The dagger felt heavier in his hand than it ever had in mine.
Not because it was forged from blackened silver and etched with Thorne sigils—though it was. Not because it had taken lives—though it had. But because now, it wasn’t just a weapon. It was a promise. A surrender. A beginning.
Lysander turned it slowly in his grip, the blade catching the moonlight, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor. His wound still bled beneath the bandage, dark and slow, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t favor his side. Just studied the dagger like it held the answer to a question he’d been asking for centuries.
And maybe it did.
“You’re giving me this,” he said, voice low, “not because you’re afraid. Not because the bond demands it. But because you *choose* to.”
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The silence between us was louder than any vow. The bond no longer screamed. It no longer flared with violence or hunger. It *sang*—a low, golden hum beneath my skin, steady, soft, like a lullaby. My mark pulsed gently beneath my sleeve, warm and alive. His wrist still bled, but the flow had slowed. The wound on his side would heal. The blood on my hands would wash away.
But this?
This moment?
This choice?
This was permanent.
“Teach me,” I said again, voice steady. “Not how to survive. Not how to hide. Not how to fight *you*. Teach me how to fight *with* you.”
He looked up at me, gold eyes burning. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you.”
A flicker of something crossed his face—relief? Wonder?—before he tucked the dagger into his belt. “Then we start tonight. But not here. Not with the scent of blood in the air.” He stepped toward the balcony, the night wind tugging at his coat. “Come.”
I followed.
Not because he commanded it.
But because I wanted to.
The rooftop garden was a secret place—a hidden terrace carved into the highest spire of the Shadow Court, ringed with black rose vines that bloomed only under moonlight. Floating lanterns of crimson glass drifted in the air, casting a soft, flickering glow over marble paths, obsidian fountains, and benches carved from bone-white stone. It was beautiful. Haunting. Like a dream I’d had a thousand times but never believed was real.
And now, I was standing in it.
With him.
He didn’t speak. Just walked to the center of the garden, where a circular training ring was etched into the stone, runes glowing faintly beneath our feet. He turned, facing me, the moonlight slicing through his silhouette, his wound still darkening the side of his coat.
“You want to fight,” he said. “So fight.”
“With what?” I asked. “My fists? My magic? My *tears*?”
“With everything,” he said. “But first—you need to know your enemy.”
“Malrik.”
“Not just him.” He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “The Council. Nyxara. The bond. *Me*.”
My breath caught. “You’re not my enemy.”
“Aren’t I?” He reached out, not touching me, but his fingers hovered near my wrist. “I marked you. I bound you. I forced you into rituals. I let you believe I was a monster.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m asking you to trust me.”
“Then stop hiding,” I said, stepping forward. “Tell me the truth. All of it. Not just about the bond. Not just about the Codex. About *you*. About what your father made you do. About why you let me think you hated me.”
He didn’t answer.
Just turned, walking to the edge of the terrace, his back to me, his hand resting on the stone railing. The city stretched below—crimson lanterns pulsing, blood markets humming, the distant howl of a werewolf echoing through the spires. The Shadow Court. His kingdom. His prison.
And now—mine.
“I was twelve,” he said, voice low, rough. “When my father first ordered me to mark a mate. Not for love. Not for loyalty. For power. To bind an alliance with the Northern Pack. I refused. Said I wouldn’t be a weapon. Said I wouldn’t let my blood be used as a leash.”
He turned, gold eyes burning. “So he had me whipped. Then branded. Then locked in the blood vaults for a week with nothing but the screams of the dying to keep me company. When I finally agreed, he made me do it in front of the Council. Made me sink my fangs into a woman I’d never met, while they watched. While they *laughed*.”
My chest tightened.
“After that,” he said, “I stopped refusing. I became what he wanted. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable. I marked political allies. Fed from willing donors. Let them wear my bite like a trophy. But I never let anyone close. Never let anyone see me bleed. Never let anyone *matter*.”
He stepped closer. “And then you walked in. Defiant. Dangerous. *Alive*. And the bond *screamed*. Not because of magic. Not because of fate. Because for the first time in two hundred years, I felt something. And I didn’t know how to be anything but a king.”
Tears burned in my eyes.
Not for me.
For *him*.
For the boy who had been broken. For the man who had learned to hide. For the king who had spent centuries pretending he didn’t need anyone—only to have the one person he was forbidden to love walk into his court and shatter every wall he’d ever built.
“You didn’t have to lie,” I whispered. “You didn’t have to push me away.”
“I was protecting you,” he said. “From him. From the Council. From *myself*. I didn’t know how to be anything but what I was taught to be. And I was afraid—”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of *this*.” He reached out, cupping my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Of needing you. Of loving you. Of being weak.”
“You’re not weak,” I said, voice breaking. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that wasn’t about possession.
It was about *truth*.
And when he finally let me go, when he stepped back, when he looked at me with gold eyes burning, he said the words that changed everything:
“Then fight with me. Not against me. *With* me.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for the dagger at my thigh.
And handed it to him.
“Then teach me,” I said. “Teach me how to fight *with* you. Not just for you. Not just because of you. But *with* you.”
He took the dagger.
And for the first time since I’d walked into this cursed court—
I didn’t see a monster.
I saw a partner.
And I knew—
The war wasn’t over.
But this time, I wasn’t alone.
And neither was he.
We trained for hours—me with a wooden blade, him correcting my stance, my grip, my breath. He didn’t go easy on me. Didn’t praise me. Just pushed me—harder, faster, sharper—until my muscles burned, until my breath came in ragged gasps, until the bond pulsed with every strike, every dodge, every parry.
“You’re holding back,” he said, disarming me with a flick of his wrist. The wooden blade clattered to the stone.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the slow, steady pulse of his power. “You’re afraid of hurting me.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then prove it.” He tossed me the blade. “Again.”
I did.
This time, I didn’t hold back.
I lunged—fast, fierce, *real*. He blocked, countered, but I was quicker, angrier, *awake*. I feinted left, spun right, and drove the blade toward his ribs.
He caught my wrist—just in time.
But not before the tip grazed his coat, slicing through the fabric, nicking the skin beneath.
Blood welled.
Dark.
Rich.
And the bond *screamed*.
Not in pain.
Not in demand.
In *relief*.
He didn’t let go of my wrist.
Just pulled me closer, his breath warm on my ear. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. Not obedience. Not submission. *Fight*.”
My breath hitched.
My mark flared.
And for the first time, I didn’t hate it.
I *embraced* it.
We trained until dawn—until the sky bled crimson, until the lanterns dimmed, until the bond hummed like a second heartbeat. And when we finally stopped, when he pulled me into his arms, when he kissed me like he was claiming my soul, I knew—
This wasn’t just about survival.
It wasn’t just about power.
It was about *us*.
I woke in the suite, tangled in black silk sheets, the scent of storm and blood clinging to my skin. The wound on his side had scabbed over. The bleeding on his wrist had slowed. The bond pulsed gently beneath my sleeve, warm and alive.
And for the first time in ten years, I didn’t dream of fire.
I dreamed of *him*.
A knock at the door.
“Enter,” I said, voice rough.
Mira stepped in, her silver hair shimmering, her violet eyes filled with concern. The Seelie exile. The fae spy. My only ally in this court of vipers.
“You’re alive,” she said, relief flickering across her face.
“Barely,” I said, sitting up. “What is it?”
She closed the door, stepping closer. “I have information. About the bond. About how to break it.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“There’s a ritual,” she said, voice low. “An old one. Forbidden. It can sever the bond—but only at a cost.”
“What cost?”
She hesitated. “One life. A willing sacrifice. Someone who loves you.”
The room went cold.
“You’re lying,” I whispered.
“Am I?” She reached out, touching my mark. “You feel it, don’t you? The way it calls to you. The way it binds you. It’s not just magic. It’s a *key*. And keys can be broken.”
“At the cost of a life?” I said, voice breaking. “You’re asking me to kill someone?”
“No,” she said. “I’m asking you to *choose*. Freedom. Or love.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart was supposed to be.
And found it wasn’t there anymore.
It was in his.
And he was already breaking it.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t choose that.”
“Then you’re trapped,” she said. “Forever.”
I didn’t answer.
Just looked at her.
And for the first time, I wondered—
Was she my ally?
Or was she just another pawn in someone else’s game?
“Who told you about this ritual?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
Just stepped back.
And left.
I sat there, trembling, the scent of him—storm and blood and something darkly sweet—filling my nose, my lungs, my soul.
I could break the bond.
I could be free.
But only if someone died.
And the worst part?
I didn’t know if I could live with that.
Or if I even wanted to.
A knock.
“Come in,” I said, voice flat.
Lysander stepped in, tall and dark, his coat unbuttoned, his eyes burning gold. He didn’t speak. Just walked to the bed, sat beside me, and took my hand.
“You’re thinking about it,” he said.
“About what?”
“The ritual.”
My breath caught. “How do you know?”
“Because I know you,” he said, voice rough. “And because Mira came to me first.”
“What?”
“She told me the same thing. Offered me a way to break the bond. Said I could be free of you.” He turned my wrist, showing me the mark—the same crimson sigil that burned on my skin. It was still bleeding, but faintly, like it was fighting to live. “I told her to burn in hell.”
Tears burned in my eyes.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes,” he said, pulling me into his arms. “I did. Because you’re not a chain. You’re not a curse. You’re my *queen*. And I will burn the world for you.”
I buried my face in his chest, his scent filling my nose, my lungs, my soul.
I could break the bond.
I could be free.
But only if someone died.
And the worst part?
I didn’t know if I could live with that.
Or if I even wanted to.
Because if I did—
I’d lose him.
And I’d rather die than live in a world without him in it.
“Then let’s rewrite it,” I whispered. “Together.”
He pulled back, gold eyes burning. “What?”
“The bond,” I said, voice steady. “We don’t have to break it. We don’t have to run. We can *change* it. Make it ours. Not a curse. Not a chain. A *promise*.”
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t smirk.
Just pulled me into his arms, crushing me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that wasn’t about possession.
It was about *vow*.
And when he finally let me go, when he looked at me with gold eyes burning, he said the words that changed everything:
“Then let’s rewrite it. Together.”
And as we walked to the Archives, her hand in mine, the bond singing between us, I knew—
The war wasn’t over.
Malrik would fight.
Nyxara would scheme.
The Council would resist.
But none of it mattered.
Because we had each other.
And we would burn the world for us.