The blood on their palms had begun to dry, tacky and warm, flaking at the edges where it had started to set. Cleo could feel it—the pull of the oath, yes, but something else. Something colder. It pressed behind her sternum like a second heartbeat, sharp and invasive, tightening with each breath she took. She opened her mouth to say something, to break the silence that hung between them, and then the pressure spiked.
Her father's anger.
It flooded through her—not her own, but unmistakable. A cold, sharp wave that made her gasp, her hand jerking in Nico's grip. She pulled back, her stormy eyes going wide as she looked past him, down the corridor.
"He knows," she breathed.
Nico's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He didn't ask who. He didn't need to. His gaze fixed on the darkness ahead, tracking the shadows like a hunter sighting prey, and his hand drifted to his belt—slow, deliberate, a movement she'd seen a hundred times in the training yards.
The blade glinted beneath his cloak.
"Then we face him together," he said, and the words were low, measured, almost calm. But she could feel the tremor in his hand, the one he was trying to hide, and it made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the oath.
She looked down at their joined hands, at the red line that bound them. The cut on her palm was already closing, the skin knitting together with a faint, tingling warmth. His was deeper, deliberate, a wound he'd chosen. She could see the edges of it now, the way it split the callused lines of his palm, and something in her stomach turned.
"Nico." Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. "What if he—"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
"I don't need to know." His eyes met hers, amber catching the torchlight, and there was something in them she hadn't seen before. Not the wariness, not the edge. Something raw. "I need you to trust me."
The torch flames leaned slightly, as if disturbed by an unseen presence approaching down the corridor. The shadows shifted, and Cleo felt the cold pressure behind her sternum tighten again—her father's anger, sharp and invasive, flooding through her like a warning.
"He's close," she said, and her free hand came up to press against her chest, as if she could hold the feeling back. "I can feel him. He's—"
"I know."
Nico's grip on her hand tightened, a brief squeeze that felt like a promise. Then he let go, and the absence of his warmth was almost worse than the cold pressure building in her chest. He stepped forward, putting himself between her and the approaching silhouette, and she watched the set of his shoulders, the way he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet.
Ready to fight.
Ready to die, if it came to that.
She couldn't let him do that. She couldn't let him stand there alone, not when she could feel his heartbeat in her chest—steady, strong, and utterly certain.
"Wait." She stepped up beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. "We said together."
He glanced at her, something flickering in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer. "Together," he repeated, and the word tasted different this time. Less like a promise. More like a vow.
The silhouette drew closer, and the torchlight caught the edge of a familiar robe—the cut, the color, the way it moved. Cleo's breath caught. She knew that robe. She'd known it her whole life.
But her father was not alone.
There was a second figure, smaller, trailing behind him. A servant, perhaps. Or a guard. The question hung unspoken between them—who—and Cleo felt the cold pressure behind her sternum shift, sharpening into something she couldn't name.
"Stay behind me," Nico said, his voice low.
"No."
"Cleo—"
"No." She stepped forward, her chin lifting, and she felt the weight of his gaze on her, the heat of his presence at her back. "He's my father. I'll speak first."
Nico made a sound low in his throat—not quite a growl, but close. "If he tries to take you—"
"He won't." She said it with more confidence than she felt. "I won't let him."
The silhouette stopped at the edge of the torchlight, and Cleo felt the cold pressure behind her sternum spike—her father's anger, sharp and invasive, flooding through her like a second heartbeat. She could see his face now, the familiar lines of it, the silver-streaked hair, the eyes that had always been able to see through her every lie.
And behind him, the second figure stepped into the light.
It wasn't a servant. It wasn't a guard.
It was Sera.
Cleo's breath caught. Sera looked smaller than usual, her fiery red hair pulled back in a tight knot, her mischievous green eyes wide and wary. She was dressed in her best robes, the ones she only wore for formal occasions, and there was a look on her face that Cleo had never seen before.
Fear.
Cleo's mind raced, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Sera never attended formal negotiations. She'd made that abundantly clear the last time their fathers had forced them into ceremonial robes, muttering about "stuffy old men and their stuffier old grudges" while Cleo had laughed into her sleeve. For Sera to be here, dressed in her best, trailing behind Cleo's father like a well-behaved shadow—something was profoundly, terribly wrong.
"Sera?" The name came out as a question, thin and uncertain. Cleo took a step toward her friend, but Nico's hand shot out, catching her wrist. His grip was firm, almost bruising, and when she looked back at him, his amber eyes were fixed on the space between her father and Sera—tracking, measuring, searching for the threat he seemed certain was there.
"Careful," he murmured, barely moving his lips.
Her father's gaze swept over them—over their joined hands, over the drying blood on their palms, over the blade still glinting beneath Nico's cloak. His expression didn't change. It was the same composed mask she'd seen at a hundred council meetings, the one that revealed nothing and promised everything. But the pressure behind her sternum told a different story. It pulsed with a cold, controlled fury that made her stomach clench.
"Cleo." Her father's voice was level, almost pleasant. "I see you've been busy."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning she didn't want to unpack. She felt Nico tense beside her, felt the heat of his presence as he shifted his weight, ready to move. But she'd said she would speak first, and she meant it.
"Father." She kept her voice steady, matching his tone. "This isn't what it looks like."
"Isn't it?" His eyes dropped to their hands. "Because it looks like my daughter has sworn a blood oath to a werewolf from a rival pack. It looks like she's chosen to bind herself to the very creature she was raised to hunt." He paused, letting the words settle. "Am I mistaken?"
Cleo's throat tightened. She could feel Nico's heartbeat through the oath, steady and strong, a grounding presence in the chaos of her own emotions. She wanted to deny it, to find some clever deflection that would buy them time. But the truth was already written in the blood on their hands, and her father had always been able to see through her lies.
"You're not mistaken," she said quietly.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the torch flames seemed to still, as if the corridor itself was holding its breath. Behind her father, Sera's eyes went wide, her lips parting slightly—whether in shock or warning, Cleo couldn't tell.
"I see." Her father's voice was still calm, but the pressure behind Cleo's sternum spiked, sharp enough to make her wince. "And this oath—this binding of blood and fate—was it your choice, or his?"
"Mine." The word came out before she could think, fierce and defiant. "It was my choice."
"Cleo—" Nico started, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.
"He didn't force me, Father. He didn't trick me. I chose this." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a steadiness she didn't feel. "I chose him."
Her father's eyes flickered—a brief crack in the mask, there and gone. For a moment, she thought she saw something other than anger in them. Something that looked almost like grief. But then it was gone, replaced by the same cold composure as before.
"You don't know what you've done," he said softly. "You don't understand the weight of what you've bound yourself to."
"Then teach me." She took a step forward, her voice dropping. "You raised me to hunt his kind. You taught me to see them as monsters. But you never taught me why. You never told me what it was about them that made you so afraid."
The word hung between them—afraid. It was a word she'd never dared use about her father before. He was the strongest man she knew, the one who had never shown fear, never backed down. But she saw it now, in the tightness around his eyes, in the way his hand had drifted to rest on the hilt of his own blade.
He was afraid of what she'd become.
Or perhaps, she realized with a chill, he was afraid of what she might become.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, his voice rough.
"Then tell me." She pressed forward, her heart pounding. "Tell me why I was raised to hate his kind. Tell me what they did to make you so certain they were monsters. Tell me the truth, Father, and maybe I'll understand why you're so desperate to take me home."
For a long moment, her father said nothing. The torchlight flickered across his face, casting deep shadows in the lines of age and worry. She saw him glance at Nico—a quick, assessing look—and then back at her. Something shifted in his expression, a crack in the composure he wore like armor.
"Because I made a promise," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "A promise to your mother, on her deathbed, that I would keep you safe. That I would never let you follow the path she chose."
Cleo's breath caught. Her mother had died when she was young—too young to remember much beyond the warmth of her embrace, the scent of rosemary and brimstone that clung to her robes. No one had ever told her how. No one had ever explained the circumstances. It had always been a closed door, a locked room, a grief too deep to speak.
"What path?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What did she choose?"
Her father's jaw tightened. He looked away, and for a moment, she saw the grief he'd been carrying for years—a weight he'd never let her see, never let her share.
"She chose love," he said, the words coming out like they were being dragged from him. "She chose a man from the wrong side of the war, a man she was sworn to hate. And it cost her everything."
The corridor seemed to spin around Cleo. She felt Nico's hand on her arm, steadying her, but she could barely register the touch. Her mother had loved a werewolf. Her mother had chosen love over loyalty, and it had destroyed her.
"What happened to her?" Cleo whispered.
Her father's eyes met hers, and in them she saw a pain so deep it seemed to have carved him hollow. "She was killed," he said quietly. "By his pack. By the very people she'd tried to build a bridge to. They saw her as a traitor, and they made an example of her."
The words fell like stones, heavy and cold. Cleo felt the oath pull at her chest, felt Nico's heartbeat quicken in response to her own distress. She wanted to reach for him, to ground herself in the warmth of his presence, but her legs felt weak, unsteady.
"I'm sorry," she heard herself say, though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for. For her mother's death. For her own choices. For the grief she'd unknowingly carried all these years.
"I don't want your apologies, Cleo." Her father's voice hardened. "I want you to understand. I want you to see what you're walking into. This oath you've sworn—this bond you've chosen—it will destroy you. Just like it destroyed her."
Nico stepped forward, his voice low and fierce. "She's not your mother."
"No," her father agreed, his eyes flashing. "She's worse. She's stubborn enough to think she can succeed where her mother failed."
The words struck like a blow. Cleo felt them land, felt the truth of them settle into her chest. She was stubborn. She was determined. She had believed, with all her heart, that she could do what her mother couldn't—that she could bridge the gap between their peoples, that she could love without paying the ultimate price.
But now, standing in the torch-lit corridor with her father's grief laid bare before her, she wasn't so sure.
"I have to try," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I have to believe it's possible. Because if I don't—" She stopped, the words catching in her throat. "If I don't, then her death was for nothing. And I can't accept that."
Her father stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he turned away, his shoulders slumping in a way she'd never seen before.
"You're more like her than you know," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "And that's what frightens me most."
He began to walk away, his robes billowing behind him. Sera lingered for a moment, her eyes meeting Cleo's—a silent message, a warning, a plea. And then she followed, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Cleo stood there, frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. Beside her, Nico was silent, his presence a steady warmth at her back. She felt the oath pull at her, felt his heartbeat echoing her own, and she wondered if this was what her mother had felt—this terrifying, exhilarating certainty that love was worth the cost, even when the cost was everything.
"Cleo." Nico's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Are you alright?"
She turned to look at him, at the concern etched into his features, at the way his hand had found hers again without her noticing. The blood on their palms had dried, flaking at the edges, but the bond between them felt stronger than ever—a thread of warmth in the cold, dark corridor.
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I don't know if I'm alright. I don't know if I ever will be."
He squeezed her hand, a brief, grounding pressure. "Then we'll figure it out together."
She looked up at him, at the amber eyes that held no judgment, no fear—only a fierce, unwavering determination. And for the first time since her father had spoken, she felt something other than dread.
She felt hope.