Isabella did not leave the Blood Court.
That was the mistake everyone made—assuming distance was required for devastation.
She remained within the fortress walls, within the realm Ryan ruled, close enough that the bond could still ache.
She took up residence in the eastern wing—an ancient sector sealed for centuries, its halls etched with blood-runes older than the Council itself. The wards recognized her immediately. Doors opened. Stone softened. Power bent.
She claimed the wing without announcement.
Without permission.
Without apology.
And only then—when the night was deep and the castle held its breath—did she turn inward.
The bond pulsed violently in her chest.
Not broken.
Not whole.
A living wound.
Ryan's presence tugged at her awareness—faint, distorted, still reaching. He could feel her proximity now. The bond strained because of it.
Good.
Isabella stood before the obsidian mirror embedded in the wall, crimson light pooling beneath her feet as blood magic unfurled across her skin.
"This is where you learn," she said quietly, voice steady despite the pain already sharpening, "that I do not disappear when denied."
She pressed two fingers to the bond's core.
The magic recoiled.
Severing a bond entirely was destruction.
This—
This was amputation.
"By blood that bows to no crown," she intoned, runes blazing, "by sovereignty unshared, I reclaim what was given without respect."
The bond screamed.
Not metaphorically.
The castle heard it.
Stone cracked. Wards flared. Somewhere distant, alarms chimed before cutting off abruptly, overridden by older authority.
Isabella gasped as the magic cut—not clean, not merciful. Threads of fate tore loose, burning as they recoiled back toward Ryan. Memories fractured. Warmth drained. The constant sense of being anchored vanished in a rush so sudden it nearly dropped her to her knees.
She caught herself on the mirror.
Blood traced her fingers.
When it was done, the bond still existed—
But hollowed.
She had taken back her emotional tether, her vulnerability, her instinct to bend.
What remained was recognition.
Not intimacy.
Not comfort.
Connection without claim.
She straightened slowly, breath steadying.
"Now," she whispered, eyes cold as garnet, "you may feel what you chose."
Ryan screamed.
Not aloud—but internally, violently, as the bond collapsed inward.
He staggered in his chambers, clutching his chest as something fundamental was ripped away. The pull toward Isabella remained—but stripped of warmth, stripped of reassurance.
All that was left was distance and pain.
"She's still here," he rasped, panic threading his voice. "I can feel her—why can I still feel her?"
His wolf slammed against him, frantic, confused, enraged.
This wasn't abandonment.
This was presence without mercy.
Ryan stumbled to the balcony overlooking the inner court.
And there—
A flare of crimson light ignited the eastern wing.
His blood ran cold.
"No," he whispered. "No—Isabella, stop—"
Too late.
The bond went still.
Not silent.
Closed.
Ryan collapsed to his knees, breath tearing from his lungs as understanding crashed down on him at last.
She hadn't left.
She had withdrawn.
There was no chasing that.
No apology large enough.
Because she had made the most devastating choice of all—
To stay and no longer reach for him.
The court woke to a different kind of terror.
Isabella attended council the following night.
She arrived precisely on time.
She wore black this time, not crimson—mourning colors among the old bloodlines. The crown of bloodstone remained, heavier now, sharper.
She took her throne.
Not beside Ryan.
Opposite him.
The chamber froze.
The High Elder stammered. "Your Majesty—this seating—"
"I have not abdicated," Isabella said calmly. "Nor have I been dismissed."
Her gaze flicked to Ryan.
He looked ruined.
Good.
"I remain Blood Queen," she continued. "And I will remain present in every matter that concerns this realm."
Murmurs erupted.
Leona shifted uneasily. "This is highly irregular."
Isabella smiled faintly. "So is denying a blood-bound sovereign."
She leaned back, power unfurling—not aggressive, not wild.
Established.
"Let us be clear," Isabella said to the court. "I do not contest the Alpha King's crown."
Ryan flinched.
"I contest his exclusivity."
The words landed like a blade between ribs.
"I will rule my bloodlines," she continued. "Command my forces. Levy my alliances."
The High Elder swallowed. "You would divide the realm?"
"No," Isabella corrected softly. "I will expose the fracture that already exists."
She rose.
Every gaze followed.
"You may call me destabilizing," she said, eyes burning. "You may call me rival."
Her gaze locked with Ryan's.
"But you will not call me gone."
She turned and left the chamber—not fleeing, not retreating.
Claiming space.
Ryan remained seated long after the council dissolved, chest aching with a bond that still tethered him to a queen who no longer belonged to him.
She was here.
She was rising.
And the most terrifying truth of all—
He would have to watch it happen.