The Veil chamber is not a prison.
It’s a wound.
Carved into the heart of the Aerie, its walls pulsing with containment fields older than memory, its air thick with the scent of ozone and decay. No bars. No chains. No guards. Just silence—deep, suffocating, absolute—like the world has forgotten how to breathe. The floor is black stone, etched with runes that pulse faintly with stolen magic. The ceiling arches high, lost in shadow, like the ribs of a long-dead god. And in the center?
A circle.
Not of power.
Not of ritual.
But of *erasure*.
This is where they take the ones who know too much. The ones who speak forbidden truths. The ones whose blood is too loud. This is where they strip you of your magic. Your memories. Your name. Until there’s nothing left but silence.
This is where they took Elara.
And now?
Now I’m here to deliver her murderer.
Torrent walks beside me, barefoot on the cold stone, her storm-gray dress simple, unadorned, her hair unbound, her fingers brushing the bond sigil on her chest. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just walks, her storm-colored eyes fixed on the circle, her breath coming slow, deliberate. I can feel the bond between us—alive, electric, thrumming with every step—syncing my pulse with hers, my breath with hers, my magic with the deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the Aerie whenever she’s near. But it’s not just the bond.
It’s the *weight*.
The weight of what we’re about to do.
The weight of justice.
The weight of mercy.
And the weight of her.
She stops at the edge of the circle.
I stop with her.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, voice low. “The Tribunal has spoken. The sentence is passed. Cassian will be taken. He’ll be stripped. He’ll be forgotten. You don’t have to watch.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns to me, her storm-colored eyes searching mine. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you walk away clean.”
“I haven’t been clean since the night I walked into this place with a knife at my throat.” She steps closer, her hand pressing flat against the bond sigil on my chest. “I came here to kill you. To burn the Council to ashes. To bury the man who signed the decree.” Her voice cracks. “But I didn’t. Because the man who signed it wasn’t you. It was *him*. And now—” She looks at the circle. “Now I have to decide what kind of queen I am.”
My breath hitches.
Because she’s not just talking about Cassian.
She’s talking about *me*.
“You’re not just my mate,” I say, voice rough. “You’re my *queen*.”
She doesn’t smile.
Just leans into me, her body warm, steady, *alive*. “And you’re not just my mate,” she whispers. “You’re my *storm*.”
And I believe her.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of fate.
But because of the way she says it—like it’s a vow, like it’s truth, like it’s the only thing keeping her from drowning.
—
The door opens.
Not with sound.
Not with force.
But with *silence*.
Cassian steps into the chamber, his silver robes gleaming, his face calm, his eyes sharp. No chains. No bindings. Just the weight of his crimes, pressing against his skin like a second shadow. He doesn’t look at the circle. Doesn’t look at the runes. Doesn’t even glance at the containment fields flickering above us.
He looks at *her*.
“Daughter,” he says, voice smooth, cold. “You’ve come to watch me fall.”
Torrent doesn’t flinch.
Just steps forward, her storm-colored eyes locking on his. “I’ve come to make sure you *stay* fallen.”
He smiles. Cold. Sharp. Like ice cracking. “You think this changes anything? You think locking me in silence will erase what I’ve built? You think stripping me of my magic will silence the truth?”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. “But it will silence *you*.”
His breath hitches.
Just for a second.
But I see it—the flicker in his eyes, the way his pulse stutters, the way his body tenses like a coiled spring. He’s not afraid of the Veil.
He’s afraid of *her*.
“You’re not just my daughter,” he says, voice low. “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 flick to me. “—then you’re not the daughter I raised.”
“You didn’t raise me,” she says, voice sharp. “You stole me. You lied to me. You made me believe I was an outcast—when I was your *daughter*. And for that—” Her magic flares. “—you deserve to burn.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Just smiles. Cold. Sharp. Like ice cracking. “And yet, here you are. Standing before me. Not with a blade. Not with fire. But with *mercy*.”
Her breath hitches.
Because he’s not wrong.
She could kill him.
She could burn him alive.
She could make him suffer.
But she won’t.
Because she’s not him.
“I’m not here to show you mercy,” she says, voice low. “I’m here to show the world what justice looks like. Not vengeance. Not blood. But *truth*. And the truth is—” She presses her palm flat against the bond sigil on her chest. “—you don’t get to speak her name again. You don’t get to claim her. You don’t get to *remember* her. You get to be forgotten. Just like she was.”
And then—
She turns to the runes.
Not with magic.
Not with force.
But with *command*.
“Begin,” she says, voice clear.
The chamber hums.
The runes flare—white-hot, electric—lightning crackling across the floor, the air thick with ozone, the very walls trembling as the Veil’s machinery awakens. The containment fields pulse, silver and blue, converging on the circle, sealing it, preparing it for the erasure.
And Cassian?
He doesn’t move.
Just stands there, his silver robes gleaming, his face calm, his eyes sharp. But I see it—the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers twitch, the way his power hums beneath his skin, like a caged beast fighting to break free.
He’s not afraid of death.
He’s afraid of *nothingness*.
“You think this will stop me?” he says, voice low. “You think silence can kill a king?”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. “But it can bury him.”
And then—
It happens.
The Veil activates.
Not with sound.
Not with fire.
But with *light*.
A pulse—silver and blue—rips through the chamber, searing the air, burning the shadows, peeling back the layers of magic, of memory, of *identity*. The runes flare brighter, the containment fields converging on Cassian, wrapping around him like chains of light, binding him, sealing him, *erasing* him.
And he fights.
Of course he fights.
His magic flares—silver and cold, ancient and cruel—tearing through the containment fields, cracking the runes, shattering the silence. He roars—low, guttural, primal—his body a storm of power and pain, his voice echoing through the chamber like thunder.
But it’s not enough.
The Veil is stronger.
The runes hold.
The containment fields close.
And then—
He *screams*.
Not from pain.
Not from fear.
But from *loss*.
Because he feels it—the pull, the tear, the slow, methodical unraveling of his magic, his memories, his very *self*. His silver robes flicker, dim, fade. His face—once sharp, cold, calculating—twists, softens, *empties*. His eyes—once sharp, silver, calculating—widen, blur, *forget*.
And then—
It’s over.
The light fades.
The runes dim.
The containment fields retreat.
And in the center of the circle?
Nothing.
No Cassian.
No king.
No father.
Just a man.
Empty.
Blank.
Forgotten.
Torrent doesn’t move.
Just stares at him, her storm-colored eyes burning, her breath coming fast, her fingers brushing the bond sigil on her chest. She doesn’t look triumphant. Doesn’t look relieved. Doesn’t even look satisfied.
She looks… *tired*.
“It’s done,” I say, stepping beside her, my hand finding hers, warm, steady, unyielding.
She doesn’t answer.
Just leans into me, her body warm, steady, *alive*. “He’s gone,” she whispers. “Not dead. Not buried. But *erased*. And I don’t know if I feel justice. Or just… silence.”
My breath hitches.
Because she’s not just talking about Cassian.
She’s talking about herself.
“You didn’t become him,” I say, voice rough. “You chose mercy. You chose truth. You chose *us*.”
She turns to me, her storm-colored eyes searching mine. “And what if that’s not enough?”
“It is.” I cup her face, my thumb brushing her lip. “Because you didn’t let the darkness win. You didn’t let the rage consume you. You didn’t become the monster he made you. And that—” My voice cracks. “—is why I love you.”
Her breath hitches.
Because I’ve never said it like this before.
Not in battle.
Not in fire.
Not in claiming.
But in *truth*.
And she doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft. Slow. *True*.
Her lips move over mine, gentle, reverent, like she’s afraid I’ll break. My hands rise, fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. The bond flares—white-hot, electric. Our pulses sync. Our breaths tangle. The world narrows to the taste of her—copper and storm and wildness—the feel of her—soft and warm and *mine*—the *need*.
And then—
She pulls back.
Just enough to look at me, her storm-colored eyes searching mine. “You said you wouldn’t become a tyrant,” she whispers. “And I believed you. But I had to make sure.”
“And now?”
“Now,” she says, voice low, “I know.”
And then—
She reaches for my hand.
Not to fight.
Not to run.
But to *stay*.
And I take it.
Because for the first time in two hundred years—
I don’t want to be the monster.
I want to be hers.
—
We don’t go back to the chambers.
Not yet.
Instead, we walk—through the corridors, through the silence, through the Aerie that breathes like a living thing, her hand in mine, the bond humming between us, warm and alive. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just walks beside me, her shoulder brushing mine, her breath warm against my neck.
And I don’t let go.
Not when the guards glance at us, their eyes sharp. Not when the witches lower their voices in the library. Not when the wind howls through the mountain passes like a warning.
I hold her hand.
And I let them see.
Because the truth is out.
She’s not just his fated mate.
She’s not just the woman who came to kill him.
She’s the queen.
Strong. Fierce. Unbreakable.
And she’s *his*.
When we reach the war room, Silas is waiting.
Not surprised. Not shocked.
Just… *knowing*.
“The Council will hear,” he says, stepping aside. “The Veil. The erasure. The truth.”
“Let them hear,” she says, pulling me into the room, closing the door behind us. “Let them see.”
He 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 is gone,” Silas says. “But the war isn’t over.”
“No,” she says, stepping forward. “But we are.”
I step behind her, my hands sliding around her waist, my chin resting on her shoulder. “Because we’re not just bound by magic.”
“We’re bound by *choice*,” she whispers.
And then—
She turns in my arms, her storm-colored eyes locking on mine.
“Next time,” she says, voice low, “don’t stop.”
My breath hitches.
“Next time,” I say, voice rough, “I won’t.”
And I mean it.
Not just the bite.
Not just the mark.
But everything.
The claiming.
The breath.
The blood.
The surrender.
Because I’m done fighting.
Done hiding.
Done pretending.
She’s mine.
And I’m hers.
And if the world wants to burn because of it—
Then let it burn.
And then—
She kisses me.
And this time—
I don’t stop.