The wound on my shoulder has sealed—just a thin, silver line now, barely visible beneath the edge of my robe—but the one inside me still bleeds.
Not from the ambush. Not from Kaelen’s sacrifice. Not even from the bond, though it hums against my skin like a live wire, low and insistent, a constant reminder that I’m still tethered to him. No, this wound is deeper. Older. It’s the kind that doesn’t scar over. It festers. It whispers.
You don’t belong. You’re not strong enough. You’ll fail them all.
I’ve spent my life fighting that voice. Since the night the Hollow burned. Since the night I watched my mother fall. Since the night I swore I’d kill Kaelen Dain.
And now?
Now I’ve let him live.
Now I’ve let him touch me.
Now I’ve let him in.
I press my palm to the sigil on my lower back—still warm, still pulsing faintly with power. The Spiral of Thorns. My mother’s legacy. The mark of the heir. It flares under my touch, not in pain, but in warning. Like it knows what’s coming.
And I do too.
Rhea.
She’s not done.
Not after the blood test. Not after the Council stripped her of title. Not after Kaelen looked her in the eye and said, Only one woman bears my mark, and she’s not you.
No. She’s waiting. Biding her time. Because she knows something I don’t.
She knows how to break me.
The citadel feels different now—tighter, heavier, like the stone itself is holding its breath. Delegates whisper as I pass, their eyes sharp, their smiles sharper. Some look at me with fear. Some with awe. Some with hatred. The Omegas are being moved into the lower warrens—safe, for now, under Torin’s watch—but the air still hums with something sharp and unspoken. Not just the bond. Not just the tension between us. Something deeper. Older.
And then—
It happens.
I’m in the archives, searching for records of the purge—the night the Fae burned the Hollow, the night my mother died. Kaelen said he’d help me find the truth, but he’s been distant since the ambush. Cold. Controlled. Like he’s afraid if he lets himself feel anything, he’ll lose it. And maybe he’s right.
But I need answers.
Not just about the past.
But about the future.
Because if the Tribunal is to be reborn, if the hybrids are to have a voice, then I need proof. I need names. I need blood.
The archives are vast—shelves carved from black stone, stacked with scrolls, tomes, relics from wars long forgotten. The air is thick with dust and old magic. I run my fingers along the spines, searching for anything marked with the Hollow seal—a spiral within a crescent moon. My sigil.
And then—
I find it.
A ledger. Leather-bound, cracked with age. The Hollow Archives: 1995–1999. My breath catches. I pull it from the shelf, flip it open—
And freeze.
Inside, tucked between the pages, is a dagger.
Not just any dagger.
Her dagger.
Silver. Curved. The hilt wrapped in leather stained dark with age.
My mother’s.
I reach for it—
And the door slams open.
“Blair of the Hollow!” a voice rings out—sharp, cold, familiar.
I don’t need to turn.
I know who it is.
Lord Cassius.
He strides in, flanked by two Sanguis guards, their crimson cloaks sweeping the stone, their eyes hidden behind silver masks. Behind them—Rhea. Draped in emerald silk, her winter-ice eyes sharp, her lips curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She doesn’t look at me. Just watches Cassius, like she’s waiting for a cue.
“What is the meaning of this?” I ask, voice steady, though my pulse hammers in my throat.
“The meaning,” Cassius says, stepping forward, “is theft. And treason.”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“Then explain this,” he says, gesturing to the dagger in my hand. “The ceremonial blade of the High Priestess. Stolen from the sacred vault. Found in *your* possession.”
My breath catches.
“This isn’t stolen,” I say. “It’s mine. It belonged to my mother.”
“And yet,” Cassius says, “it was sealed in the vault. Guarded. Protected. Not given to *half-breeds*.”
“You know nothing about my mother,” I snap.
“I know she died a traitor,” he says. “And now her daughter steals from the Accord.”
“I didn’t steal it,” I say. “It was *planted*.”
“Planted?” Rhea steps forward, her voice soft, almost sad. “How tragic. The heir of the Hollow, caught with stolen relics. What will the Council say?”
“They’ll believe the truth,” I say.
“Will they?” Cassius asks. “Or will they believe the evidence?”
He nods to the guards.
They move—fast, silent—and before I can react, they’re on me. One twists my arm behind my back. The other pries the dagger from my grip. I struggle, but it’s no use. Not against Sanguis strength. Not when my magic is still drained from healing Kaelen.
“You can’t do this,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “I’m the heir. I’m bonded to the Alpha.”
“And yet,” Cassius says, “you stand accused. And until the Council rules, you are detained.”
“Kaelen will stop you.”
“Kaelen,” Cassius says, “is indisposed.”
My blood runs cold.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” he says. “He’s simply… occupied. With matters of state.”
Liar.
But I don’t say it.
Just let them drag me through the torch-lit halls, past delegates who stare, who whisper, who smile. The dagger is gone. My hands are bound. My robes are torn at the shoulder—where the arrow struck, where Kaelen bled for me.
And then—
They throw me into the dungeon.
Not the high cells, where political prisoners wait for trial. No. This is the deep pit—carved from black stone, lit by flickering sconces, the air thick with damp and decay. The door slams shut. The lock engages. And I’m alone.
Or so I think.
“Blair?”
I turn.
In the far corner, barely visible in the dim light, is a figure. Hunched. Thin. Familiar.
“Mira?”
She stands slowly, her indigo robes tattered, her dark eyes sharp, assessing. “They took me an hour ago. Accused me of aiding and abetting.”
“They’re lying,” I say.
“Of course they are,” she says. “But lies are easier to believe than truth.”
I step closer. “We need to get out of here.”
“The wards are strong,” she says. “And my magic is weak. Yours too, I imagine.”
“I can try,” I say, pressing my palm to the door. The sigil flares—white-hot, blinding—but the wards hold. The lock doesn’t budge.
“They’ve reinforced it,” Mira says. “With Fae glamour. Sanguis blood. Lupari steel. It’ll take more than raw power to break.”
“Then we need a plan,” I say.
“We need proof,” she says. “That the dagger was planted. That Rhea and Cassius are behind this.”
“And how do we get that?”
“Someone has to leave,” she says. “Someone has to find it.”
I look at her. “You’re too weak to fight. If they come for you—”
“Then I’ll die,” she says. “But you? You’re the heir. You’re the one they fear. And if you stay here, the Tribunal dies with you.”
My breath catches.
“There’s a way out,” she says. “Behind the third stone. A tunnel. It leads to the lower warrens. But it’s narrow. And it’s guarded.”
“By whom?”
“Omegas,” she says. “But not loyal to us. Loyal to *him*.”
“Kaelen?”
She shakes her head. “Cassius. He’s been buying their loyalty. Promising them safety. Power. A place in the new order.”
“Then they’ll kill me.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe they’ll listen. If you speak the truth.”
I don’t answer.
Just press my palm to the sigil. Let it flare. Let it burn.
And then—
I move.
The third stone is loose—just enough to shift. I wedge my fingers beneath it, pull. Dust rains down. The gap widens. I squeeze through—skin scraping stone, breath coming fast—and drop into the tunnel.
It’s narrow. Dark. The air thick with shadow-vine sap and old magic. I crawl—fast, silent—past crumbling arches, past forgotten chambers. And then—
I hear it.
Voices.
Low. Harsh. Familiar.
I press myself against the wall, peer around the corner.
Two Omegas—men, maybe early thirties, their faces scarred, their eyes sharp—stand guard at a junction. One holds a blade. The other a torch. They’re arguing.
“I don’t care what Cassius promised,” one says. “The Alpha saved us. Protected us.”
“And the hybrid got him shot,” the other snaps. “She’s a curse. A lie. And if she’s in the tunnels, we bring her to Cassius.”
My blood runs cold.
But I don’t run.
Just step into the light.
“You’re wrong,” I say, voice steady. “I didn’t get him shot. I saved him. Just like he saved you.”
They spin.
Blades drawn.
“Blair,” one says. “You’re supposed to be in the dungeon.”
“I was,” I say. “And so was Mira. Accused of treason. For helping the heir.”
“You’re not the heir,” the other says. “You’re a witch-born abomination.”
“And yet,” I say, “I’m the one who stood in the Council chamber and faced Cassius. I’m the one who took a blade meant for Kaelen’s heart. I’m the one who healed him when no one else would.”
They hesitate.
“You think Cassius cares about you?” I ask. “You think he’ll keep his promises? He stripped Rhea of title. He’ll do the same to you. And when the Tribunal rises, when the hybrids have a voice—where will you be?”
“We don’t trust you,” one says.
“Then don’t trust me,” I say. “Trust *her*.”
I press my palm to the sigil.
And the bond—
It doesn’t just flare.
It screams.
Violet light erupts—brighter, hotter, more violent than before. The sigil on my back flares, white-hot, sending waves of magic through the tunnel. Shadows stretch and twist along the walls. And then—
I show them.
Not with words.
With memory.
I press my palm to the stone, let the bond flood the tunnel with visions—my mother shielding Kaelen. Cassius whispering, *The Tribunal dies with you*. Rhea planting the dagger. The blood test turning black.
And then—
Silence.
The Omegas stare at me. Their blades lower.
“You saw that?” one asks, voice shaky.
“I did,” I say. “And so can you. If you choose to see the truth.”
They look at each other.
Then the first one nods. “We’ll help you.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I need to get back into the citadel. And I need proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That Rhea planted the dagger,” I say. “And that Cassius is behind it all.”
“Then we go to the vault,” the second says. “Where the dagger was stolen from. If it was planted, there’ll be traces. Glamour residue. Blood. Something.”
“And if we’re caught?”
“Then we die,” he says. “But not before we take someone with us.”
I smile.
Because for the first time in weeks—
I don’t feel alone.
We move fast—through narrow tunnels, past crumbling arches, the Omegas leading the way, their senses sharp, their steps silent. The vault is deep beneath the citadel—down winding stairs carved from black stone, past wards that hum with ancient magic, past guards who don’t stop us because they don’t see us.
And then—
We’re there.
The door is iron, etched with Lupari runes, sealed with blood and memory. But it’s not locked.
It’s ajar.
“Someone’s been here,” one Omega whispers.
“Recently,” the other adds.
I step forward, press my palm to the door—my mark glowing, black thorns wrapped around a crescent moon—and the lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cold, still. Shelves line the walls—scrolls, tomes, relics from wars long forgotten. A map of Nocturne hangs on one wall, marked with secret tunnels, hidden chambers. And on a pedestal—
Another dagger.
Not silver. Not curved.
But identical in every other way.
And on the hilt—
A single drop of blood.
Fresh.
Red.
And pulsing with dark magic.
“Glamour,” I whisper. “She used it to duplicate the dagger. Left this one here as proof it was stolen. Took the real one—my mother’s—to plant on me.”
“And the blood?” one Omega asks.
“Hers,” I say. “Rhea’s. She cut herself to make it look real.”
“Then we have proof,” the other says.
“We have more,” I say.
I reach into my robe, pull out a vial—Mira gave it to me before I left. *For emergencies*, she said. *For truth*.
It’s a memory vial. Clear glass, filled with swirling silver mist. I press it to the blood on the hilt—
And the vision comes.
Rhea. In the vault. Late at night. Her winter-ice eyes sharp, her hands steady. She holds the real dagger—my mother’s—presses it to her palm, lets the blood fall. Then she whispers an incantation—low, guttural, ancient—and a second dagger appears, identical in every way. She places the real one in a hidden compartment behind the pedestal. Leaves the fake one on display. And then—
She smiles.
“Let the hybrid rot,” she whispers. “And let the Council believe her a thief.”
The vision fades.
“We have it,” I say, voice low. “We have the truth.”
“Then let’s go,” one Omega says. “Before they realize you’re gone.”
We move fast—back through the tunnels, up the winding stairs, past guards who don’t see us, past delegates who don’t notice. The citadel is quiet—too quiet. Like the calm before the storm.
And then—
We hear it.
A roar.
Deep. Furious. Kaelen.
My blood runs cold.
“He’s in the Council chamber,” one Omega says. “They’re holding a trial. Without you.”
“Then we’re too late,” the other says.
“No,” I say. “We’re just in time.”
I press my palm to the sigil.
And the bond—
It doesn’t just flare.
It judges.
Violet fire erupts from my palm, surging through the vial, through the memory, through us. The sigil on my back flares—white-hot, blinding. The torches snuff out. The wards flicker. The air hums with power.
And then—
I run.
Through the torch-lit halls, past whispers, past stares, past lies.
And the bond—
It doesn’t pull.
It doesn’t demand.
It just is.
Like a vow.
Like a promise.
Like a beginning.