The Unity Ball was not held in the war room. Not in the ruins. Not in the blood markets or the forgotten groves where shadows still whispered.
It was held in the courtyard of Blackthorn Keep.
And it was alive.
Not because of the lanterns—hundreds of them, floating like fireflies above the stone, each one pulsing with neutralized magic, their light silver and soft, casting no shadows. Not because of the music—played not by humans, but by a coven of witch-singers whose voices rose and fell like the tide, their spells woven into melody, their grief and joy spun into harmony. Not even because of the food—venison roasted over open flames, blood wine poured from crystal decanters, enchanted bread that shimmered with truth, fae honey cakes that tasted like memory.
No.
It was alive because they were here.
Wolves with pelts scarred by old wars, their eyes no longer burning with hatred, but with something quieter. Something new. Witches with gowns torn at the hems, their hands glowing not with destruction, but with healing. Vampires with fangs bared, not in threat, but in laughter. Fae with thorned wings folded gently, their glamour not used to deceive, but to celebrate. And hybrids—so many hybrids—standing tall, barefoot, marked, unashamed. Some wore the sigil of the Free Pack. Others bore the vine-and-thorn of Kael and me. A few had marks I didn’t recognize—new bonds, new truths, new beginnings.
I stood at the edge of the courtyard, barefoot, my storm-gray eyes scanning the space where blood had once pooled, where lies had shattered, where I’d nearly died. The scent of iron still lingered, but beneath it—something sweeter. Something like peace. Not the kind that comes after silence, but the kind that follows fire. The kind that’s earned.
Kael stood beside me, shirtless, his golden eyes burning, his scars on display, his presence a solid wall against the silence. He didn’t speak. Just kept his hand in mine, the bond pulsing—hot, electric, alive. The mark on my shoulder—silver thorns intertwined with crimson vines—now wrapped around my collarbone, the vines curling toward my heart like a living crown. The ritual in Veridia had changed me. Strengthened me. And now—
Now I could feel it.
The power.
The truth.
The storm.
And it wasn’t just mine.
It was ours.
Behind us—Lyra, her silver blade sheathed, her dark braid coiled like a serpent. Torin, his coat gone, his fangs bared, his scars glowing faintly. Silas, his coat lined with silver thread, his presence a solid wall against the silence. The Free Pack stood in formation—wolves with fire in their eyes, witches with spells at their fingertips, vampires with fangs bared, fae with thorned wings. We didn’t bow. Didn’t kneel. Just stood, our presence a solid wall against the silence.
And then—
The music changed.
Not louder. Not faster.
Softer.
Slower.
A single voice rose—clear, pure, aching. A witch-singer, her eyes closed, her hands pressed to her chest. And the words—
Not in English. Not in Latin. Not in any language I knew.
But I understood.
Because the bond translated.
It sang of fire. Of blood. Of love that refused to die. Of enemies who became one. Of a storm that refused to be tamed. Of a vow that could not be broken.
And then—
Kael turned to me.
Not with a smirk. Not with a growl.
With softness.
His golden eyes burned, but not with fury. With something deeper. Something real. His thumb brushed the back of my hand—once, twice—then stilled.
“Dance with me,” he said, his voice low, rough.
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my body a wall of muscle and fury, my magic flaring. Not to fight. Not to flee.
To feel.
He didn’t pull me into his arms. Didn’t spin me. Just placed one hand on the small of my back, his fingers pressing through the thin fabric of my tunic, his heat searing through. The other hand found mine, our fingers interlacing, the bond flaring—hot, electric, alive—between us like a living flame.
And then—
We moved.
Not fast. Not wild.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Claiming.
Every step was a vow. Every breath a promise. The music wrapped around us, the witch-singer’s voice rising, falling, weaving through the courtyard like a spell. The lanterns pulsed brighter. The wind howled. The heather burned.
And then—
I felt it.
Not the bond.
Not the magic.
Them.Their eyes.
Not just on us.
On our hands.
On our marks.
On the way his thumb brushed the pulse point on my wrist. On the way my body pressed against his, not in defiance, but in surrender. Not in hate, but in truth.
And then—
One by one—
They joined.
Not in silence.
Not in shadow.
>In the open.Lyra stepped forward, her silver blade sheathed, her dark braid coiled like a serpent. She didn’t look at me. Just took Torin’s hand, her fingers interlacing with his, their scars glowing faintly. He didn’t flinch. Just pulled her close, his body pressing against hers, their breaths mingling.
Silas stepped forward, his coat lined with silver thread, his fangs just visible when he smiled. He didn’t look at me. Just took the fae spy’s hand—her green eyes burning, her thorned scent cutting through the air. She didn’t flinch. Just leaned into him, her body pressing against his, their breaths mingling.
And then—
The pack moved.
Not in silence.
Not in shadow.
In the open.
Wolves howled. Witches raised their hands. Vampires bared their fangs. Fae spread their wings.
And then—
We danced.
Not for celebration.
Not for joy.
>For truth.***
The courtyard was no longer a battlefield.
It was a sanctuary.
Not because the walls had been rebuilt. Not because the blood had been washed away. But because the silence had been broken. The lies had been burned. The chains had been shattered.
And now—
Now we stood in the open.
No masks. No lies. No hierarchy.
Just truth.
Kael and I moved like a single entity—his body guiding mine, my magic weaving with his, our bond pulsing—hot, electric, alive—between us like a living flame. His hand on my back pressed deeper, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine, the scar from when I was sixteen, when they’d tried to break me. I didn’t flinch. Just leaned into him, my storm-gray eyes burning, my magic flaring.
And then—
He spoke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Quietly.
But the courtyard bent to his voice.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said, his voice rough.
“Neither are you,” I said, pressing my forehead to his.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not slow. Not soft.
Hard.
Deep.
Claiming.
His mouth crashed into mine, hungry, furious, a war cry. I groaned, arching into him, my hands flying to his waist, pulling him against me. He didn’t let me take control. Didn’t let me dominate. Just kissed me—deep, aching, fierce—his tongue sweeping into my mouth, his fingers tangling in my hair, his body pressing against mine.
The bond exploded—light, sound, magic—crimson and gold flaring between us like a living flame. The sigils on the courtyard glowed brighter. The heather burned. The moonlight poured down, silver and cold, casting long, clawed shadows.
And then—
He broke the kiss.
“You’re not what I expected,” he whispered, his voice rough.
“Neither are you,” I said, pressing my forehead to his.
And then—
We turned.
Not away from the courtyard.
Not toward the keep.
Toward the pack.
Our storm.
Our truth.
And they weren’t here to negotiate.
They were here to burn.
***
The music rose.
Not in volume.
In truth.
The witch-singer’s voice cut through the wind, her words no longer in a foreign tongue, but in English—clear, sharp, undeniable.
“They said hybrids were abominations,” she sang. “They said love was weakness. They said power was taken, not earned. But we stood. We fought. We loved. And we burned the world down.”
The pack didn’t cheer. Didn’t shout.
Just danced.
Wolves with witches. Vampires with fae. Hybrids with hybrids. No fear. No hesitation. Just movement. Just truth. Just fire.
And then—
I saw it.
Not the enemy.
Not the battle.
Time.Midnight.
And then—
It was over.
Not with a roar.
Not with a scream.
With silence.
The music faded. The lanterns dimmed. The wind stilled. The heather burned.
And then—
Kael stepped forward.
Not toward the enemy.
Not toward the Council.
Toward me.
His hand rose, pressing to the mark on my shoulder—silver thorns intertwined with crimson vines, now wrapping around my collarbone, the vines curling toward my heart. “You’re not what I expected,” he said, his voice rough.
“Neither are you,” I said, stepping closer, my storm-gray eyes burning.
And then—
He kissed me.
Not hard. Not fierce.
Soft.
Deep.
Truth.
His mouth brushed mine, slow, deliberate, as if memorizing every inch. His tongue swept into my mouth, not to dominate, but to know. His fingers traced the curve of my jaw, then slid down, unbuttoning my tunic one by one, his knuckles brushing my collarbone, my chest, my stomach.
And then—
He pushed the fabric off my shoulders.
Not roughly.
Not urgently.
With reverence.
Like I was something sacred.
Something his.
And I was.
I let my head fall back, my storm-gray eyes closing, my breath catching as his lips trailed down my neck, my collarbone, my chest. His fangs grazed my skin—just enough to send a shiver through me—but he didn’t bite. Not yet.
And then—
His hand slid lower.
Over my hip.
Under my tunic.
To the edge of my thigh.
And then—
He stopped.
Just pressed his palm flat against my skin, his heat searing through the fabric, his magic flaring—golden and feral, wolf and storm.
“This is more urgent,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous.
I opened my eyes.
Met his gaze.
And smiled.
“Always,” I whispered.
And then—
I pulled him down.
Not slowly.
Not gently.
With *force*.
My mouth crashed into his, hungry, furious, a war cry. He groaned, arching into me, his hands flying to my waist, pulling me against him. He didn’t let me take control. Didn’t let me dominate. Just kissed me—deep, aching, fierce—his tongue sweeping into my mouth, his fingers tangling in my hair, his body pressing against mine.
The bond exploded—light, sound, magic—crimson and gold flaring between us like a living flame. The sigils on the courtyard glowed brighter. The heather burned. The moonlight poured down, silver and cold, casting long, clawed shadows.
And then—
The world faded.
Not into darkness.
Into fire.
And in the center of it—
Us.
Together.
Alive.
And unstoppable.
***
That night, I dreamed of fire.
Not the kind that burns.
The kind that cleanses.
And in the center of it—
Us.
Standing in the flames, our scars glowing, our fangs bared, our presence a solid wall against the silence.
And when I woke—
The bond was pulsing—hot, electric, alive.
And I knew.
This wasn’t over.
But we would be ready.
Because we were not what we were.
We were not what they expected.
We were the storm.
And we would burn the world down.