The silence after the claim is not peace.
It’s the eye of the storm.
Not stillness, not resolution—just that breathless, suspended moment before the next explosion. The Council chamber hums with it, the air thick with ozone and tension, the silver-blue wards flickering like dying embers. Kaelen’s hand is locked in mine, his grip warm, unyielding, his presence a wall of heat and muscle beside me. The bond thrums between us—alive, electric, *newly sealed*—syncing my pulse with his, my breath with his, my magic with the deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the Aerie. I can feel it in the way the guards lower their eyes, in the way the witches whisper as they retreat, in the way even the Beast Courts shift in their seats, their fangs bared, their loyalty fracturing.
They see it.
Not just the mark on my neck—still warm, still glowing faintly with storm-blue light.
Not just the way he looks at me—gold eyes burning, fangs pressing against his gums, body coiled tight like a storm about to break.
But the *truth*.
I’m not just his fated mate.
I’m not just the woman who came to kill him.
I’m the woman who *chose* him.
And now?
Now I have to face what I’ve become.
“You’ve made your point,” Cassian says, voice smooth, cold. “The bond is sealed. The claim is made. The Council has witnessed it.” He steps forward, his silver robes gleaming, his face a mask of ice. “But this changes nothing. The Concord does not recognize hybrid queens. The Veil does not allow for heirs of tainted blood. And *I*—” His eyes lock on mine, sharp, calculating. “I will not stand by while you install a weapon on the throne.”
My magic flares.
Not in anger.
Not in defiance.
But in *recognition*.
Because he’s not just threatening me.
He’s *admitting* it.
That I’m not just a weapon.
That I’m not just a lie.
That I’m not just his daughter.
“You’re right,” I say, stepping forward, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “You won’t stand by. You’ll *fall*.”
And then—
We walk past him.
Not fast.
Not silent.
But *reckless*.
Because I know it’s a trap.
And I don’t care.
—
The war room is quiet when we return.
Too quiet.
Silas is there, standing at the far end of the obsidian table, his dark eyes sharp, his half-vampire scent laced with something I can’t name. Concern? Respect? Both? He doesn’t speak. Just studies us—my sharp jaw, my defiant eyes, the fire in my blood. And for the first time, I see it too.
Not just the avenger.
Not just the assassin.
But the queen.
“Cassian will move,” he says, stepping aside. “And Maeve—”
“Won’t stop,” I finish, stepping forward. “But neither will we.”
Kaelen steps behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Because we’re not just bound by magic.”
“We’re bound by *choice*,” I whisper.
And then—
I turn in his arms, my storm-colored eyes locking on his.
“Next time,” I say, voice low, “don’t stop.”
His breath hitches.
“Next time,” he says, voice rough, “I won’t.”
And I believe him.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of fate.
But because of the way he says it—like it’s a vow, like it’s truth, like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning.
And then—
He kisses me.
And this time—
He doesn’t stop.
But even as his lips move over mine, soft and slow and *true*, even as the bond flares white-hot between us, even as the world narrows to the taste of him, the feel of him, the *need*—
Something shifts.
Not in the room.
Not in the bond.
But in *me*.
A whisper. A pulse. A memory not my own.
And then—
I see it.
A room. Cold stone. Silver chains. My mother, chained to the wall, her fae glow dim, her eyes wide with fear. Cassian standing before her, his silver robes gleaming, his voice cold. “You will be silenced. You will be forgotten. And your daughter will never know the truth.”
And then—
Kaelen. Watching from the shadows. His gold eyes burning. His hand clenched at his side. And then—
He turns away.
I gasp, pulling back, my storm-colored eyes wide, my breath coming fast. Kaelen freezes, his hands still on my waist, his forehead pressed to mine. “Torrent?”
“I saw it,” I whisper, voice breaking. “In the chamber. When the wards failed. I saw it—my mother. Chained. Cassian. And you—” I look into his eyes. “You were there. You turned away.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just cups my face, his voice rough. “I couldn’t save her. The vote was lost. The decree was signed. And if I’d fought—”
“You would’ve died,” I finish.
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms, his body a wall of heat and muscle, his breath warm against my neck. I don’t resist. Don’t pull away. Just let him hold me, my hands fisting in his coat, my face buried in his shoulder.
And then—
I feel it again.
Not a vision.
Not a memory.
But a *pull*.
Like a thread in my blood, tugging me forward, drawing me toward the door, toward the corridor, toward *him*.
“I have to go,” I say, stepping back.
“Where?”
“To him.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightens. “You can’t.”
“I *have* to.” I touch the bond sigil on my chest. “This isn’t just about revenge anymore. It’s about *truth*. And if I don’t face him—if I don’t look into his eyes and ask him—” My voice breaks. “Then I’m no better than the monster who left her to die.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just nods.
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“No.” I step back, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “This is *my* fight. *My* blood. *My* father. And if I let you walk into this—” My voice drops. “Then I’m not saving her. I’m burying you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just stares at me, his gold eyes burning, his fangs bared.
And then—
He nods.
“One minute,” he says, voice rough. “If you’re not back in one minute, I’m coming in.”
“You won’t have to.” I step toward the door. “I’ll be back.”
And then—
I run.
Not fast.
Not silent.
But *reckless*.
Because I know it’s a trap.
And I don’t care.
—
The corridor twists, the stone slick with age, the air thick with magic. I don’t slow. Don’t hesitate. Just follow the pull—the thread in my blood—until I reach a door. Old. Iron. Sealed with fae runes that pulse faintly in the dark.
And then—
It opens.
Not by my hand.
But by *his*.
“Torrent,” Cassian says, his voice smooth, cold. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I step inside.
The chamber is small. Cold. Lit by a single silver lantern, its light casting long shadows across the floor. And there—
Standing in the center, his silver robes gleaming, his face calm, his eyes sharp—
Cassian.
Not in chains.
Not behind glamour.
But *real*.
“You knew I’d come,” I say, stepping forward, my storm-colored eyes locking on his.
“Of course.” He smiles, slow, dangerous. “You’re my daughter. And daughters always come home.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not denying it.
He’s *admitting* it.
“You’re lying,” I say, voice low. “You’re not my father.”
“Am I not?” He steps closer, slow, deliberate. “You think I don’t recognize my own blood? The way your magic flares. The way your voice echoes. The way your eyes—” He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek. “—are exactly like mine.”
I don’t flinch.
Just stare at him, my storm-colored eyes searching his. “And my mother?”
“Loved you,” he says, voice soft. “More than anything. But she was weak. She let her blood taint her judgment. She let her love for a witch cloud her duty.”
“And you punished her.”
“I *protected* the Court.” He steps back, his voice hardening. “I silenced the threat. I erased the lie. And I saved you—from her.”
“You stole her from me.”
“I saved you from her madness.”
“You forged the decree.”
“I did what was necessary.”
“And Kaelen?”
“He was a fool,” he says, voice cold. “He stood in the shadows, watching, *wanting* to save her. But he didn’t. He turned away. And that—” His eyes lock on mine. “—is why he doesn’t deserve you.”
My magic flares.
Not in anger.
Not in defiance.
But in *recognition*.
Because he’s not wrong.
Kaelen *did* turn away.
But he *tried*.
And that—
That’s the difference.
“You think I don’t know what you are?” I say, stepping closer. “You think I don’t feel it? The way your voice echoes. The way your magic hums. The way my blood *sings* when you’re near. I’ve known since the ring. Since the echo. Since the way you look at me—like I’m something to be *used*.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just smiles. Cold. Sharp. Like ice cracking. “And yet, here you are. Standing before me. Asking for answers.”
“I’m not asking.” I press my palm flat against the bond sigil on my chest. “I’m *taking*.”
And then—
I touch him.
Not with my hand.
Not with magic.
But with *blood*.
My fingers brush his wrist, just above the pulse, and the world *shatters*.
A room. Cold stone. Silver chains. My mother, chained to the wall, her fae glow dim, her eyes wide with fear. Cassian standing before her, his silver robes gleaming, his voice cold. “You will be silenced. You will be forgotten. And your daughter will never know the truth.”
And then—
Me. A child. Hidden in the shadows. Watching. Screaming. But no sound comes out.
Cassian turns. Sees me.
And then—
He smiles.
“You’re safe now, little storm,” he says, kneeling. “I’ll protect you. I’ll raise you. And I’ll make sure no one ever hurts you again.”
And then—
He takes my hand.
And the memory ends.
I gasp, pulling back, my storm-colored eyes wide, my breath coming fast. Cassian doesn’t move. Just watches me, his breath coming slow, deliberate, his power humming beneath his skin.
“You remember,” he says, voice soft.
“I remember *everything*,” I whisper, voice breaking. “You didn’t just steal her from me. You stole *me* from *myself*. You erased my past. You twisted my truth. You made me believe I was an outcast—when I was your *daughter*.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Just nods. “And I’d do it again.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re *mine*.” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “You’re not just my blood. You’re my legacy. My weapon. My *future*. And if you think I’ll let you throw it away on some half-breed wolf—” His eyes burn. “—then you’re not the daughter I raised.”
My magic flares.
Not in anger.
Not in defiance.
But in *truth*.
“You’re not my father,” I say, stepping back. “A father protects. A father loves. A father *remembers*. You’re not my father. You’re my *enemy*.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just smiles. Cold. Sharp. Like ice cracking. “You’re my daughter,” he says, voice low. “And I will erase you before I let you destroy everything I’ve built.”
And then—
The door slams shut.
Not by my hand.
Not by magic.
But by *his*.
And the wards flare—silver and blue, ancient magic sealing the room.
And I know—
There’s no escape.
Not this time.
And then—
He moves.
Fast. Relentless. He spins me, pressing me into the wall, his hands caging me in, his body a wall of heat and muscle. One hand grips my hip, the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat. His fingers brush the bond sigil on my chest, slow, deliberate. “You think he can save you?” he growls, voice rough. “You think his bite, his blood, his *claim*—” His thumb presses into the mark. “—can protect you from me?”
My breath hitches.
“He already has.”
“No.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “You’re not his queen. You’re my *daughter*. And I will *erase* you before I let you betray me.”
And then—
I do the only thing I can.
I spit in his face.
He doesn’t flinch.
Just wipes it away, slow, deliberate, his eyes burning. “You’ve always been stubborn,” he says, voice low. “Just like your mother.”
“And you’ve always been a monster,” I say, voice sharp. “Just like *him*.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just backs away, his silver robes gleaming, his face calm, his eyes sharp. “You have one choice,” he says, voice smooth. “You can stay. You can rule beside me. You can be my heir. Or—” His eyes lock on mine. “—you can die.”
My magic flares.
Not in anger.
Not in defiance.
But in *truth*.
“You’re not just my father,” I say, stepping forward, my storm-colored eyes locking on his. “You’re the man who sentenced my mother to the Veil. The man who forged the decree. The man who stole my past.” I press my palm flat against the bond sigil on my chest. “And if I have to burn the world to stop you—” My voice drops. “Then I’ll burn it *with* you.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just smiles. Cold. Sharp. Like ice cracking. “You’re my daughter,” he says, voice low. “And I will erase you.”
And then—
The door explodes.
Not with sound.
Not with fire.
But with *force*.
And Kaelen is there.
Not in rage.
Not in fury.
But in *control*.
“You’re not taking her,” he says, voice low, rough. “She’s not your weapon. She’s not your pawn. She’s not even your *daughter*.” His gold eyes burn. “She’s my *queen*.”
And then—
He reaches for me.
Not to pull me close.
Not to kiss me.
But to *stay*.
And I take it.
Because for the first time since I walked into this place with a knife at my throat—
I don’t feel like an assassin.
I feel like a woman who’s finally ready to stop hiding.
And start choosing.