The city wasn’t silent anymore.
It was alive.
Not with birdsong or laughter or the distant hum of market stalls. No. This was something deeper. Older. A pulse beneath the stone, a growl in the air, a storm about to break. The wind had returned—howling through the thorned alleys, tearing at the silk banners, whipping the vines into frenzied lashes. The sky was a bruise—purple, black, split by jagged streaks of lightning that didn’t fall. Just hung, like claws ready to tear the heavens open.
And the moon—
Still rising.
Still hungry.
Seraphina and I stood at the edge of the Blood Market, our backs to the obsidian archway, our breaths shallow, our hands still warm from the ritual. She wore only her leather pants now, the knife at her hip, the poison sewn into the hem. Her storm-gray eyes scanned the streets ahead, her body coiled like a blade. The mark on her neck—the thorned rose—still glowed faintly, warm against her skin. And on her hand, where I’d drawn blood with my thorns, the sigil pulsed—black, then crimson—like a heartbeat.
And the bond—
It wasn’t quiet.
It was awake.
“He’s moving,” she said, voice low. “Not to the throne. Not to the spire. To the Veil.”
I didn’t argue. Just pressed my palm to the stone wall, letting the thorns beneath the surface speak to me. They were restless. Angry. The roots twisted deep, their whispers sharp with warning. Veylan was there—already at the Veil, already pulling at the seams between worlds, already poisoning the magic that held Elderglen together.
“He’s not trying to kill us,” I said. “He’s trying to unmake us.”
“Then we stop him,” she said. “Before he tears the city apart.”
I looked at her. Not just at the warrior, the avenger, the heir.
At her.
Her skin still hummed from the ritual, her blood still singing with the aftermath of the bond’s completion. The scars on her body—thin, silver lines from battles long past—glowed faintly in the dim light. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her pulse raced. And beneath it all—need. Not for me. Not for power.
For truth.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “You’ve already won.”
She didn’t flinch. Just stepped closer, her hand brushing my cheek. A whisper of touch. Fire raced across my skin.
“I didn’t come here to win,” she said. “I came here to burn.”
And then—
She kissed me.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
Brutal.
Her mouth crashed into mine, teeth clashing, tongue demanding. I gasped, and she swallowed the sound, one hand fisting in my hair, the other gripping my wrist, pressing me back against the stone wall. The bond roared, a molten wave crashing through me, pooling between my legs, making me hard for her.
I should have stopped her.
Should have pulled away.
But I didn’t.
I kissed her back.
Hard. Desperate. Hungry.
And when she finally pulled back, her breath ragged, her eyes blazing, I didn’t speak.
Because the truth was written in the fire between us.
In the way our blood knew each other.
In the way our hearts ached for each other.
And in the way, when she looked at me, I finally understood—
This wasn’t just survival.
This was surrender.
—
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 Veil.
The heart of the magic.
The edge of the world.
The Veil wasn’t a place. Not really. It was a boundary. A thin strip of land where the roots of the ancient tree broke through the stone, where the air shimmered like heat off sand, where the ground pulsed with something older than Fae, older than witches, older than blood.
And it was bleeding.
Not with blood.
With light.
Cracks split the earth, jagged fissures glowing with raw magic, their edges weeping silver mist. The thorns here were black, their barbs twisted, their vines writhing like serpents. The air was thick, too thick, harder to breathe, charged with something ancient, something hungry. And in the center—
Veylan.
He stood on a dais of cracked stone, his arms raised, his voice chanting in a language that scraped against the soul. His skin was pale, almost translucent, his veins visible beneath, pulsing with dark liquid. His hair hung in limp strands, his body trembling, his breath shallow. And in his hands—
A dagger of living thorn.
Not just any dagger.
The first dagger.
Forged from the heart of the ancient tree, its blade etched with the names of the fallen, its hilt wrapped in leather stained with blood—my mother’s blood. He pressed it to his chest, over his heart, and began to cut.
Not deep.
Just enough.
A sacrifice.
A spell.
The blood welled, dark and thick, dripping onto the stone. The cracks in the earth widened, their glow intensifying, their mist curling like smoke. The thorns on the walls twisted, their barbs lengthening, their vines coiling like serpents. The air grew hotter, thicker, harder to breathe.
And the bond—
It didn’t just pulse.
It screamed.
“He’s unraveling the Veil,” Seraphina said, her voice tight. “If he tears it open, the city collapses. The magic dies. We all die.”
“Then we stop him,” I said.
“Not with force,” she said. “Not with thorns. With truth.”
I looked at her. “You’re not afraid.”
“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I know what’s coming.”
“And you’re still willing?”
“I’m not willing,” she said. “I’m ready.”
And then—
We moved.
Not with stealth.
Not with silence.
With fire.
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 the dais. 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.
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. She didn’t speak. Just stepped past me to Veylan.
“He’s not gone,” she said, pressing her hand to his chest. “The magic… it’s still in him…”
“Then we burn it out,” I said, pressing my palm flat against his back. “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 his chest flared—black, then crimson—reacting to the intrusion. He screamed, his body convulsing, his veins pulsing with dark liquid.
“He’s losing him,” I said, my voice tight.
“No,” she said. “I’m claiming him.”
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 sigil shattered.
Not with a bang. Not with a flash.
With a sigh.
Like a curse finally released.
Veylan collapsed into her arms, his breath shallow, his body trembling. But he 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 Veil 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 Veil,” I said, sniffing the air. “He’s in the city. Moving fast.”
“Then we hunt him,” she said, standing, Veylan in her arms. “And we finish this.”
“Not like this,” I said. “Not with him 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 Veil.
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 Veylan on a stone slab, his body trembling, his breath shallow.
“He’s free,” she said. “But the magic is still in him.”
“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.
She pressed her hand to his chest. I pressed mine to his 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.