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He picks up the mask, the hint of bronze shimmering in the light.

“Daughter of Darkness,” he says, calling me to him. “These items were once used to keep you under control. If you’re ready, you can turn them to ash and remove their hold on you.”

I step forward and stare at the mask. This thing haunted my nightmares and controlled my memories. It was a reminder that someone else out there—the Guardian—was willing to sacrifice me to enact her revenge. With two hands, I take the heavy mask from him and stare into the empty eye sockets, shaking off the fear that once consumed me.

I carry it to the fire and throw it in, letting the flames swallow it whole. Before it’s even burned completely, I turn and grab the case. I open the box and toss it into the fire, but hold onto the rod. I stand close to the fire, feeling the flames heat my skin, and whisper, “This isn’t just for me. This is for every Hexley woman before me and everyone that comes after. We are not objects to control, or bodies to punish. We’re strong, and we will always survive.”

I drop the rod into the fire and watch it burn, taking the pain and frustration of my past with it.

When I step back, Timothy grabs my wrist. He looks down at me and says, “I love you.”

A sob catches in my throat. It’s not one of sadness but of pride. “I love you, too.”

He nods at me to step back with the others on the other side of the altar. When I’m in place, he sets three rings where the mask and case were. The metal shines in the firelight; each band is marked with the bronze pentagram.

He gestures to Hunter and Damon to step forward. “On this sacred night, when the veil thins, I ask that you become equal in leadership, bound together with me as your third. We will control Beta Rho Nu, the lands, and the balance between this life and the next.”

My throat tightens, watching him give Damon and Hunter a ring. They slide them onto their fingers, accepting the responsibility.

“Together, we will lead. Together, we will decide. Together, we will protect what has been entrusted to us. None of us will stand above the others, and none of us will stand alone.”

He lifts the dagger. Timothy makes a small cut across his palm and allows several drops of blood to fall into the bronze chalice. He passes the blade to Damon, then Hunter, and they add their blood to the mixture.

Timothy gestures for me to come over. “Sister, will you give us the mark of the House of Night and bind us in the ritual?”

“Yes,” I reply, eager to join the ceremony.

Timothy kneels, and Damon and Hunter follow. I dip my fingers into the chalice, coating them in warm blood. I go to Hunter first and make the Baron's mark across his forehead, then move to Damon. I leave them bloody with the symbology of our people, just like they carved into my chest after the Hunt.

I stop before Timothy, his green eyes shining. I know what he’s doing, and I love him for it. More than I realized was possible. He’s giving up everything to be at one with his Barons. It’s a bold move—one I doubt many other rulers would make.

I dip my fingers into the blood and slowly make the points of the star, enclosed in a circle.

“Thank you, Sinister Sister.”

I give him a small smile. “You’re welcome, Daddy.”

His pupils dilate, turning dark and hungry, before he blinks and returns to the ritual.

“Repeat the oath,” he says to the men by his side. “Blood remembers. An oath binds. A legacy endures. Will you carry the obligation of Beta Rho Nu and the House of Night together?”

“I will,” Damon says, his voice rough.

“I will,” Hunter agrees.

Timothy looks up at me. “I will.”

They stand, and Timothy raises his hands, instructing the Shadows to lower their heads in unison, the firelight catching against the bronze pentagrams at their throats. “Then we swear our fealty,” they say together, their voices carrying through the clearing. “To the three who lead, to the House we protect, and to the legacy we carry forward. We stand beside you, not beneath you. We will defend this house, its people, and the balance entrusted to us.”

He pours the blood back into the earth at the base of the altar and says, “Then let the old ways be remade.”

The ceremony should end there; instead, Timothy turns toward me, forehead still marked in blood, the equinox crackling around us.

His expression changes, the ceremonial distance falling away until he is simply Timothy again.

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

“For what?” I blurt.