The Council Chamber still hums with the residue of the Soul Mirror when I storm back into Kaelen’s chambers, my breath ragged, my hands trembling—not from fear, not from grief, but from the white-hot fury that’s been burning in my blood since I was sixteen.
He follows me in silence, ten paces behind, his presence a weight against my spine. I can feel him—the bond thrumming between us like a plucked wire, his controlled breath, the quiet dominance radiating off him even now, even after what we saw. After what he *let* happen.
My mother.
Chained. Screaming. “Please… she’s just a child…”
And him—cold. Detached. Signing the decree that sent her to the Veil, where her mind would be stripped, her magic siphoned, her identity erased until she was nothing but a hollow echo of herself.
I slam the door shut behind us, the stone walls absorbing the sound like a tomb. Then I whirl on him.
“You stood there,” I spit, stepping forward until we’re inches apart. “You watched them take her. You didn’t lift a finger.”
His face is unreadable. A mask of ice. “The vote was lost,” he says, voice low, rough. “The past is ash.”
“It’s *not* ash,” I snarl. “It’s fire. And I’m going to burn you with it.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me, those winter-gold eyes boring into mine like he’s trying to see past the rage, past the pain, into the storm beneath.
And then—
Something shifts.
A flicker in his expression. Not guilt. Not remorse. But… recognition.
Like he sees me. Not just the assassin. Not just the hybrid. But *me*.
And it makes me angrier.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, turning away before he can say anything. “Don’t pretend you care.”
I stride to the wardrobe, yanking open the doors. My gown from last night is gone—burned, probably, tainted by the bond. In its place: a simple dress of storm-gray linen, modest, unassuming. The uniform of a neutral envoy. The lie I’ve been wearing since I walked into this place.
I rip it off the hanger and start to change, not caring that he’s in the room, not caring that his gaze is on me. Let him watch. Let him see what he’s bound to. Let him feel the heat of my skin, the pulse in my throat, the magic crackling beneath my fingertips.
Because I’m not done.
Not even close.
“You’re going to the emergency session,” I say, pulling the dress over my head, my voice hard. “And you’re going to vote *against* the Hybrid Containment Act.”
He crosses his arms. “No.”
“You don’t get to say no.”
“I’m the High Alpha. I get to say *exactly* what I want.”
I step toward him, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re going to vote no, or I’ll make sure the entire Council knows you’re bound to a hybrid assassin. That you failed the first Unity Trial. That the bond is a lie.”
“And if you do?” He tilts his head, unfazed. “They’ll kill you for deception. Or worse—send you to the Veil.”
My stomach twists. The Veil. The thought of it—of my mind unraveling, of forgetting my own name, of becoming nothing—sends a cold spike of terror through me. But I don’t let it show.
“Then I’ll take you with me,” I say. “Because if I go down, I’m dragging you into the fire.”
For the first time, his jaw tightens. A crack in the ice. Good.
“You think threats will work on me?” he asks, stepping closer. “You think I fear death? I’ve stared down armies. I’ve buried my pack. I’ve ruled through war and famine and betrayal. You’re just another storm, Torrent. And storms pass.”
“Then why are you still standing here?” I challenge, lifting my chin. “Why haven’t you walked away? Why haven’t you let the bond burn us both?”
He doesn’t answer.
Because he can’t.
Because the bond won’t let him. Because his wolf won’t let him. Because deep down, beneath the control and the duty and the fucking *lies*, he wants me.
And he hates himself for it.
I turn away before he can see the satisfaction in my eyes. Before he can see how much I *need* that crack in his armor.
“We’re going,” I say, heading for the door. “And you’re voting no.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll make you regret ever touching me.”
The words hang between us, sharp as a blade.
And then he follows.
—
The emergency session is already in progress when we arrive.
The Chamber is packed—Council members seated in their thrones, advisors whispering in the shadows, guards lining the walls. The air is thick with tension, the scent of vampire bloodwine and fae incense cloying in my nose. At the center of it all, the议题—**Hybrid Containment Act, Section Seven**: mandatory registration, tracking sigils, and forced magic suppression for all cross-species offspring.
A death sentence in slow motion.
Lord Cassian stands at the dais, his silver robes shimmering, his voice smooth as poisoned silk. “The rise in hybrid unrest is undeniable. The recent attack on the Dresden outpost. The sabotage of the ley-line relay in Edinburgh. These are not isolated incidents. They are symptoms of a growing threat—one we must contain before it consumes us all.”
My fingers curl into fists.
Lies. All of it. The “attacks” were staged. The “sabotage” was Council work, designed to justify more control, more oppression. And Cassian—he’s behind it. I can feel it in the way his voice echoes, in the way his eyes flicker to me when he speaks, in the faint, familiar tremor in his magic that matches the nightmares my mother used to whisper about.
He knows.
He knows who I am.
And he’s testing me.
“The Act will protect our kind,” Cassian continues. “It will preserve order. It will prevent another tragedy like the Veil incident.”
Gasps ripple through the Chamber.
My mother’s trial. Her sentence. My past.
He’s dragging it into the light.
“No,” I whisper under my breath. “Not yet.”
Kaelen’s hand brushes my lower back—just once, a fleeting touch—and I stiffen. Not from the contact. From the *warning*.
Stay quiet.
Don’t react.
But I can’t. Not when they’re talking about chaining hybrids like animals. Not when they’re using my mother’s suffering as a political weapon.
“We must act,” a vampire Councilor says, rising. “The bloodlines are weakening. The old rules are failing. This is evolution.”
“Evolution?” A witch Councilor scoffs. “Or fear? You want to cage children because you’re afraid of what they might become?”
“They’re *not* children,” Cassian snaps. “They’re weapons. Unstable. Unpredictable. And they will be registered. Tracked. Controlled.”
My magic surges—unbidden, raw. A crackle of static in the air. A flicker of blue lightning in my fingertips.
Kaelen’s hand tightens on my back.
“Torrent,” he murmurs, so low only I can hear. “*Don’t.*”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m already moving.
I step forward, into the center of the Chamber, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
“And what about consent?”
Every head turns.
Cassian’s smile is slow, predatory. “Ah. The *envoy* from the Hollow Moon Coven. How kind of you to join us.”
“You’re talking about forcing sigils onto children,” I say, my voice steady, cold. “Burning magic out of them. Stripping them of their identity. That’s not containment. That’s *slavery*.”
“And yet,” Cassian says, stepping down from the dais, “you hybrid sympathizers always cry oppression. But where were you when the Dresden outpost burned? When innocent supernaturals died?”
“I was *here*,” I say. “Investigating. And what I found was Council operatives using hybrid sigils to frame innocent families. Setting fires. Spreading lies. All to justify *this*.”
Gasps. Murmurs. A few Councilors shift in their seats.
Cassian’s eyes narrow. “Proof?”
“I have witnesses. Records. Enough to—”
“Enough,” Kaelen interrupts, stepping beside me. His voice is calm, authoritative. “This is not the time for baseless accusations.”
I glare at him. You promised.
He doesn’t look at me.
“The Act will be put to vote,” he says, addressing the Chamber. “All in favor?”
Hands rise—vampires, fae, a few witches. Seven. Enough.
“Opposed?”
Only three. The witch Councilor. A young werewolf Beta. And me.
It’s over.
The Act passes.
And I feel it—the weight of it, the horror, the helplessness. This is how it starts. First the sigils. Then the tracking. Then the Veil.
Just like my mother.
Just like me.
And Kaelen—
He voted *for* it.
“You bastard,” I hiss, turning on him the second we’re back in his chambers. “You said you’d vote no.”
“I said I’d consider it,” he corrects, stripping off his jacket, his voice calm. “I considered it. And I voted for order.”
“Order?” I laugh, sharp and broken. “You call *that* order? You’re sentencing children to live in fear. To be hunted. To be erased.”
“The world isn’t fair,” he says, turning to face me. “And it’s not my job to make it so. It’s my job to keep the peace.”
“Peace built on lies and blood?”
“Peace built on survival.”
I stare at him, my chest heaving. The bond hums between us, hot and angry. And then—
I feel it.
A shift.
Not in him. In *me*.
My magic—usually a storm beneath my skin—surges, not with rage, but with *purpose*. I close my eyes, reaching deep, pulling on the power of my blood, the memory of my mother’s voice, the scent of the Veil.
And I cast.
A simple spell. A whisper. A thread of magic woven into the air, designed to slip past wards, to find its target, to *alter*.
I don’t open my eyes. I don’t need to. I can feel it work—the spell slipping through the stone, down the corridors, into the Council’s sealed records. Rewriting. Erasing. Replacing.
When I open my eyes, I’m breathing hard, my hands trembling. But I’m smiling.
“What did you do?” Kaelen asks, his voice low, dangerous.
“I fixed your vote,” I say. “The records now show you voted *against* the Act. That you argued for hybrid rights. That you stood against Cassian.”
His eyes narrow. “You altered Council records?”
“I corrected them.”
“You think that changes anything?”
“It changes *your* story,” I say, stepping closer. “Now, when the truth comes out—and it *will*—you’re not the monster who signed the decree. You’re the Alpha who fought for justice.”
He studies me, his expression unreadable. And then—
“You’re good,” he says quietly. “Too good.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“And what if I *feel* it?” he asks. “What if the bond lets me sense your magic? Your lies?”
I freeze.
Because I hadn’t thought of that.
But now I feel it—his presence in my mind, not invasive, not controlling, but *aware*. A quiet hum beneath my thoughts, a flicker of sensation when I cast, like he’s watching, listening, *feeling*.
“You can sense me,” I whisper.
“Not everything,” he says. “But enough. Your magic leaves a trail. Your emotions—anger, grief, desire—they pulse through the bond. And right now, I can feel your fear.”
My breath catches.
He can *feel* me.
My power. My secrets. My heart.
And that changes everything.
Because if he can feel my magic—
Then he can feel the next spell I cast.
And the next.
And the next.
Until I’ve burned the Council to the ground.
“You should be careful,” I say, stepping back, my voice steady. “If you’re not, you might just start to care.”
He doesn’t answer.
But I see it—just for a second—the flicker in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand clenches at his side.
He already does.
And that’s my in.
I turn and walk to the bedroom door, my steps slow, deliberate.
“Get some rest,” I say, pausing with my hand on the knob. “Tomorrow, we’re attending the Unity Trial prep. And I’ll need you… *cooperative*.”
He doesn’t respond.
But I feel him watching me as I close the door.
And I feel the bond—warm, insistent, alive.
Not just a leash.
Not just a curse.
A weapon.
And I’m just beginning to learn how to wield it.
—
That night, I dream of my mother.
Not in chains. Not in the Veil.
But alive. Laughing. Her hands covered in dirt as she teaches me to grow moonbloom in the garden behind our cottage. Her voice soft as she sings the old fae lullaby, the one about stars and storms and daughters who carry the sky in their blood.
And then—
Fire.
The door bursts open. Council guards. Silver nets. Her magic flares—wild, beautiful, desperate—as she fights, as she screams, as she begs for my life.
And I’m there.
Watching.
Helpless.
I wake with a gasp, my skin slick with sweat, my heart pounding.
The bond hums—steady, warm.
And then—
A sound.
From the other room.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
But something softer.
A sigh.
A shift.
And then—
Whispers.
“Torrent…”
My name. On his lips.
In his sleep.
I sit up slowly, my breath caught in my throat.
And I realize—
He’s dreaming of me too.
Not as an enemy.
Not as an assassin.
But as something else.
Something I can’t name.
Something I’m starting to fear.
Because if he dreams of me—
Then maybe, just maybe—
He’s already mine.