The first time I sat at the obsidian table in the war room of Blackthorn Keep and didn’t feel the weight of a blade at my back, I knew it was over.
Not the war.
The old way.
For thirty-eight years, this room had been a tomb of secrets, a chamber of blood oaths and silent executions. The mirror on the far wall—once cracked from when Jade had shattered it with a spell—had been replaced, not with glass, but with a wide, unblemished surface of polished silverstone, its surface pulsing faintly with neutralized magic. The sigils on the walls no longer flickered like dying embers. They glowed steady crimson, threaded through with silver and gold—witch, wolf, and hybrid, entwined. And the obsidian table—once split down the center, sealed with silver thread—now stood whole, its surface smooth, its edges carved with new runes: not of dominance, not of hierarchy, but of unity.
And I—
I was no longer Beta.
Not because I’d been stripped.
Not because I’d been exiled.
Because I’d chosen to be something else.
I sat at the edge of the table, my coat gone, my fangs bared, my scars glowing faintly in the low light. My silver blade—once a symbol of loyalty to Kael—was sheathed at my hip, not as a weapon, but as a vow. I didn’t speak. Just kept my hands flat on the table, my presence a solid wall against the silence. Across from me—Lyra, her dark braid coiled like a serpent, her golden eyes burning. Beside her—Silas, his coat lined with silver thread, his fangs just visible when he smiled. And at the head of the table—
Kael.
Shirtless, his golden eyes burning, his scars on display. He didn’t wear a crown. Didn’t carry a scepter. Just sat there, his hand in Jade’s, their fingers interlaced, the bond pulsing—hot, electric, alive—between them like a living flame. She sat beside him, barefoot, her storm-gray eyes burning, her magic a quiet hum beneath her skin. The mark on her shoulder—silver thorns intertwined with crimson vines—now curled around her collarbone like a living crown, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of their bond. It had changed in the Forgotten Grove. Not broken. Not weakened. Evolved. And so had they.
And so had we.
***
“We need to write it down,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
But the room bent to my voice.
Lyra turned to me, her golden eyes narrowing. “Write what?”
“The truth,” I said, my fingers pressing to the scar on my wrist—the one from when I was twenty, when I’d sworn my loyalty to Kael in blood. “Not the lies they taught us. Not the stories they buried. The real one. The one about the girl who loved a fae and was burned for it. The one about the wolf who killed his first man at twelve to save his mother. The one about the hybrid who came here to destroy him and stayed to save us all.”
Silas didn’t smile. Just leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You want to write a book.”
“I want to write a legacy,” I said, my voice rough. “Because if we don’t, they’ll rewrite it. They’ll say we were monsters. That we were unstable. That we were abominations. And the next generation will believe it.”
“And what if they do?” Lyra asked, her voice sharp. “We’ve already won. The Council’s fractured. The laws are changed. The den is ours. Why does it matter what they say?”
“Because it does,” I said, standing. My boots crunched over stone as I walked to the center of the room, my presence a solid wall against the silence. “Because history isn’t written by the victors. It’s written by the ones who remember. And if we don’t remember—” my voice rose, “—then we’ll forget. And if we forget, we’ll repeat it.”
No one spoke.
No one moved.
But the bond flared—hot, electric, unbearable. The sigils on the walls glowed brighter. The heather burned. The moonlight poured down, silver and cold, casting long, clawed shadows.
And then—
Kael spoke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Quietly.
But the room bent to his voice.
“Do it,” he said, his golden eyes burning. “Write it. Not just for them. For us. For the ones who died. For the ones who fought. For the ones who believed when no one else did.”
I didn’t answer.
Just nodded.
And then—
I began.
***
I didn’t write it in ink.
Not in blood.
Not in magic.
I wrote it in truth.
Every night, after the pack had gathered, after the fires had burned low, after the wind had stilled, I sat at the edge of the den, my back against the stone, my hands steady, my mind clear. I didn’t use a quill. Didn’t use parchment. Just a dagger—my own—and the wall.
And I carved.
Not symbols. Not sigils.
Words.
One by one. Line by line. Story by story.
I wrote about the night Jade came to Blackthorn Keep not as a grieving sister, but as Lady Seris Vale, a diplomat from the Southern Witches’ Conclave. I wrote about the moment the air shivered, about the way her blood sang, about the way Kael locked eyes with her across the Grand Hall, his wolf scent crashing into hers like a storm. I wrote about the Fae High Court’s intervention, about the Shadow Fate prophecy, about the ritual that sealed them with a shared pulse, a mark on their wrists, a bond that flared with every heartbeat.
I wrote about the first time Kael ripped out a vampire’s throat to save her, about the way he pinned her against the wall, breath hot on her neck: *“You don’t get to die before I decide what to do with you.”*
I wrote about Mira—how she’d been found in Kael’s bedchamber at dawn, wearing his shirt, claiming he’d spent the night with her. I wrote about Jade’s rage, about the way her magic flared, about the glass shattering. I wrote about the kiss in the ruins—the desperate, furious claiming, the hand slipping under her shirt, the way her back arched before the scene cut.
I wrote about the truth ritual, about the ledger, about the handwriting that wasn’t Kael’s. I wrote about the capture, about the bond-fever, about the way Kael licked her neck to calm her, about the way she shivered, arched into him.
I wrote about the bite—the real one. The one that sealed the bond. The one that made them immortal.
I wrote about the battle in the Forgotten Grove, about the sapling that grew from the seed, about the pulse of energy that shattered the hive’s sigils, freed the hybrids, made Cassien scream in fear.
I wrote about the Fae Court’s declaration, about the bond being marked in starlight, witnessed by the ancients, unbreakable.
And then—
I wrote about the den.
Not the old one. Not the one beneath the keep. This one—the northern den, where the heather burned with silver light, where the thorned brambles parted like welcoming arms, where the fire burned in the open, where no one bowed, no one knelt, no one lied.
I wrote about the night we burned our titles.
About Lyra, dropping her silver blade into the fire, declaring herself Alpha not because she was named, but because she’d fought for it.
About Silas, dropping his severed bond mark, declaring himself free not because he was saved, but because he’d earned it.
About Kael, dropping the mark of a prisoner, declaring himself free not because he was released, but because he’d broken his own chains.
About Jade, dropping her severed bond mark, declaring herself free not because she was avenged, but because she’d chosen to live.
And about me.
Not as Beta.
Not as second.
As Torin.
The one who’d stood when others knelt.
The one who’d believed when others doubted.
The one who’d written the truth so no one could ever take it from us.
***
They came to read it.
Not just the pack.
Not just the hybrids.
Witches from Veridia. Vampires from Prague. Fae from the Court of Thorns. Wolves from the southern packs. Even Council envoys—those who still believed in law over blood, in truth over power.
They didn’t speak.
Just stood there, their eyes scanning the wall, their breaths mingling, their presence a solid wall against the silence.
And then—
One of them stepped forward.
A young witch—no older than sixteen, her pelt silver-gray, her eyes wide. She didn’t speak. Just reached out, her fingers brushing the carving where I’d written: “They said hybrids were abominations.”
And then—
She wept.
Not in silence. Not in shadow.
In the open.
Her body shook. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her magic flared—soft, blue, healing—but she didn’t fight it. Just let it rise, let it burn, let it cleanse.
And then—
Another stepped forward.
A vampire—his fangs small, his spine straight. He didn’t speak. Just placed his hand on the wall, right where I’d written: “And we burned the world down.”
And then—
He smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a snarl.
Real.
Like he’d finally found something worth living for.
And then—
They all stepped forward.
One by one.
Wolves. Witches. Fae. Vampires.
They touched the wall. Traced the words. Breathed the truth.
And then—
They knelt.
Not in submission.
Not in reverence.
In truth.
And I—
I didn’t stop them.
Just watched as the legacy formed—not by blood, not by hierarchy, but by choice. By fire. By truth.
***
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 den was silent.
But the wall—
Not mine.
Not theirs.
Shared.
Glowed—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.