At some point sleep leans in. She murmurs something I don’t catch, presses closer. My fingers twist in her hair, comfort and protect in every stroke. I whisper into her neck, “You are my light.” She smiles half-asleep. “And you are my shield,” she whispers back. I draw her closer, hold her tight.
Hours pass unmeasured by clocks. The candle burns low, flickering, then steadies. Rain softens. The wind subsides. The villa creaks less urgently.
When dawn comes, it slips in pale and gray through ruins. The walls glow silver in the slow light. She wakes curled against me, eyelashes fluttering. Her glow is faint now, recovering from exhaustion, but it’s still there, like a promise. I brush fingers along her cheek, marvel at how soft her skin is, at how brave she is—even now, waking from darkness, she glows.
She meets my eyes. Her lips curve. “Morning,” she whispers. I pull her closer against my chest. For a long moment we lie like that, silent, listening to distant birds, to wind playing across shattered stone, to our own hearts.
I whisper, “Never walk alone.” Her fingers trace my scarred forearm. “Never,” she echoes.
And in that room of ruin, in the glow of our bodies and the hush of dawn, there is a fragile peace. A promise held between us. A vow sealed in blood and light.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings. But I know this: so long as she is by my side, I will face it. I will be the shield she deserves. I will fight so that she never regrets this night.
We rest in dawn’s quiet after the storm, breath pressed close, love whispered in every scar and every heartbeat. And when the world begins to stir again, we will rise together.
29
KALEIGH
Snow falls like ash from some wounded sky, drifting slow and wide, settling on the pine boughs and blanketing the courtyard in white silence. The air bites at exposed skin, crisp and finally honest, cutting through the remains of last night’s smoke and fire. The mountains frame the horizon, jagged and silent, guardians watching our return. We arrive late afternoon, light fading pink on the ridgelines, lengthening shadows across the snow.
Rafe walks beside me down the main path through the stronghold—footsteps muffled in new snow—walls of gray stone rising on either side, moss and lichen cracked under frost. Icicles hang like teeth from eaves. Chimneys puff thin columns of gray smoke into a slate sky. The entire place feels wounded but alive. I press my glove to the stone wall, cold and rough beneath fingertips, reminding me of every hard surface I’ve touched to survive.
He’s tense beside me, shoulders squared like a soldier, jaw tight. I lean into him, shoulder brushing his. The bond between us hums faintly—his heartbeat, my light—comfortable and fierce.
Ahead, I see movement. Figures emerge from the stronghold’s keep: Darius with Tessa, their silhouette framed by torchlight in the snow; Malek with Jennifer; Cassian with Angie. The Brotherhood is gathering.
Mary stands slightly apart—a sentinel, not decorative. She is the leader’s sister, but more. She is authority in her own right: eyes sharp, posture steel. When she steps forward, it is with quiet power, not show.
Darius greets Rafe first. A low wind stirs, curtain of snow lifting in shallow spirals. The meeting happens in slow motion. Rafe’s pace falters. Darius’s voice is strong, deep, carrying across the courtyard. They cross distance sacred, years suspended between them. Finally arms clasp, bodies press, two wolves reunited. The sound is small—a breath, a shift—but powerful. I stand back and watch, tears half-blurred in my eyes.
Mary approaches me then, quiet footfalls in snow, steady in her gait. She offers me gloved hand, and our palms meet. There’s recognition—not thanks. Something stronger: acknowledgment.
She says, voice firm but soft, “Welcome, Kaleigh. You stand with us tonight.” I nod, feeling the weight and promise in that simple phrase.
The courtyard hisses as more arrive: Brotherhood members from distant holds, cloaks flaring, weapons strapped, lantern light like fireflies in a frozen dusk. A choir of boots, murmurs of voices greeting, legacy swelling in breath-steam.
Darius raises his voice. The words carry far: “We gather not as exiles, not as fragmented souls, but as Brotherhood—blood, shield, and bond. Roman has pushed us apart. He has struck with fire and fear and illusions. But here, tonight, we are one. We stand in ice, in wind, in snow, and we vow: we will stop him. No matter what it takes.”
His gaze sweeps across assembled faces—men hardened, women strong, young and old, scars and fresh wounds alike.He steps forward, breath whitening in the air. “To protect this ground, to protect each other, to protect the very souls of our people, we reclaim what was stolen.” His voice cracks, fierce, vulnerable. It echoes in stone corridors, catches in the snow. The stronghold seems to inhale. The wind hushes.
Rafe draws me closer, arm sliding around my waist, anchoring me. My breath is ragged, emotion raw. I press my gloved hand into his coat, steadying him, steadying myself.
I look at Darius. He meets my eyes briefly—an acknowledgment of the road we’ve walked. He turns to the Brotherhood. “Soon we march. Not as all alone hounds, but as a pack—united. Every witch who stands free tonight, every shifter who remembers blood is thicker than fear, every ally bound under seal or spirit—gather at the gates. We enter his strongholds. We burn his lies. We reclaim our name.”
Voices rise in agreement: a growl, a clamor, clashing steel hitches. The snow echoes it back. Mary nods with Darius, her face unreadable, strong. Angie steps next to Mary, and Malek next to Darius, lining alliances visible in posture more than words.
Rafe’s gaze flickers to me. His eyes are hard, fierce. We clasp hands tight. I raise my voice, small but clear. “Then here we stand. I vow to this Brotherhood my light, my sword, my heart. I promise not to falter.”
I press closer to Rafe and he shifts, drawing me in. The cold air pierces my cheeks. But between us the bond warms. With Mary at Darius’s side, with Cassian, Malek, Angie, Jennifer, Tessa—every face I see reminds me we are not alone. I catch Mary’s eyes again. She points toward the gates, then at me, then at the northern ridge where Roman’s lines will come. No words, but we understand.
The snow drifts down steady now, like the world sighing. Torches are lit, flame flickers in the dusk. The Brotherhood linesmove toward the gates, shields lifted, breath visible. The wind carries distant sound—a shift of boots, a crack of doors opening. We brace. Mary lifts her cloak, steps forward. Darius raises his hand. Rafe grips my hand. I draw breath, heart hammered in chest.
Mary’s voice cuts through the chill air: “On my sister’s word, on my brother’s name, on our blood and our bonds—we march. Whether fire rains or the earth breaks, we will not yield.”
The wind answers. The courtyard is alive with intention now. Snow settles at our feet, footprints new, torchlight flickers across steel and eyes, the stronghold’s walls echoing resolve.
Rafe whispers close, his lips warm against my ear: “Whatever comes, we face it together.”
