The stairway spat them into firelight.

Crimson braziers flared as Bianca descended, her presence bending the glow until it licked gold at the edges. She didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. Power rolled off her in controlled waves—no longer wild, no longer unchecked. This was a queen who had accepted her crown.

The man at her side steadied himself, boots striking ancient stone with measured precision.

Amenmose.

The name had surfaced the moment the rite sealed—burned into Bianca’s awareness like a brand she hadn’t known she was missing. Not chosen. Revealed.

Son of legacy. Blood of kings. A name worthy of standing beside hers.

“Amenmose,” she said aloud, testing it.

The sound hit him like a blow. He stopped short, breath catching, eyes snapping to hers. “How did you—”

“Because the magic answered,” she cut in softly, turning to face him. Her fingers traced the air near his chest, not touching, yet the bond thrummed hot between them. “You carry echoes. Old ones. Thutmose’s line bends toward you.”

His jaw tightened, a flash of something ancient stirring behind his gaze—recognition without memory. “I’ve always felt it,” he admitted. “Like something watching from behind my ribs.”

Bianca smiled slowly. Predatory. Pleased.

“It isn’t watching anymore.”

The temple shuddered.

A shockwave rippled through the stairwell, wards screaming as figures began to emerge from the shadows above—robed silhouettes, eyes glowing with coven fire.

“They’re early,” Amenmose said grimly.

Bianca stepped in front of him without thinking, her body angling protectively. “They’re afraid,” she corrected. “That makes them sloppy.”

The first spell flew.

Bianca caught it barehanded and crushed it, sparks raining down like dying stars. Her power flared—not explosive, but surgical. Deadly. Controlled.

“Amenmose,” she said, never looking back, “when I say move, you move. When I say stand—”

“I stand,” he finished, voice iron-clad.

Her lips twitched. “Good.”

A coven enforcer lunged. Bianca struck fast—too fast to follow—darkness wrapping her arm as she sent him flying into the wall. Stone cracked. Silence followed.

The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

“Amenmose,” Bianca said, finally glancing back at him, eyes burning ruby-bright. “Now.”

Something inside him answered.

The air around Amenmose shifted—heated, alive. Symbols flared beneath his feet, older than the temple, responding to blood that remembered its throne. His hands ignited with golden sigils, power surging not borrowed, but inherited.

The coven froze.

Bianca laughed—low, thrilled, devastating.

“There you are,” she murmured. “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

Amenmose stepped beside her, shoulders squared, gaze lethal. “Seems the dark runs in the family.”

Together, they faced the coven—
a witch who had broken the rules
and a man born to survive the consequences.

And somewhere, deep beneath the temple, the old gods stirred—
because Bianca had not merely claimed a lover.

She had reclaimed a king.