The pyre still burned in my bones.
Not fire. Not ash. Not even grief—though it carved through me like a blade, slow and deep, leaving me hollowed out and raw. No, it was something older. Deeper. A pulse beneath the skin, a hum in the blood, a truth I could no longer outrun.
Veylan is your father.
The words hadn’t just been spoken. They’d been carved into me, etched into the marrow of my bones, seared into the magic that coursed through my veins. Mira’s last breath had carried them, and now they lived inside me—like a second heartbeat, like a curse, like a war cry.
I stood at the edge of the palace gardens, the city of Elderglen glittering below, its thorned towers rising like spears into the night sky. The moon was high, silver and cold, its light spilling over the rooftops, glinting off the dew-laden vines. Somewhere, deep in the heart of the city, a wolf howled. The wind stirred the thorns. The air hummed with magic—thick, charged, hungry.
And the bond—
It wasn’t quiet.
It was awake.
Cassian stood beside me, silent, his presence a wall of heat and power. His coat was gone, his shirt open, the scars on his chest exposed to the night air. His gold eyes scanned the city below, his jaw tight, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike. He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to comfort me. He knew better.
Comfort was for the weak.
I wasn’t weak.
I was ready.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, voice low.
“I’m not alone,” I said, turning to him. “I have you. I have Kaelen. I have Dain. I have the truth.”
He stepped closer, his hand brushing my cheek. A whisper of touch. Fire raced across my skin. The bond pulsed, a surge of heat that made my knees weak. I didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Just let it in. Let the magic in.
“And if it costs you everything?” he asked.
“Then it costs him everything too,” I said. “And I’ll make sure he burns first.”
He didn’t argue.
Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath tangled with mine. The bond roared, a molten wave crashing through me, pooling between my thighs, making me hard for him. Not from desire. Not from need. But from truth. From the knowledge that we were no longer just siblings. No longer just heirs. We were weapons.
And we were aimed at his heart.
—
We didn’t go to the throne room.
Didn’t risk the sentries, the surveillance sigils, the spies who might report back to Veylan. Instead, we went to the one place no one would expect—the archives.
Beneath the palace, in a forgotten wing sealed with blood and thorn, where the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and decay. The walls were lined with shelves of ancient tomes, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed with age. The floor was stone, cold and slick with moisture. The only light came from a single witch-lantern, its flame burning cold and blue, casting long, jagged shadows that danced like wraiths.
And in the center—
A ledger.
Not just any ledger.
The truth.
It sat on a pedestal of black wood, its cover bound in leather too dark to be natural, its edges lined with silver thorns. The sigil on the front was one I recognized—Veylan’s mark. But not just his. Mine. Interwoven. Bound.
“This is it,” Cassian said, stepping forward. “The Royal Blood Ledger. It records every execution, every purge, every lie the Fae have buried.”
“And my name?” I asked, my voice low.
“Is in there,” he said. “Along with his.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just stepped forward, my fingers brushing the cover. The leather was warm. Alive. The thorns twitched, as if sensing my blood, my magic, my truth. I pressed my palm flat against it, and the sigil flared—black, then crimson—reacting to the intrusion.
And then—
The ledger opened.
Not slowly. Not subtly.
Violently.
The pages flipped on their own, the parchment crackling like fire, the ink bleeding into new shapes, new words, new truths. And there—
On the center page—
A name.
Seraphina Vey. Daughter of Elara Vey and High Inquisitor Veylan D’Morn.
My breath stopped.
Not from shock.
From recognition.
It wasn’t a lie.
It was fact.
“He knew,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “He knew I was his. And he let them burn her anyway.”
“He feared you,” Cassian said, stepping closer. “Feared what you’d become. Feared that the blood of the witches would rise again. So he destroyed the source. And tried to destroy the heir.”
“And you?” I asked, turning to him. “Did you know?”
He didn’t look away. Just held my gaze, his gold eyes blazing. “I suspected. When the bond flared, I felt it—your blood, your magic, your truth. But I didn’t tell you. Because I knew what it would do to you. I knew you’d go after him. And I knew he’d kill you.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re not the child he left to burn. You’re the queen who will rise. And you’re not facing him alone.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, where the sigil still pulsed—hot, insistent. The mark on my neck burned, but not with pain. With warmth.
“Then we do it,” I said. “Not as lovers. Not as enemies. As siblings. As heirs. As truth.”
He nodded. Cold. Sharp. Like a man who already knew the ending.
“Then let’s begin.”
—
We didn’t burn the ledger.
Didn’t destroy the evidence. Didn’t erase the truth.
Instead, we used it.
I tore the page from the ledger—my page, his page, the page that bound us by blood and betrayal. I pressed it to my chest, let the ink seep into my skin, let the magic in. The sigil flared, a surge of heat that made my knees weak. The bond screamed, a molten wave crashing through me, pooling between my thighs, making me hard for him.
“What are you doing?” Cassian asked, his voice rough.
“Preparing,” I said, my voice low. “He wants a war? Then we give him one. But not on his terms. On ours.”
I reached into my corset.
And pulled out the knife.
Not the one I’d used to threaten Dain.
Not the one I’d carried for years as a reminder of my mission.
This one was different.
Forged from thorned iron, its blade etched with ancient sigils, its hilt wrapped in leather stained with blood—my mother’s blood. I’d taken it from her pyre the night they’d burned her. Worn it against my skin ever since. A weapon. A promise. A truth.
I pressed the blade to the page.
And began to cut.
Not the paper.
My skin.
A line across my palm. Deep. Precise. A sacrifice. A spell. The blood welled, dark and thick, dripping onto the parchment, merging with the ink, feeding the magic. The sigil flared—black, then crimson—reacting to the intrusion.
And then—
The magic answered.
Not with fire. Not with pain.
With memory.
One moment, I was standing in the archives, my blood dripping onto the page, the knife in my hand, the bond screaming in my veins. The next—
I was ten years old.
Standing in the shadows of the gallows.
The air was thick with smoke and blood. The Fae nobles watched from their thrones of woven vine, their eyes cold, their glamours shifting like oil on water. And below—
My mother.
Bound in thorned iron, her storm-gray eyes—my eyes—locked onto mine. No fear. No pleading. Just truth. And love. So much love it ached.
And beside her—
A man.
Tall. Pale. Cloaked in black silk. His face was hidden, his eyes like chips of ice. But I knew him.
Even then.
Even as a child.
Veylan.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched as the thorns tightened. As she screamed. As she died.
And when it was over—
He turned.
And looked at me.
And I knew.
Not just his face.
Not just his eyes.
But the truth.
He wasn’t just the High Inquisitor.
He was my father.
And he had let them burn her.
I gasped, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest. The memory wasn’t mine. Not really. It was hers. Her last breath. Her final truth. And it had just flooded into me like blood from a wound.
“Seraphina?” Cassian’s voice was sharp, urgent. He reached for me, but I flinched.
“I saw him,” I whispered. “Veylan. He was there. He watched her die.”
He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, his presence a wall of heat and power. The thorns on the walls twitched, their barbs glistening with dew. The air thickened, charged with something ancient, something hungry.
And then—
The memory shifted.
Not mine this time.
His.
A dark room. Stone walls. The scent of iron and rot. A child—no older than six—kneeling on the floor, his back striped with fresh wounds. A Fae elder stood over him, a blade of black thorn in hand, chanting in a language that scraped against the soul.
“Suppress the blood. Seal the magic. Purge the witch.”
The child screamed.
But no one came.
And I felt it. The pain. The betrayal. The slow, suffocating weight of being told you were wrong just for existing.
“Cassian,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “That was you.”
He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the wall, his jaw clenched, his gold eyes blazing with something deeper than rage. “They tried to erase me. To make me pure. But they couldn’t kill what was already alive.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Now,” he said, turning to me, “we make them pay.”
And then—
The magic answered.
The thorns on the walls twisted, their barbs lengthening, their vines coiling like serpents. The sigils on the dais flared—black, then crimson—reacting to the intrusion. The air grew hotter, thicker, harder to breathe.
“It’s starting,” Cassian said, his voice strained. “The magic knows. It knows we’re ready.”
“But we’re not—”
“We are,” he said, stepping closer. “The bond doesn’t need passion. It needs truth. And we just gave it ours.”
He reached for me, his hand brushing my cheek. A whisper of touch. Fire raced across my skin.
“This isn’t about pleasure,” I said, voice low. “It’s about magic.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s about survival.”
“And if we give in—”
“—we lose control,” he finished. “And Veylan wins.”
I nodded. “So we don’t give in.”
“We don’t,” he said. “We resist.”
And then—
I kissed him.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
Brutal.
My mouth crashed into his, teeth clashing, tongue demanding. He gasped, and I swallowed the sound, one hand fisting in his hair, the other gripping his wrist, pressing him back against the stone wall. The bond between us—
It didn’t flare.
It consumed us.
—
When I finally pulled back, my breath was ragged, my eyes blazing. He didn’t speak. Just pressed his forehead to mine, his breath tangled with ours.
“You’re not afraid,” he said.
“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.”
He smiled. Cold. Sharp. Like a man who already knew the ending.
Then he turned to the ledger.
And tore out his page.
“Then let’s burn it all down,” he said.
And I knew—
We would.
Not for vengeance.
Not for justice.
But for truth.
And for the father who would fall.