Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Kieran
The bond snaps taut, then starts to fray.
I feel her slipping away from me like water through my fingers. My body jerks forward, every instinct screaming at me to reach her, to hold on, to refuse what’s happening.
“No,” I rasp, stumbling toward where Daciana lies on the ground. Blood stains her lips. Her chest is barely moving. “No, no, no—”
Then Hera’s voice cuts through the chaos: “…my daughter.”
My head whips toward the gypsy witch, and for a moment, everything stops. The battle raging around us fades. Celeste’s triumphant laughter dims. All I can hear is those two words echoing in my skull.
Hera’s daughter.
I look down at Daciana. Her eyes flutter, unfocused, and I see her trying to process it, too. Trying to understand what it means even as the poison from Celeste’s dark magic eats through her veins.
“Kieran…” Her voice is barely a whisper. She’s struggling, fighting to stay conscious, to stay alive.
“Stop.” I drop to my knees beside her, my hands already glowing with healing magic. “Don’t talk. Don’t move. Just let me—”
I pour everything I have into her. Centuries of accumulated power, every healing technique I’ve ever learned, every desperate prayer I’ve never spoken aloud. The magic flows from my palms into her chest, searching for the poison, trying to burn it out of her system.
But it’s not working.
The poison is magical, ancient, specifically designed to kill someone like her. It wraps around her organs like vines, squeezing and suffocating. Every time I destroy one black thread of it, two more take its place.
“Come on,” I grit out, pressing harder. My hands shake. “Come on, damn you. Work!”
Daciana’s hand finds mine. So weak. So cold.
“Kieran…” She’s fading; I can feel it through the bond. The golden thread that has connected us for centuries is growing dimmer, darker. “It’s okay…”
“It’s not okay!” My voice cracks. I’ve never felt this kind of terror before. Not in eight hundred years. “You don’t get to leave me. Not now. Not after everything—”
Behind me, Hera is fighting Celeste, her magic crackling through the air. I should be helping. I should be protecting the others. But I can’t leave Daciana. I can’t let go.
I try again. More magic. More power. I’m burning through my reserves, pushing past every limit, and it’s still not enough.
“Hera!” Her name tears from my throat, raw and devastated. “Help her!”
The gypsy witch’s head turns. Just for a moment, she looks over her shoulder, and I see something in her eyes—something ancient and sad and determined.
“She’s dying,” I choke out. “I can’t—I can’t save her—”
Hera blocks one of Celeste’s attacks, then another. Her gaze drops to Daciana, and I watch her face transform. Not the powerful witch, not the mysterious gypsy. Just a mother looking at her daughter.
“I can save her.”
Four words. That’s all it takes for hope to flood back into my chest.
“Please.” I’ve never begged for anything in my life. “Please, whatever it takes—”
“Come.” Hera’s voice is steady, commanding. “You fight this one. I’ll take care of Daciana.”
I look down at my mate. Her eyes are closed now. Her breathing is so shallow I can barely see her chest move. Every fiber of my being rebels against walking away from her, even for a second.
But if Hera can save her…
I lean down and press my lips to Daciana’s forehead. “Don’t you dare die on me,” I whisper against her skin. “That’s an order.”
Then, I force myself to stand. To step back. To let Hera take my place beside my mate.
The moment Hera’s hands touch Daciana’s chest, I feel the difference.
Ancient magic—older than mine, older than anything I’ve encountered—surges through the air.
Several other gypsy witches materialize from the shadows, forming a circle around them.
Their voices rise in unison, chanting in a language that makes my bones vibrate.
I turn away. Focus on what I can control.
Celeste stands across from me, her blonde hair wild, her eyes glinting with both malice and desperation.
“It ends now, Celeste.” I call my magic to the surface, letting it crackle along my arms. Centuries of power. Centuries of rage. “You’re not walking away from this.”
She laughs. Actually laughs. “Even if you kill me, I’ve already won. I’ll be reborn. I always am. And next time—”
“There won’t be a next time.” I take a step forward. “The curse is broken. Cassandra is free. She is with the gypsy witches right now.”
The laughter dies on Celeste’s lips. “You’re lying.”
“You have tried to outwit destiny,” I say, my voice cold and steady. “But all the necromancy and curses in the world cannot stop the card that destiny wishes to play. You have lost.”
Celeste’s face twists with rage. “You think you can stop me? I’ve been doing this for millennia, so—”
I don’t let her finish.
All the power I’ve been building, all the magic I’ve been storing for centuries—I unleash it in one devastating strike. Lightning and fire and pure raw energy explode from my hands, tearing through the air toward her.
She blocks it, barely, her shield shimmering under the onslaught. But I don’t stop. I pour more power into the attack, pushing her back, making her focus entirely on defense.
That’s when I feel them—Lucian and Seth, moving like shadows through the chaos.
Celeste is so focused on me, so busy trying to survive my assault, that she doesn’t notice them flanking her. Doesn’t see them until it’s too late.
Seth distracts her, and Lucian attacks. His hands, clawed and deadly, wrap around Celeste’s neck. She has just enough time to gasp before he tears her head clean from her shoulders.
Her body crumples to the ground.
For a moment, there’s only silence. Celeste—the witch who has haunted us for centuries, who has killed and cursed and destroyed—lies in pieces at our feet.
Hera rushes over, her face grim. “It’s not over yet.”
She kneels beside Celeste’s body, placing her hand on the dead witch’s chest. The chanting starts again, low and rhythmic, and I watch in fascination and horror as Celeste’s body begins to disintegrate. Flesh turns to ash, bones crumble to dust, until only one thing remains.
Her heart.
Still beating.
Hera picks it up and holds it in her palm. Black veins spider across its surface, pulsing with dark magic.
Then, she squeezes.
The heart bursts, spraying blood over the ground. Hera uses the blood to draw a symbol on the garden floor—intricate and ancient, glowing with power.
The moment she finishes, a wave of magic explodes outward.
It passes through me like a shockwave, but instead of pain, I feel…release. Whatever it is that has been coiled tight in my chest for eight hundred years suddenly unravels. The curse—the invisible chain that has bound me—simply dissolves.
I gasp, staggering backward. My body feels lighter. My magic flows more freely. Everything is different, and yet everything is the same.
I see Lucian streak toward Astra, and I spin around.
Daciana is lying where Hera left her. She’s alive. Her eyes are open. The color is returning to her cheeks, and the bond—our bond—is strong and steady again.
“She’s fine,” Hera says through her exhaustion. “She’ll recover.”
I stumble to Daciana and gather her in my arms. She’s so warm, so solid, so real. I bury my face in her hair and breathe.
Together, we look at Hera.
The gypsy witch stands before us, and for the first time, I see her clearly. Not as the mysterious stranger who appeared in our lives. Not as the powerful magic-wielder who saved us. But as Elara’s mother. As the woman who loved Daciana’s soul centuries before I ever met her.
“Is it over?” For the first time I can remember, my voice actually shakes. “Can we—can we be happy now?”
Hera’s smile is soft, sad, and knowing. “Yes.”
One simple word. But it means everything.
Daciana stirs in my arms. “Were you Elara’s mother?”
Hera’s face crumples for just a moment, agony flashing across her features before she replies. “Yes,” she whispers.
Daciana struggles to stand up, and I help her, keeping my arms around her waist. She’s still weak, still recovering, but nothing can stop her as she takes slow, deliberate steps toward Hera. She wraps her arms around the ancient witch.
“Thank you,” Daciana says, and her voice breaks. “Thank you for everything.”
Hera stands rigid, her arms at her sides. I see the shock on her face, the disbelief. How long has it been since someone embraced her? How long since she has allowed herself to be vulnerable?
Then, slowly, her arms come up. She holds Daciana close, and when she speaks, her voice is barely audible.
“You have to promise me something, my daughter.” The endearment sounds strange on her lips, like she’s testing it out. “Live every moment like you’ve earned it. We have all sacrificed so much for this moment.”
Daciana pulls back, confused. “What do you mean?”
Hera’s smile turns brittle. “The curse we cast had a consequence. Now that you and Kieran are free, the gypsy witches…We will die soon. In a few days.”
“No!” Daciana’s face goes white. “No, we can fix this. There has to be some way—”
“We are ready to go.” Hera’s voice is firm but gentle. “Cassandra will go with us. She has suffered enough, been tortured for long enough. This is our last meeting, Daciana. Now, I want to be with Elara.”
Tears stream down Daciana’s face. She nods, unable to speak.
Behind us, Astra screams.
The sound cuts through the moment, and we all turn to see Selene kneeling beside Astra in the grass, coaching her through the birth. Lucian hovers nearby, looking more shaken than I’ve ever seen him, his usual composure completely stripped away.
Hera and the other gypsy witches fade back into the shadows, their forms growing translucent. Daciana sees this and reaches out to them, but they’re already gone.
“Come.” I start to guide Daciana toward Astra, but I can feel her body trembling. The healing worked, but she is nowhere near full strength.