The morning after the Unity Ball, the air in Blackthorn Keep was different.
Not lighter. Not softer. Not quieter.
Clearer.
Like the world had exhaled after holding its breath for centuries. The scent of heather still clung to the stone, but it was no longer laced with iron and old blood. The wind still howled through the ruins, but it no longer carried whispers of betrayal. Even the sigils on the courtyard walls—once pulsing with defensive magic—now glowed a steady, calm crimson, their edges softened by sunlight. The war was over. The truth had won. The storm had passed.
And yet—
I felt it.
Not in the land. Not in the sky.
In the silence between my ribs.
A hollow space. A wound that hadn’t been there before. Not from battle. Not from magic.
From peace.
Because vengeance had been my compass. My fire. My reason for breathing. And now—
Now it was gone.
And I didn’t know what to do with the space it left behind.
***
I left the keep at dawn.
Not in silence. Not in shadow.
With purpose.
Kael was still asleep, his body warm against mine, his golden eyes closed, his scars exposed. I didn’t wake him. Didn’t kiss his forehead. Just slipped from the bed, barefoot, my storm-gray eyes burning with something I couldn’t name. The mark on my shoulder—silver thorns intertwined with crimson vines—pulsed faintly, a reminder of the bond, of the truth, of the storm we’d become. But it didn’t soothe me. Not today.
Today, I needed to stand alone.
I dressed in silence—simple leather trousers, a tunic of storm-gray wool, my hair braided with silver thread. No weapons. No spells. Just my hands, my breath, and the weight of what I’d come to do.
And then—
I walked.
Not toward the den. Not toward the grove.
Toward the grave.
***
The path to the northern cliffs was overgrown with wild heather and thorned brambles, their vines curling like welcoming arms. The sun rose slow and pale, casting long, clawed shadows across the stone. I didn’t look at the ruins where Kael and I had claimed each other. Didn’t pause at the circle where the sigils still pulsed with our bond. Just kept walking, my boots silent on the stone, my breath steady, my magic a quiet hum beneath my skin.
And then—
I saw it.
Not a tomb. Not a monument.
A stone.
Small. Unmarked. Half-buried in the earth, as if the land itself had tried to swallow it. But I knew. I’d felt it in my bones the night she died—the snap of a spine, the silence of a severed bond. My sister. My blood. My fire.
And now—
Now I stood before her.
Not as a warrior. Not as a queen.
As a sister.
I didn’t speak. Just knelt, my bare hands pressing into the soil, the cold earth seeping through my fingers. The wind howled, but I didn’t flinch. Just closed my eyes and let it wash over me—the way she used to laugh, the way she’d looked at me the night before they took her, her storm-gray eyes burning with hope, not fear.
“I came here to destroy him,” I whispered, my voice raw. “To burn his legacy to ash. To make them all pay for what they did to you.”
The wind stilled.
As if listening.
“And I did,” I said, my fingers digging deeper into the soil. “I exposed Elira. I broke the lie. I stood in the ruins and burned the world down. And Kael—” my breath caught, “—he wasn’t the monster I thought he was. He was just… trapped. Like you. Like me. Like all of us.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and silent.
“I thought vengeance would fill the hole you left,” I said, my voice breaking. “I thought if I made them pay, if I burned their world, I’d finally feel whole. But I don’t. I feel… empty. Like I’ve been running for three years, and now that I’ve stopped, I don’t know how to stand still.”
The wind returned, soft this time, brushing against my skin like a hand.
And then—
I felt it.
Not the bond.
Not the magic.
Her.A flicker in the dark. A warmth against the cold. A whisper in my blood. She wasn’t here in body. Not in spirit. But in the space between heartbeats, in the hush before a storm, in the silence of a shared breath—
She was alive.
And she was proud.
***
“You always were the brave one,” I said, my voice trembling. “Not me. I was the one who ran. Who hid. Who let fear make me hard. But you—you loved in the face of fire. You believed in something better, even when they called you a monster.”
I pressed my forehead to the stone, my breath warm against the cold earth. “I came here to avenge you. But I stayed to become you. Not the sister who died. Not the warrior who fought. But the woman who lived. Who loved. Who refused to let the world break her.”
Another tear fell.
Then another.
And then—
I wept.
Not in silence. Not in shadow.
In the open.
My body shook. My breath came in ragged gasps. My magic flared—crimson and wild, witch and wolf entwined—but I didn’t fight it. Just let it rise, let it burn, let it cleanse. I wept for the years I’d spent hating. For the nights I’d dreamed of blood. For the love I’d refused to feel. For the sister I’d lost. For the woman I’d become.
And then—
The earth shivered.
Not from magic.
From truth.
The soil beneath my hands shifted. The stone trembled. And then—
A vine emerged.
Not from the earth.
From the stone.
Thin. Silver. Pulsing with faint light. It curled around my wrist, not to bind, not to claim—
To connect.
And then—
I saw it.
Not a vision.
A memory.
My sister—alive. Not as she’d been in death, but as she’d been in life. Her storm-gray eyes burning, her magic flaring, her laughter cutting through the wind. She stood in the Forgotten Grove, her hand in her lover’s, their marks pulsing—vines of emerald and silver, entwined like a noose. And then—
She turned to me.
Not in sorrow. Not in anger.
In love.
“You did it,” she said, her voice soft, steady. “You burned the lie. You broke the chains. You became the storm.”
I didn’t speak. Just reached for her.
But she faded—like smoke, like memory, like truth.
And then—
The vine grew.
Not slowly. Not gently.
With *force*.
More vines burst from the stone, their silver threads weaving through the soil, their leaves shimmering like shattered glass. And then—
They bloomed.
Not with flowers.
With light.
A pulse of energy slammed through the cliffs, not from magic, but from will. The sigils on the ruins flared brighter. The heather burned. The moonlight poured down, silver and cold, casting long, clawed shadows.
And then—
The stone changed.
Not in size. Not in shape.
In purpose.
The vines wrapped around it, their silver threads weaving into a new pattern—crimson and gold, witch and wolf entwined, with a single thread of emerald running through them. And then—
It pulsed.
Not with pain.
With power.
And I knew.
This wasn’t just a grave.
It was a monument.
To her.
To us.
To the storm.
***
I didn’t move. Just knelt there, my hands still pressed into the soil, my breath steady, my tears drying on my cheeks. The wind howled, but it no longer carried whispers of betrayal. It carried something else.
Hope.
And then—
I felt it.
Not the bond.
Not the magic.
Them.The pack.
Lyra. Torin. Silas. The Free Pack.
They were coming.
And then—
They arrived.
Not in silence.
Not in shadow.
>In the open.Lyra stepped through the mist first, her silver blade sheathed, her dark braid coiled like a serpent. She didn’t speak. Just knelt beside me, her golden eyes burning, her presence a solid wall against the silence. Torin followed, his coat gone, his fangs bared, his scars glowing faintly. He didn’t look at the stone. Just placed his hand on my shoulder, his grip firm, his warmth cutting through the wind. Silas came last, his coat lined with silver thread, his fangs just visible when he smiled. He didn’t kneel. Just stood behind me, his presence a wall. A vow. A warning.
And then—
Kael came.
Not with a roar. Not with a snarl.
With silence.
One moment the air was still.
The next—
He was there.
Shirtless, his golden eyes burning, his scars on display. He didn’t speak. Just knelt behind me, his body pressing against mine, his breath hot on my neck. His hand found mine, our fingers interlacing, the bond pulsing—hot, electric, alive—between us like a living flame.
And then—
He spoke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Quietly.
But the land 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 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 cliffs 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.