loose around her face, her lips curled in a smirk. Her fingers traced the hilt of a dagger at her hip. Not the same one she’d used to ambush us. A new one. Sharper. Deadlier.
“She’s fading,” Lirien said, stepping closer to Mira. “The magic is eating her from the inside.”
“Good,” Veylan said, pressing the blade to Mira’s throat. “Let her suffer. Let her scream. Let the others hear.”
“And if they come?”
“They’ll walk into a tomb,” he said. “The spire is sealed. The thorns are mine. And when they die, their blood will feed the throne.”
Lirien smiled. Cold. Sharp. “And what about the bond?”
“It’s broken,” he said. “The ritual failed. The Blood Concordance will consume them both before the moon rises.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we kill them,” he said. “And burn their bodies to ash.”
I didn’t move.
Just pressed my eye to the grate, my breath silent, my heart a war drum.
They were wrong.
The ritual hadn’t failed.
The bond wasn’t broken.
It was awake.
And so was I.
—
I didn’t go back the way I came.
Didn’t waste time crawling through the tunnel, didn’t risk the sentry vines or the surveillance sigils. Instead, I did what no one expected.
I called the thorns.
Not the ones on the walls.
Not the ones in the palace.
The ones in the stone.
Deep beneath the foundation, where the roots of the ancient trees twisted through the bedrock, where the oldest magic still pulsed in slow, steady waves. I pressed my palm to the floor, my blood dripping onto the stone, and I called.
Not with words.
Not with magic.
With blood.
And they answered.
Black vines, thick as arms, erupted from the floor, bursting through the stone like serpents. They coiled around me, not to bind, not to punish—but to carry. To lift. To move. I let them take me, let them pull me through the earth, through the walls, through the sealed doors, until I stood in the chamber, just behind Veylan.
He didn’t see me.
Didn’t hear me.
Too focused on Mira. Too sure of his victory.
Too blind to see the truth.
“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” I said, voice low.
He turned.
His eyes widened.
And then—
Chaos.
I didn’t give him time to react.
The thorns moved like lightning.
One moment, he was standing. The next—silence. Vines wrapped around his throat, his chest, his limbs, squeezing until the fight left him. Until the light in his eyes dimmed. Until he was nothing but a husk, dissolving into the stone floor like ash in the wind.
But not dead.
Not yet.
Just contained.
Lirien screamed.
Not in fear.
In rage.
She drew her dagger and lunged at me, her movements fast, precise, deadly. But I was faster.
I caught her wrist, twisted, disarmed her in one smooth motion. She snarled, kicked, tried to bite. I didn’t flinch. Just pressed her back against the wall, my thorns coiling around her arms, pinning her in place.
“You’re not worth killing,” I said. “But you’re worth remembering.”
She spat in my face.
I wiped it away. “Enjoy your exile.”
And then—
Seraphina dropped from the ceiling.
Not with grace. Not with silence.
With fire.
She landed in a crouch, her knife already in hand, her storm-gray eyes blazing. Kaelen followed, silent, lethal, his claws extended, his wolf-mark glowing like a brand.
“You’re late,” I said.
“You’re showy,” she replied, stepping past me to Mira.
She didn’t speak. Just pressed her hand to the collar, her fingers tracing the sigil. Her lips moved in a whisper—ancient words, blood magic, a spell I didn’t know. The collar pulsed. Flickered. Then—
Cracked.
Not broken. Not destroyed.
But weakened.
Mira gasped, her body jerking, her eyes fluttering open. “S-Seraphina?”
“I’m here,” she said, voice rough. “Hold on.”
“He’s not gone,” Mira whispered. “The magic… it’s still in me…”
“Then we burn it out,” Seraphina said, pressing her palm flat against Mira’s chest. “With fire. With blood. With truth.”
And then—
She began to chant.
Not in Fae. Not in human.
In the old tongue. The language of blood and moon. The words spilled from her lips like a river, each one a blade, each one a spark. The sigil on the collar flared—black, then crimson—reacting to the intrusion. Mira screamed, her body convulsing, her veins pulsing with dark liquid.
“She’s losing her,” Kaelen said, stepping forward.
“No,” I said. “She’s claiming her.”
And she was.
With every word, the magic cracked. With every breath, the bond flared. With every pulse, the truth burned brighter.
And then—
The collar shattered.
Not with a bang. Not with a flash.
With a sigh.
Like a curse finally released.
Mira collapsed into Seraphina’s arms, her breath shallow, her body trembling. But she was free.
And alive.
“You did it,” I said.
“We did,” she said, looking up at me, her storm-gray eyes holding mine. “But it’s not over.”
And it wasn’t.
Because the spire shook.
Not from an earthquake.
Not from magic.
From laughter.
“You think you’ve won?” Veylan’s voice echoed through the chamber, smooth as oil, sharp as a blade. “You’ve only delayed the inevitable.”
I turned.
But the vines were empty.
He was gone.
“He’s not in the spire,” Kaelen said, sniffing the air. “He’s in the city. Moving fast.”
“Then we hunt him,” Seraphina said, standing, Mira in her arms. “And we finish this.”
“Not like this,” I said. “Not with her injured. Not with the bond still unstable.”
“Then what?”
“We go to the throne,” I said. “And we burn it to the ground.”
She looked at me, her eyes blazing. “You’re not afraid.”
“I’m not stupid,” I said. “I know what’s coming.”
“And you’re still willing?”
“I’m not willing,” I said. “I’m ready.”
And then—
We left the spire.
Not as fugitives.
Not as rebels.
As heirs.
—
The city was silent.
Too silent.
No birds. No wind. No distant howls from the Moonpacks. Just the slow, steady drip of poisoned water from the rooftops, the creak of ancient thorns, the whisper of shadows.
And the bond—
It wasn’t quiet.
It was waiting.
We moved through the streets like ghosts, our steps silent, our breath shallow. The thorns on the walls twitched as we passed, their barbs glistening like wet teeth. The air hummed with magic, thick with the scent of sap and decay.
And the thread between us—
It didn’t flare.
It roared.
We didn’t go to the healing wing.
Didn’t risk the healers, the priests, the spies who might report back to Veylan.
Instead, we went to the one place no one would expect—Dain’s lair.
Beneath the Blood Market, in a forgotten tunnel sealed with blood and thorn, where the air was thick with the scent of iron and decay, where the walls were lined with vials of stolen magic and bones of the forgotten.
Dain was waiting.
He didn’t speak. Just stepped aside, his onyx eyes sharp, his expression unreadable. We laid Mira on a stone slab, her body trembling, her breath shallow.
“She’s free,” Seraphina said. “But the magic is still in her blood.”
“Then we burn it out,” Dain said, reaching for a vial of dark liquid. “With fire. With blood. With truth.”
She looked at me.
I nodded.
And then—
We began.
Not with words.
Not with spells.
With touch.
Seraphina pressed her hand to Mira’s chest. I pressed mine to her back. Dain uncorked the vial and poured the witch blood over our hands. The magic flared—black, then crimson—reacting to the intrusion.
And the bond—
It didn’t just pulse.
It consumed us.
—
Outside, the storm raged.
And somewhere, deep in the heart of the city, a wolf howled.
The full moon was coming.
And the bond was growing stronger.
But so was I.
And so was she.
And together—
We would burn it all down.