CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Blood Oaths and Broken Brothers

The chamber beneath Silver & Vale’s gleaming marble lobby was not built for reconciliation.

Stone walls bore claw marks from past trials. Torches flickered unnaturally despite the lack of wind. And in the middle of the courtroom—a circle etched in wolven runes—stood Maxim Vale.

Zara stood just outside the ring, her arms folded tightly against her body as if she could hold back the storm gathering around them. Her heels clicked softly on the polished stone as she took one step closer, then another, her gaze fixed not on Maxim—but on the man standing opposite him.

Victor Vale.

No designer suit this time. No golden cufflinks. Only a dark shirt rolled to the elbows and a look in his eyes that reeked of vengeance.

“You’re not backing down,” Victor said, voice smooth as broken glass. “Even after what happened to your little intern upstairs?”

Maxim’s jaw tensed. “Say her name again, and I’ll end this here.”

“Zara,” Victor repeated, with venomous ease. “The girl you branded under moonlight in front of half the power players in the supernatural world. I can see why you're obsessed. You’ve always been a sucker for the fragile ones.”

Zara’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t fragile. She knew that. But Victor’s words weren’t meant to insult her. They were meant to draw blood from his brother.

And judging by the way Maxim’s aura pulsed—he was succeeding.

A council elder raised his hand. “Blood has been drawn, but not yet spilled. This tribunal is not a place for personal vendettas.”

Victor chuckled, stepping forward into the circle. “Isn’t that what all tribunals are?”

Maxim didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But Zara saw it—the flicker of something ancient and primal in his eyes. He was holding back not because he couldn’t fight—but because if he did, he might not stop.

The elder continued, “As per the Old Pact, heirs must present a united front. This court demands a blood oath—a shared truth and trial—to prove your loyalties. Do you accept?”

“I do,” Maxim said first.

Victor tilted his head. “And if we don’t pass?”

“You forfeit your seat,” the elder said simply. “And the council chooses a successor.”

Victor’s smirk twitched. “So be it.”

A blade was brought forward. Not steel. Not silver. But obsidian carved from cursed earth—meant to slice through truth itself.

Maxim reached for it without hesitation, dragging the blade across his palm. Blood dripped, dark and slow.

Victor followed, though his wince was more dramatic, more deliberate. He let the blood fall where Maxim’s had, their drops merging in the etched runes.

As the stone glowed faintly red, Zara felt the magic activate. The air grew heavy. Charged.

The elder began the rite. “Speak now the shared truth.”

Maxim’s voice was low but steady. “We are the blood of Vale. Born of the same line, heirs to the same power. Divided by ambition, bound by fate.”

Victor echoed him, his tone a shade too theatrical. “We are the blood of Vale. Brothers still, though we walk different paths. May this oath bind truth, even as our choices tear us apart.”

Zara shivered. The magic sealed the words in place like a lock behind ancient iron doors.

But something felt wrong. Too easy.

Too rehearsed.

And she wasn’t the only one who sensed it.

One of the other council members—a fae woman with silver-dusted hair—narrowed her eyes. “If your oath is true, why does the air reek of deception?”

Victor laughed, stepping back. “Because deception is part of power, darling.”

“Enough,” Maxim growled. “This isn’t theater.”

“No,” Victor agreed. “But it is war.”

He lunged—not at Maxim—but at the council sigil.

The attack was fast, magical, and calculated. But Maxim was faster.

He met his brother mid-air, claws out, power flaring. The circle erupted in raw force, sending sparks and wards crashing against the chamber walls. Council members leapt back. Zara stumbled but didn’t run. Couldn’t.

Because this wasn’t about politics anymore.

It was about blood.

The fight was savage. Victor fought dirty—dark spells crackling at his fingertips, going for vital points, aiming to maim. Maxim fought with purpose, control—countering every blow with terrifying precision.

But they were matched, too closely, too painfully.

Clash after clash rang out, until Victor feinted a strike, then drove a blade—not obsidian, but bone—into Maxim’s side.

Zara screamed. The sound cut through the chamber like a banshee’s cry.

Maxim staggered, blood soaking through his shirt.

But he didn’t fall.

He reached up—grabbing Victor’s wrist—and whispered something only his brother could hear.

Victor’s eyes widened.

And then Maxim drove his claws into Victor’s shoulder, tearing through muscle and magic alike.

Victor cried out, falling to one knee.

The council elder raised his hand again. “Enough!”

But the damage had been done.

Both brothers stood bloodied and broken, panting, eyes locked across the circle like wolves who had lost everything except the war between them.

The elder stepped forward. “This is no longer a test of loyalty. It is an omen.”

Another council member added coldly, “One brother carries a wound. The other carries a secret.”

Maxim didn’t deny it. Neither did Victor.

Zara stepped forward, fury and fear battling inside her. “Is this what the Vale legacy is? Blood spilled and oaths broken?”

Neither man answered.

But Victor—still crouched, still bleeding—lifted his gaze to hers. “You’ve changed him, little intern. But not enough.”

Then he turned to the elders. “I withdraw.”

Gasps echoed. Even Maxim looked stunned.

Victor smiled, though it was a bitter thing. “Let him wear the crown. Let him clean up the mess.”

He walked from the chamber without another word.

And no one stopped him.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Maxim didn’t move until Zara reached him, her hand slipping into his without hesitation.

“You okay?” she whispered.

He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “I don’t know what he planned, but he didn’t come here to win. He came to expose something. Or… distract us.”

Zara felt the weight of that settle like frost in her bones.

Outside, the world was already shifting. The vote. The trial. The enemies in shadow.

Whatever Victor started wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.