Chapter 8 Violet
Violet
Bronwen stood in the doorway, blocking my escape.
“Did—did you just transfer?”
She shook her head. “I ran.”
The words stuck in my throat.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” she said, voice roughened at the edges. “Not by walking in on me.”
I glanced over her shoulder, instinct screaming that I could transfer. That I should. I drew in a breath—
—and Bronwen caught my wrist before I could move.
“Please don’t leave,” she said quickly. “I won’t hurt you. You have to know that. Sebastian would never let me anywhere near you if he thought I would.”
Logically, she was right.
Emotionally, none of that mattered.
She had just been drinking someone’s blood.
“You want answers about me and Adar, don’t you?” she asked.
I managed a single nod.
“Then please,” she said softly, releasing my wrist, “let me explain.”
When I didn’t bolt, she moved past me and returned to the fae slumped in the chair. Her touch was careful now—two fingers pressed to the punctures at his throat until the bleeding slowed. She wiped her mouth with the heel of her hand, the motion brisk, almost ashamed.
“There’s too much,” she said, dragging a hand through her hair. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s all… tangled.”
Bronwen—who joked and schemed and bullied half a realm into functioning—paced in front of me with drying blood at the corner of her lip.
My legs chose that moment to give out. I sank onto the small settee opposite the chair, fingers gripping the edge. Bronwen moved with quiet efficiency—tidying the room with a flick of her wrist, setting a glass of water near the fae’s hand, urging him gently to drink.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He nodded shakily and left without looking at either of us.
Only then did she lean back against the wardrobe, shoulders pressing into the wood like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She took a slow breath.
“I’m from Joveryn.”
The word landed heavy.
Joveryn. The human lands.
Once, they had bordered Alentara, separated only by the Mavrola River—before the realms were carved apart.
Before the world shifted and magic sealed itself away.
I’d read the histories: fae and witches trading with humans, some even seeking refuge there.
Then silence. Lost contact. Only relics occasionally washing up on our shores.
The small collection of human books in the library suddenly made sense.
It also raised far more questions than it answered.
“Humans don’t drink blood,” I said.
Her mouth curved into a half-smile, nothing like the ones she usually wore. “No. They don’t.”
She straightened. “Adar and I were born to the leader of a witch coven in Joveryn. But we had no natural connection to magic. We could only take it from others and use it as our own.”
My stomach twisted.
“It never affected Adar the way it did me. He could take it, wield it, and go weeks without touching it again. For me…” Her voice faltered. “It was intoxicating. The more I took, the more I wanted.”
I stayed silent, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thread was holding her together.
“So I started sneaking out,” she said. “Hunting vampires without my family knowing. Stealing their magic and—”
“Vampires?” I interrupted, disbelief slipping through.
She huffed softly. “Right. You really do have a lot to learn.”
She pushed off the wardrobe and began pacing again.
“A cursed fae traveled to Joveryn millenia ago. He bargained with one of my ancestors—offered anything in exchange for immortality. But his body was already failing, so he found a host instead. He tricked the Joveryn King into giving up his body,” she said.
“The king never realized the fae was taking it for himself. The magic worked—but it came at a price. Immortality requires blood.”
Understanding dawned slowly. Bronwen spoke again before I could say anything.
“He was the first vampire, and he created an army. A lineage. He had more power and control than anyone should.” Her jaw tightened.
“Because my ancestor was the one who bound the magic, my papa believed that was why Adar and I were broken. Cursed. And he thought that if we killed the first vampire, we’d be fixed.
We didn’t know the truth then. We didn’t know our king was a vampire. Or that he was the first.”
Silence stretched between us.
“Anyway,” she said finally, voice quieter now. “One night, while I was hunting… I found August.”
She said his name like it hurt.
“He was a vampire,” she continued. “I tried to steal his magic. But before I could kill him, he marked me.”
“Marked?”
“If a vampire feeds from a human but doesn’t kill them,” she said, staring somewhere past me, “they… bond. Not like you and Sebastian. Nothing that clean.” Her mouth twisted. “It’s obsessive. Possessive. Always dangerous.”
She exhaled sharply. “We hated each other at first. He was arrogant and relentless and brilliant—and completely unhinged. And he made me feel stupid, which I resented with my whole soul.”
A faint, almost hysterical smile flickered across her mouth before disappearing just as quickly.
“We tried to kill each other constantly,” she went on.
“Until one day he told me he’d help me find the first vampire.
And somehow—gods help me—we stopped hating each other.
” Her fingers curled at her sides. “The obsession got worse. We ruined everything we touched. I thought we were working toward the same goal.”
She swallowed.
“But when my parents were murdered, I realized I didn’t know him at all. He had lied to me. About everything.”
She didn’t look at me to see if I was following. Didn’t pause to explain further. She spoke like someone crossing a river on stones only she could see—moving because stopping would mean drowning.
I barely understood any of it.
“You see,” she continued, quieter now, “his father—Carrow—was the first vampire. The Joveryn King.” Her jaw tightened. “He tried to explain it to me. But I was young. And furious that he had kept it from me to begin with. I hurt August. And I killed his father in retaliation.”
My breath left me slowly.
“But Carrow was smarter than anyone I’ve ever met,” she said.
“He had every possible outcome planned before my ancestor ever cast the spell. He knew immortality would have weaknesses—fire, a wooden stake to the heart, a heart torn from the chest.” Her eyes flicked to mine.
“And he built himself a loophole. When a body failed, he could take another. A descendant’s body. And it was August’s turn.”
She let out a bitter laugh.
“He had tried to stop me,” she said. “I didn’t listen. He’d broken my heart, and I wanted blood for it.” Her voice cracked once, barely. “But August didn’t want to give himself up. And I knew the moment Carrow returned, he’d come for me.”
She dragged a hand through her hair.
“So we worked together again. Because there was no other choice. And that bond I told you about? Even when we hated each other all over again, it never left.” She looked at me then. “Gods, he made me marry him.”
“We tried to find a way to stop him, and we got close.” Her gaze drifted—not to me, but toward the closet. “We found the method they used to bring him back. A blade from Alentara—one that holds souls. But it was forged with dark magic, layered too deeply. It couldn’t be destroyed.”
Her voice didn’t waver when she said, “Then I watched the blade swallow August.”
My stomach twisted.
“And then Carrow stepped through it,” she continued, quiet and merciless, “wearing my husband’s face.”
She didn’t pause for my reaction.
“He kept me alive. Locked me away. Observed me. Hurt me.” Her jaw tightened. “I was pregnant when August… died. Carrow wanted to see what I would make. A half-witch, half-vampire vessel. Something better. Stronger.” Her mouth pulled tight. “But it was a girl.”
She looked at me then. “He had no use for a girl.”
My heart sank.
“In my grief, I found a way into Adar’s mind—so he could find me.
But I wasn’t leaving until I finished what I’d started.
And there was only one way I could see out of it.
” She swallowed once. “I became a vampire, killed Carrow—” Her eyes darkened.
“—and made sure they could never let him out again.”
She pushed away from the wardrobe and crossed the room.
Her hand trembled once on the closet latch before she forced it still.
From the very back, she pulled out a wooden box wrapped in layers of old cloth.
When she set it on the low table and peeled the fabric away, the room seemed to dim as if the light itself wanted distance.
The blade inside was long and narrow, its metal darkened by age and use. The Old Tongue was etched down its spine in characters that made my eyes want to slide away. The stone in the pommel wasn’t a gem so much as an absence—a depthless black that felt endless if you stared too long.
“It’s funny,” Bronwen said softly, and there was nothing amused in her voice. “August bound us together in this life and the next. And I hated him for it.”
Her fingers hovered just above the blade.
“But now,” she whispered, “there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to see him again.”
I found my voice again in a whisper that scraped my throat. “You wish to die?”
She shook her head. “I did. Once.” Her gaze dropped to the box. “But I knew he wouldn’t be waiting for me.”
She traced the first line of etched script with her finger, then jerked her hand back as if the metal burned.
“When he—” She inhaled, slow and careful.
“When his soul was sacrificed to the blade, his life didn’t end.
That thing is its own world. A prison filled with mindless monsters and the man who took him from me.
” Her jaw clenched. “August is forced to spend eternity trapped with the one who destroyed everything we were.”
She snapped the lid shut, decisive, like she could smother what lived inside.
“I’ve tried to find a way to get him out,” she said.
“Even if it was only to send him on—to let him rest. But I failed.” Her mouth twisted.
“The witches here won’t touch it. They say the one who forged the blade used magic that shouldn’t exist and no one practices it anymore, and my ancestor’s alterations made it unstable.
Volatile.” A short, humorless breath. “They’re afraid of what would happen if it were ever used again. ”
“Alentara doesn’t know any of this,” she went on.
“Your realms. Your politics. None of them ever touched Joveryn after the spell fractured the world. No vampires crossed your borders until I did.” Her eyes darkened.
“I chose the Night Realm because it was a name in a book August and I read once, when we were desperate enough to believe anything might save us. Far away. Full of its own monsters.”
Her mouth softened, just slightly.
“When everything fell apart, I shoved the image into Adar’s mind and told him to take us there. He did. Because he trusted me.”
She exhaled.
“And then there was Sebastian. A faeling with too much power and not enough guidance. Wild. Stubborn. So misunderstood it made my teeth ache.” A faint, almost fond curve touched her mouth. “I stayed because of him.”
“And Adar?” I asked. “Is he…?”
She shook her head. “He’s fae now.” A beat. “Sebastian can persuade witches to do remarkable things when he wants to.” Her gaze sharpened. “Being fae suits Adar better. Fire, sunlight, blood. He doesn’t have to worry about weaknesses on a battlefield.”
“Sunlight?”
“Turned vampires burn in it,” she said. “Born vampires—like August—can tolerate it.”
The words slid into place too easily.
No sun in the Night Realm.
She’ll never be able to visit me in the Sun Realm.
Bronwen glanced down at the darkening smear of blood on her cuff, then brushed it away with practiced care. “I’ve always fed within these walls,” she said. “Quietly. I won’t let what I am become a rumor that unravels what we’ve built here.”
Her gaze lifted to mine.
“I have been very careful about feeding since you arrived. I thought you were with Sebastian.”
“He just left.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you already. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you,” she added. “But because saying it out loud tears something open I’ve managed to stitch shut just enough to stand.”
She reached up and moved her hair aside, baring the pale scars at the base of her neck.
“This is where August bit me the first time,” she said simply. “It disappeared when I turned, but I asked Sebastian to put it back when he glamoured me.” Her fingers lingered there. “I couldn’t bear to lose the last mark he ever left on me.”
Her hand dropped to her thigh, pressing briefly. “And this one is a reminder,” she went on, quieter now, “that I will never let anyone hurt me again.”
The box sat between us on the table. She smoothed a wrinkle from the cloth that wrapped it.
“I will never love another the way I loved August,” she said. “I won’t try.”
There was nothing to argue. Nothing to soothe. Because I understood it too well. So I reached across the table and placed my hand over hers, right where her fingers rested on the box.
She didn’t pull away.
And for the first time since I’d known her, Bronwen didn’t look like a force of nature living her life to the fullest. I saw a different version of her. One I didn’t know existed.
She looked like someone who had survived the most unbearable pain—and chosen to keep living anyway.