The first thing I heard was my already open door slamming against the wall without a knock. The second was the click of tailored heels on marble, deliberate and terrifying.

The third was her voice.

“I hope you’re awake.”

I was. Now.

Beside me, Cassie stirred under the covers, her scent of frosted citrus cutting faintly through the room like a shield against what was coming. She pushed herself up on one elbow, hair a glorious, mussed halo, and squinted at the invading sunlight. Her other hand stayed under the blanket, searching until it found my wrist—one squeeze, pulse to pulse, a quiet you’re not alone.

I squinted too, glaring at the harsh light blooming across my floor-to-ceiling windows—gold-white and too early. My head throbbed like I’d been hexed. The silk bedding tangled around our legs, a mess of warmth I hadn’t earned. I groaned and flopped my arm over my face.

“No,” I croaked.

“That wasn’t a question.”

I felt the glamour around the windows dim—willed by her, no doubt—muting the solar flare into something more tolerable. But not merciful.

High Lady Seara Firebrand stood at the foot of my bed in full ceremonial robes, spine like a blade, every gold thread woven into her mantle glittering with disapproval.

She didn’t sit. She didn’t soften.

She held a scroll.

Fuck.

“Would you care to explain this?”

I blinked. Sat up halfway. Cassie’s hand brushed my arm—steady, grounding—and then slid down to lace our fingers under the sheet, hidden from Seara’s view. Her grip was cool, precise, the way she held a knife in the kitchen: not for show. I clung to it before answering, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Oh, am I?” Seara said, unrolling the scroll with a flick of her hand. Veilscript shimmered down the surface like burning snow. “Because according to our Court Treasurer, your personal spending at the Revel last night triggered a fraud warning.”

Cassie’s eyebrows shot up; the citrus in her scent sharpened, bright as rind scraped on steel. I groaned.

“I was celebrating. Isn’t that the point of the revel?”

“Twenty-eight separate charges,” she said, voice cooling by the syllable. “At a single booth.”

Silence.

“I wasn’t—” I started.

She raised one hand. “Don’t insult me. Not before breakfast.”

I tried again. “It was just—”

“You were not drinking,” she cut in, “because the frostwine you didn’t charge appeared untouched in your room. You weren’t bribing anyone, because I know everyone worth bribing. So unless you were financing a small revolution behind my back—”

She stopped. Her mouth curved. Not a smile. Something worse.

“Tell me, Mira. What does Booth Seventeen at the Frostfire Revel specialize in?”

“I don’t remember,” I lied instantly.

Seara’s eyes sparkled like fresh-cut ice. “It’s a Veilball game. Light-propelled snow orbs. Floating targets. Ridiculously difficult. You hate games like that.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I was bored.”

“Maybe,” she said, “you were enchanted.”

“I wasn’t cursed,” I snapped.

Cassie shifted closer, thigh pressing against mine, a quiet brace. Her knee bounced once under the covers—small, contained—then stilled when my thumb tapped the inside of her wrist.

“Did I say cursed?”

Seara stepped closer. Her shadow fell across the bed.

“I’ve seen many things in my lifetime, Mira. Treason. Betrayal. Even love. But this”—she held up the scroll, shaking her head slowly—“this is new.”

“I was just playing a game.”

“You were throwing enchanted snowballs for over an hour.”

“Maybe I liked the challenge.”

“You missed every shot.”

I flinched. Cassie’s hand tightened over mine—no tremor, just pressure, deliberate, as if she’d take the hit across our joined fingers instead of letting it land.

“You’re not built for winter,” Seara added, like she was citing a medical record. “You had no magical edge. You knew you couldn’t win.”

I gritted my teeth. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“And yet,” she continued, ignoring me completely, “you kept playing. Over. And over. And over.”

Her voice dipped lower, softer, crueler. “So what could possibly compel the heir to the Summer Court to humiliate herself at a carnival booth for ninety minutes straight?”

I didn’t answer.

“Was it drugs?” she mused aloud, spinning theatrically. “A bet? A dare? A very sexy enchantress with a knife fetish?”

Cassie coughed once. Loudly. Her blue eyes cut like glass over the edge of the blanket, but she didn’t speak; her shoulders squared instead, a fraction forward, half a shield interposed without making it a scene. The citrus softened, warmer now—blood-orange over frost.

I ground out, “Drop it, Mother.”

She turned on me. “Then say it.”

I clenched my jaw.

“Say. It.”

The blanket twisted in my fists. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” she hissed. “Because if I don’t know what drives you, I can’t protect you. If you’re compromised, I need to know by who.”

“I’m not compromised.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then why lie?”

My throat burned. “Because it’s embarrassing.”

That stopped her.

She tilted her head. “Go on.”

I shook my head.

“Mira.”

“No.”

Her tone sharpened. “Say. It.”

I stared her down. Counted to three. Lost. “...it was a plush otter.”

Silence. Even Cassie froze, mouth parting; her fingers went slack in mine for a heartbeat, then clasped harder, heat blooming against my palm like she’d hauled herself back to steady.

Seara blinked.

I wanted to evaporate.

“You spent four digits—” she began, slowly, like she didn’t believe it, “—on a plush otter.”

I didn’t respond.

“For yourself?”

My silence said everything. Cassie’s ears burned crimson; she ducked her chin the smallest degree, swallowing hard. The sheet rustled where she curled her toes—nerves she’d never gift Seara the satisfaction of seeing above the covers.

Seara stepped closer again. “Then for who.”

I wrapped the blanket tighter. My voice was a ghost. “Cassie.”

Cassie inhaled sharply, then straightened her spine like she was ready to meet Seara’s gaze head-on. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her chin lifted; her palm stayed welded to mine.

A pause.

A long, aching pause.

And then—Seara smiled.

Not with warmth. With confirmation.

“Ah,” she said. “There it is.”

Silence expanded in the room like smoke.

I tried to crawl backward into the bed. Not dramatically. Just enough to pretend I could disappear. Cassie shifted that half step forward—between me and my mother, subtle, protective; her breath went in slow, out slower, the way I’d seen her steady on the top of a pyramid before a dismount.

Seara didn’t let me.

“Oh, Mira,” she said, voice like satin and steel. “A plush otter?”

“Don’t.”

“Four digits. At a rigged game booth. During a season where your magic is practically ornamental.”

“Please stop talking.”

“For a mortal girl.”

“Mother.”

Cassie’s jaw clenched; the muscle ticked once, sharp as a clock hand. She didn’t break the silence this time either—she just braced, every line of her body saying I’m here, I’m not moving.

Seara made a soft noise. It might’ve been a laugh. “Darling, I always suspected hormones would be your undoing. But I didn’t expect it to be over stuffed wildlife.”

I groaned into the blanket. “Can I die now?”

Seara perched on the edge of the bed like she owned gravity, spine impossibly straight, hair pinned into a crown of twisted flame-gold coils. Regal. Untouchable. Mildly entertained by my complete unraveling.

“You know,” she mused, examining her nails, “when I first saw the charges, I thought perhaps you were gambling. That would’ve at least shown some ambition.”

I muttered into the blanket, “It wasn’t gambling. I was losing. Repeatedly.”

“Yes,” she said dryly. “And spectacularly.”

She leaned over, one elegant hand brushing the edge of the covers I was still clinging to like a lifeline. “Was it at least a cute otter?”

My cheeks burned. I didn’t answer—just yanked the blanket tighter. Something soft and round slid free, tumbling into the space between us with a muffled thud. The plush otter. Its stitched smile beamed up at us, tiny ribbon askew from being squished all night between me and Cassie.

Cassie’s hand shot out instinctively, scooping it to her chest. Her face flushed scarlet, but her mouth twitched like she couldn’t quite strangle the laugh trying to break through.

I peeked at Seara with narrowed eyes. “It glowed. And had a ribbon.”

Cassie bit her lip harder, fighting the smile.

Seara nodded, grave. “Clearly worth the entire Court’s emergency floral budget.”

I grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. Cassie rubbed my back in small, calming circles, the otter tucked against her ribs like contraband.

Seara let out a long-suffering sigh—overacted, absolutely smug. “You do know she’s mortal, Mira.”

“I’m aware.”

“She’ll age.”

“I know.”

“She’ll die.”

Cassie’s chin lifted, her voice clear and sharp. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing a mother should throw at her daughter before coffee.”

Seara turned then, really looking at her for the first time, like she’d just remembered Cassie existed. Her gaze swept down Cassie’s rumpled shirt, her tangled hair, the plush otter clutched between her arms, the fact that she was still sitting in my bed. She hummed low in her throat. “Ah. So the Consort speaks.”

Seara turned then, really looking at her for the first time, like she’d just remembered Cassie existed. Her gaze swept down Cassie’s rumpled shirt, her tangled hair, the plush otter clutched between her arms, the fact that she was still sitting in my bed. She hummed low in her throat. “Ah. So the Consort speaks.”

Cassie stiffened but didn’t back down. The otter only made it worse—or better—its stitched smile pressed against her sternum as if mocking the entire scene. She hugged it tighter, like she’d decided if she was going to face down the High Lady of Summer, she’d damn well do it with a stuffed animal for armor. “Someone has to.”

I sat up sharply, nearly wrenching the otter from her arms in my panic. “Don’t.”

Seara tilted her head. Not unkindly. “Then what, exactly, do you plan to do with this little arrangement?”

I swallowed, eyes darting to Cassie. She hadn’t blinked. Her knuckles were white against the otter’s fur, but she held on like it was her sword, her shield, her lifeline. I forced the words out: “I don’t know.”

Cassie’s hand slid into mine again, warm and steady, the otter still mashed between us like a silent witness.

Seara’s mouth curved, sharp as glass. “Good. Because for the record, I don’t disapprove.”

I blinked. “Wait. What?”

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she said, glancing out the window at the rising light over Emberhall. “I’m not an idiot. You’re seventeen. Of course you’re going to fall for something dangerous and temporary. That’s practically tradition.”

She smoothed her robes, then glanced back—this time between both of us. Her eyes glittered. “But really, Mira. A plush otter and a consort in one night? That’s bold, even for you. Did it never occur to you that declaring a mortal girl your consort might be an even bigger scandal than jilting Daevan Nightvine?”

Heat crawled up my neck. Cassie’s grip tightened, her jaw setting like stone. The otter’s head lolled sideways between us, unbothered by scandal, its ribbon crumpled against Cassie’s wrist.

Seara only smiled wider. “At least she’s prettier than he is.”

And with that, she swept from the room, leaving the air thick with the scent of citrus, smoke, and smug satisfaction.

I stared after her. “You’re…okay with it?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied breezily from the hall. “I said I don’t disapprove.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a trap.”

She gave me a sphinx-like smile over her shoulder. “It’s not. It’s an invitation.”

“To what? Emotional devastation?”

“To bring your Consort,” Seara said simply, “to Lumenfeast.”

Cassie stiffened beside me, the otter crushed tight to her ribs. My heart stopped.

“What?” I croaked.

“Tonight. The family rite. Court offerings. You’re not going alone.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“She was good enough to name before half the Court,” Seara said, tone razor-thin, “I assume she can survive a dinner.”

“No, no—Cassie isn’t—she’s not court-trained. She’s not glamored. She’s—”

“Human?” Seara arched a single brow. “Yes. I noticed.”

Cassie’s hand slid from mine, resting on the otter in her lap instead, stroking the ribbon smooth like she’d rather pet that than let Seara see her hands shake. Her expression unreadable—but her shoulders squared like she was bracing for battle.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “She won’t fit in.”

“Neither do you, half the time.”

Ouch.

“And besides,” Seara added, stepping toward the door, “if she matters to you—truly matters—she attends.”

The words hit different. Like a velvet-wrapped dagger.

“You don’t name flings Consort,” she finished, turning back just long enough to lock eyes with me. “You bring promises.”

My breath hitched.

Cassie’s icy-blue stare never left Seara, unflinching even as suspicion and defiance swirled beneath her calm. She hugged the otter tighter, as though daring anyone to tell her she didn’t belong.

Seara lingered a moment longer. “Make it convincing.”

Then she left.

The silence she left behind wasn’t cold.

It was molten.

And all I could think was:

Godsdammit.

I have nothing to wear.

And everything is closed.

And I’m going to have to text her—

Wait. No. I don’t. She’s in bed right next to me.

And still holding the otter like a battle standard.

Cassie was still tugging at the sleeves of her dress when I pinned my diadem into place.

The crown the Smallfolk had pressed into my hands the night before gleamed softly in the mirror—delicate silver filigree threaded with tiny crystal motes that pulsed like starlight. Too heavy with meaning. Too fragile to remove.

“You’re staring at it again,” Cassie said from the bed, her tone caught somewhere between awe and suspicion.

“It stares at me first,” I muttered, adjusting the band until it settled against my hairline.

She shook her head, smiling faintly, then smoothed the crimson fabric of her gown. It wasn’t court-spun—it was human silk, all sharp lines and daring neckline. Out of place. Perfectly her.

“You sure I’m supposed to be here?” she asked, quieter now.

I crossed to her, gathering the last sparks of my courage. “That’s the thing. You’re not just here. You’re Consort. Which means—”

“Means what?” she prompted, brows raised.

My throat went dry. “It means you’re… with me. Publicly. Permanently, unless…” I swallowed. “It’s not just dating. It’s recognized. It’s binding.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Then, finally: “You really don’t half-ass anything, do you?”

“Apparently not,” I said, too sharp, too soft all at once.

Before my nerves could eat me alive, I lifted my hand to her cheek. “Let me give you something.”

Her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t where you pull a rabbit out of a hat, right?”

I snorted. “Just shut up a second.”

I whispered the glamour—barely more than a brush of Summer Court magic. The air rippled, softening the human edges of her form, lending her a shimmer that caught the lanternlight before it reached her skin. She gasped, lifting her hands to where the halo flickered faintly around her hair.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. “I—glow.”

“Only a little,” I said, my chest aching. “Just enough so this place doesn’t chew you up.”

She leaned closer. “Newsflash, Mira. I already belonged.”

Gods help me, she did.

By the time we reached the Grand Solar Parlor, I’d faced monsters easier than this room.

The hall was a riot of light and judgment. Veilflame lanterns floated like suspended suns over honeyed firewine and citrus-oil perfumes. Illusion-sky rippled gold behind arches rimmed with molten silk. Every noble sparkled, every glance sharp enough to cut. Zyrella already held her court near the offerings table, her sneer stitched into gold thread.

A herald’s voice rang out:

“Her Majesty, Mira Firebrand, Queen and Sovereign of the Smallfolk, Highness of the Land of Eternal Summer… accompanied by Lady Cassandra Fairborn, Consort to Her Majesty.”

The words hit me like a blade through silk.

Cassie’s hand tightened on mine, her shoulders squared, her head lifted in defiance. She didn’t bow. She didn’t flinch.

And for one insane heartbeat, I thought—

Maybe she’s stronger than all of them.

The moment Cassie and I crossed into the circle of nobles, I knew Zyrella would pounce.

She smelled the shift in power like blood in the water.

“Well,” she drawled, her voice carrying far too easily across the hall. She detached herself from her little court of sycophants and glided forward, each step calculated to slice. The air thickened with her perfume—night-rose, cloying and thorned beneath its sweetness. “If it isn’t our radiant little Majesty. And her… accessory.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, sharp as breaking glass. My jaw locked.

Zyrella’s golden eyes flicked over Cassie like she was appraising stolen merchandise, then landed back on me. “Tell me, cousin—did you truly name this mortal Consort last night, or were you drunk on frostwine and desperation?”

Cassie’s hand tightened in mine. I felt the pulse of her heartbeat through her skin, steady, unflinching. Then she shifted—half a step forward, a subtle barrier between me and Zyrella. My chest squeezed.

She turned, smile blooming slow and deliberate, like honey poured over glass.

“Oh, it’s official,” she said sweetly. “I would know. I was there.”

A few titters rose from the edges of the room. Veilflame lanterns hissed faintly overhead, heat and scandal pooling thick as smoke. Zyrella’s smile sharpened.

“How quaint. Bringing a human into an immortal rite. Does she fetch your slippers, Majesty? Or perhaps just roll over on command?”

Cassie’s smile didn’t budge. Her perfume—bright citrus over something warm and grounding—cut through Zyrella’s roses. “Only when she’s a good girl,” she said crisply, grace lacquered over steel. “Though from the look of things, you haven’t been invited to anyone’s lap lately.”

A hush fell, collective gasps blooming like fireworks. Even Selene’s lips twitched—dangerously close to betraying amusement.

Zyrella’s lashes fluttered, just for a breath. Then she recovered, her tone silk over razors. “Careful, darling. Veilflame burns through illusions, even the charming ones.”

Cassie tilted her head, her voice cool and sure. “Good thing I came with a fireproof guarantee.”

“You came with a death wish.”

“No,” Cassie said, voice steady enough to silence the nearest cluster of nobles. “I came with Mira.”

My heart stuttered. The words rooted in me, fierce and unshakable.

Zyrella finally tore her gaze from Cassie, settling on me. “How very bold of you, cousin. To elevate a mortal to stand above her betters. A toy on a throne.”

“She’s not a toy,” I said, the words searing out before I could temper them. “She’s my Consort. Which means she outranks you. So watch your mouth—” my voice sharpened, carrying over the gasping crowd “—and you will treat her with respect.”

The crowd hissed with intake—shock, delight, scandal all tangled. The scent of spiced firewine and sugared bread swelled heavy with it. Selene’s hand shifted to her wineglass, her expression bored, but her stance angled subtly between us and Zyrella. A shield, quiet and practiced.

Zyrella’s lips curved. Poison disguised as polish. “This is going to be fun.”

She swept away, silk rustling like a snake’s hiss, her perfume trailing like smoke.

Cassie exhaled slowly, then leaned toward me, whispering just loud enough for me to hear:

“Tell me I didn’t overdo it.”

I couldn’t look away from her. From the sharpness, the fire, the absolute refusal to bend. From the way she’d stepped in front of me without hesitation.

“No,” I whispered back, heat crawling up my throat. “You were perfect.”

And fuck, was I in trouble.

The hush Zyrella left behind clung to the air like smoke. Conversations didn’t so much resume as fracture into whispering pockets, nobles craning their necks to glimpse the mortal who’d just been elevated above them with a single, searing declaration.

My declaration.

Cassie’s hand was still in mine, warm and steady, her perfume—bright citrus tangled with something softer—cutting through the cloying veil of roses Zyrella had left behind. It grounded me. Infuriated me. Thrilled me.

“Seats,” Selene murmured, a quiet directive, her voice smooth enough to slice through the tension. With effortless authority, she began to guide the gathering toward the long, radiant table now unveiled at the center of the parlor.

The Grand Solar Parlor had transformed while we sparred. Veilflame lanterns dimmed to a molten glow, casting firelit halos over the gold-veined marble floors. The long dining table stretched like a stage, draped in cloth the color of embers, every place setting rimmed in sun-metal filigree. The scent of ember-glazed roots, honeyed fowl, and charred moonfruit floated above it all, dizzying in its richness.

Cassie slowed at my side, her grip firm. She was no longer walking into this room as my rival, or even my date. She was walking in as my Consort.

Which meant every eye followed her. Judged her. Weighed her.

Selene caught my glance and, with a flicker of a smile, gestured toward the pair of seats at the table’s heart—places of honor usually reserved for heirs and their chosen. She’d arranged this. She’d put Cassie there.

I swallowed hard, heat pressing up my throat as we took our seats. Cassie settled into hers with a poise that made me want to kiss her and shake her all at once. Her silverware glinted untouched in front of her, the crystal goblet glowing faintly with Veilflame enchantment.

To Cassie’s right sat Selene, calm and sunlit, the anchor I didn’t know I needed.

Across from us, Uncle Tharion claimed his seat with the kind of weight that silenced nearby chatter, his storm-gray gaze already fixed on Cassie like she was a riddle demanding solving.

At the far end, Kaelen swung his little legs beneath the chair much too big for him, already sneaking sugared nuts from the centerpiece when he thought no one was watching. His grin, gap-toothed and defiant, was the only thing at the table not steeped in politics.

Seara, of course, sat enthroned at the head, her presence steady and deliberate, a flame banked but not extinguished. She didn’t speak yet. She didn’t have to. Her silence was its own blade, waiting.

The servers began moving like shadows, laying down the first course: steaming veinstone bread that broke with a hiss of heat, bowls of ember-salted olives glowing faintly crimson, slices of charred moonfruit glistening with honey. The scents struck first, rich and overwhelming. My stomach churned with something that wasn’t hunger.

Cassie’s hand brushed mine beneath the table. A question. A tether.

I laced our fingers together.

I couldn’t taste a thing.

Cassie sat beside me, shoulders squared, posture perfect. She lifted her goblet when the others did, set it down with a precision that almost looked practiced. Almost. Only I noticed the faintest tremor in her hand before she folded it into her lap.

And of course, Zyrella noticed too.

“So,” Zyrella purred from three seats down, slicing into a piece of moonfruit with the precision of a surgeon, “this is the mortal.” Her golden eyes flicked up, bright and cutting. “Tell me, cousin—does she prefer Cassandra, or something a bit… plainer?”

The table stilled. Forks froze halfway to mouths. That was how the Firebrands operated: test by silence. See if the victim flinches before the next blow.

Cassie didn’t. She swallowed her sip of water, dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and smiled sweetly down the table. “Most people call me Cassie. But you can stick with Lady Cassandra, since formality seems easier for you than charm.”

The words landed like a blade drawn just far enough to nick skin. A couple of younger cousins sucked in air through their teeth.

My pulse thundered. Gods, she’d actually—

Zyrella’s smile faltered for a half-second, then returned, sharper than before. “Mm. Quick tongue. Dangerous, at a Summer table.”

Cassie tilted her head, all honeyed curiosity. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve survived worse tables. High school cafeteria hierarchy makes this look quaint.”

The nobles blinked, clearly uncomprehending, but the condescension in her tone landed well enough. A ripple of startled laughter slipped down the line of seats.

Heat surged under my skin. Pride, panic, attraction tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell one from the other. Every instinct screamed at me to shield her. And every beat of my racing heart told me she didn’t need it.

Selene caught my eye, calm and steady at my right. A small nod, almost invisible. Approval.

Across the table, Uncle Tharion’s gaze didn’t waver from Cassie. Not mocking. Not cruel. Measuring. Like a general watching a new recruit’s first sparring match.

Cassie, oblivious or uncaring, reached for the veinstone bread. She tore it clean down the middle, steam curling around her wrist like smoke. Without missing a beat, she placed half on my plate before taking her own.

The gesture was simple. Intimate. Claiming.

And for the first time all night, I wondered if Zyrella was right.

If I really had brought fire into the hall.

Cassie’s retort still hung in the air, sharp as broken glass, when a smaller voice piped up from farther down the table.

“So…” Kaelen leaned forward on his elbows, chin nearly in his plate, eyes wide and guileless. “Are you really Mira’s Consort?”

The entire table stilled again—but for once, not in malice.

Cassie blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah. I guess I am.”

Kaelen grinned, all gap-toothed mischief, and stage-whispered, “Does that mean you get to boss her around? Because she hates when people boss her around.”

Heat shot up my neck. “Kaelen—”

He giggled, ducking his head into his arms. “I’m just saying! She used to boss me around when I was little. Now it’s payback.”

The nobles tried (and failed) to smother their laughter. Even Selene’s lips curved at the edges.

Cassie tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curling in a smile she tried (and failed) to hide. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said conspiratorially, leaning just enough for Kaelen to beam, “I already figured that out. She bosses me around, too.”

Kaelen’s eyes went huge, delighted. “Yes! Finally someone else who gets it.”

I groaned, dropping my face into my hands. “Traitor. Both of you.”

Cassie nudged my knee under the table, her warmth grounding me in the middle of the storm. When I peeked up, her eyes were already on me, soft with something that made my chest ache.

The last bites of charred moonfruit disappeared, platters cleared by invisible hands. Goblets refilled with glowing citrus wine. Conversation bubbled louder now, rippling with laughter and speculation. For a moment—just a moment—the table didn’t feel like a gauntlet.

But the clink of fresh silver and the scent of spice drifting in from the kitchens warned otherwise.

The second course was coming.

And so was the next test.

The scent hit first—smoky, peppered heat that caught in the back of my throat, threading through the sweeter haze of firewine and sugared bread. My stomach tightened. I wasn’t sure if it was hunger or dread. Conversations thinned to murmurs as the Grand Solar Parlor doors swung wide.

The spice-boar floated in on a silver slab, tusks capped in gold filigree, its hide seared to obsidian black and lacquered in ember-oil that gleamed like molten glass. Heat radiated from it, heavy as a forge. Ritual demanded the firecut before anyone touched it—one blade, one strike, clean and unflinching.

And of course, it would be Tharion.

My uncle rose with the inevitability of dawn. The air shifted with him—backs straightening, voices cutting short. He didn’t need to bark for silence. He was silence. War hero. General. Captain of the Guard. My favorite uncle. My most dangerous uncle.

I sat straighter without meaning to, shoulders snapping tight like I was back in weapons lessons, waiting to be called out.

He took the ceremonial blade, flame-veined steel glowing faintly in his scarred grip. I remembered those hands lifting me onto a horse when I was small. I also remembered they had ended men. His molten eyes swept the table, rimmed with that calm that only came from carrying war in your bones. They lingered on me. Then Cassie. My throat pinched.

“I’ll keep this short,” he said, voice like gravel ground into steel. “Ceremony demands one cut. Precision. Control.”

The blade came down in one smooth arc, splitting hide and bone as though it were parchment. Fire spilled from the seam, liquid light pouring out, hissing into the air. Gasps rippled, though no one was truly surprised. Tharion never missed.

The boar steamed, iron and smoke and honey glaze filling the chamber until my stomach churned. Servers moved to portion it, but Tharion didn’t sit. His gaze locked on Cassie.

“So,” he said, not cruel but not soft, either. A battlefield test. “You’re the mortal who sits at my niece’s side. Her Consort.”

Cassie’s spine went rigid beside me. Her chin tilted. “Yes, sir.”

The faintest twitch at his mouth. Approval? Amusement? A warning? I couldn’t tell, and that made my skin prickle.

“You know what that means?”

Her hand twitched beneath the table, brushing mine. I gripped it, hard. I wanted to answer for her, to throw myself between her and the full weight of him. But this wasn’t my test. It was hers. My chest ached from holding still.

Cassie faltered. Just for a breath. I felt it in her pulse under my palm. The silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating. Every eye at the table aimed at her. At us.

Then her voice rose, steadying as it carried.

“It means I don’t just stand beside her when it’s easy. I stand there when it’s not. I take the whispers. The stares. The knives meant for her—if that’s what it takes. Being Consort means I belong to her world, whether it wants me or not.”

The words sliced through the room sharper than Tharion’s blade.

My heart lurched. Saints, she meant it. She had no idea what that vow might cost her, but she meant it. For me.

The room went still.

Tharion didn’t move, didn’t blink. But his eyes narrowed slightly—measuring her the way he would measure a blade, testing the weight, the edge, the steel hidden beneath. I couldn’t breathe. I needed him to accept her. I needed him not to break her.

Selene lifted her goblet, calm as dawn, shielding in that way only she could—without making it obvious. My anchor. My sister.

And then Kaelen leaned forward, elbows on the table, stage-whispering with eight-year-old delight:

“Daddy looks like he’s deciding whether to eat her or knight her.”

A ripple of laughter broke through, scattered but welcome. My lungs unlocked in a shaky exhale.

But my heart—my heart still pounded, war drums in my chest. Because Tharion hadn’t looked away from Cassie once.

And I couldn’t tell if that was a promise—or a warning.

The servers carved and portioned the boar, laying thick slices of ember-glazed meat onto plates. My knife slid into it easily, juices searing against the plate. I forced myself to cut a piece, though my stomach wasn’t sure it wanted it.

Beside me, Cassie moved with calm precision—like this was just another family dinner, not a battlefield dressed in silverware. She never fumbled with fork or knife, never let her posture slip, but I could feel the quiet tension in her leg brushing mine under the table.

Tharion finally sat. For a blessed moment, I thought the interrogation was over. Then his golden eyes swung to me.

“And you, Mira.” He cut his portion cleanly, no wasted motion. “You’ve claimed a Consort. You’ve been named by the Small Folk. Tell me—do you even know what that responsibility means?”

The bite on my fork wavered, heat prickling my palms. A hundred answers snarled through my head. I wanted to snap that of course I knew. That it wasn’t my fault no one had ever thought me capable. But this was Tharion. My favorite uncle. My most dangerous judge.

“I know it means they chose me,” I said finally, my voice sharper than I intended. “And I don’t take that lightly. I never asked for a crown, but if they see something in me… I’ll answer it. And if that means protecting them, protecting her”—my hand squeezed Cassie’s under the table—“then that’s what I’ll do.”

The table stilled.

A slow hum left Tharion, neither approval nor dismissal. He chewed, studied, swallowed. “Big words. But responsibility isn’t just fire and vows. It’s patience. Restraint. Knowing when to strike and when to hold.”

“Which Mira has never been good at,” Zyrella murmured into her goblet, voice laced with silk and venom.

I felt Cassie bristle before she spoke. “Maybe not,” she said lightly, spearing a piece of boar. “But sometimes fire is exactly what people need.” She popped it into her mouth, chewed, and smiled with infuriating calm. “Keeps the rot from spreading.”

Gasps fluttered like moths along the table’s edge. My chest burned—half pride, half panic.

Zyrella’s barb cut, but Kaelen leaned forward, too earnest to care about the tension lacing the air.

“She’s good at striking, though!” His grin was wide, ember-juice shining on his lip. “Mira’s still half Kiernan’s size, but she knocks him down in sparring all the time.”

Heat raced up my throat. “That happened once,” I muttered.

“Twice,” Kaelen corrected proudly. “And you didn’t even cheat.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled at him, winked, and dropped my voice into its sweetest lilt. “If your dad lets me, come train with me during school break. I’ll show you how to put Kiernan on his ass too.”

Kaelen lit up like the sun itself.

Then I turned to Cassie, locking eyes with her, heat curling in my chest despite myself. “And I guess as my wife and Consort… you’ll have to train with me, too. The rest of my family will probably expect you to put your life on the line for me.” My laugh slipped out, softer, tangled with nerves. “Though you know I would never expect—or want—you to do that for me.”

Her lips curved, slow and dangerous, like she was already filing that promise away. My pulse stuttered.

Selene’s lips twitched as she set down her goblet. “He still complains about the last bruise.”

Cassie’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it, low and sharp, her eyes glittering as if she were tucking the image away for later. My chest squeezed tight at the sound.

Tharion’s eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. “Strength is good. Fire is good. But fire untended burns more than the enemy, Mira. Remember that.”

Seara finally spoke, her tone even, deliberate. “A lesson the Summer Court itself is still learning.”

The words landed like an iron weight between us. Testing me. Testing her. Always testing.

I speared another piece of boar, throat dry, and told myself to swallow anyway.

“You eat like a soldier,” Tharion said suddenly, his voice pitched toward Cassie.

Cassie blinked, thrown off. “I—what?”

“You cut clean. No wasted motion. Not like a courtling.” His eyes narrowed. “Where did you learn that?”

Cassie set down her fork with deliberate calm. “High school cafeteria. Survival’s the same anywhere—you take your food quick, you hold your ground, and you don’t let anyone shove you off your seat.”

A few chuckles escaped down the line. Kaelen’s grin split wide. Selene smothered a laugh into her wine. Even Tharion’s mouth twitched, though he masked it fast.

“You might last longer here than I thought,” he said, almost grudging.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Then Zyrella leaned forward, lashes low. “But how long before she burns out? Mortals don’t last, cousin. No matter how you dress them up.”

Cassie’s jaw flexed. My hand tightened on hers beneath the table. “Some of us last longer than you think,” she said, her tone silk-wrapped steel.

The table went still again, like the pause before a blade struck.

And me? My chest was on fire. Pride, terror, longing all tangled. Every second of this course felt like a battle I wasn’t sure we were winning.

But Cassie hadn’t faltered. And maybe that was the point.

The servers moved in with practiced silence, lifting away the last of the boar plates, the scent of spiced smoke and honey still clinging to the air. Conversation rose again in low ripples, laughter breaking cautiously here and there, though the weight of Tharion’s questions still lingered like heat from a forge.

Crystal chimed softly as attendants set down the next course: glass globes no bigger than fists, each holding a scoop of pale sorbet that shimmered faintly under the lanterns. A crown of goldleaf dusted the top, catching the light like sparks. The sharp, bright perfume of citrus cut through the heavy smoke of the second course, slicing the air clean, bright enough to make my mouth water.

A palate cleanser. A reprieve. At least, that’s what it should have been.

The hall’s hum quieted again, almost instinctively, as the servers retreated. Because everyone knew what was coming next.

This was never just about the food. Never just a family meal.

This was the moment my mother would finally speak.

And when she did, it would not be to fill the silence. It would be to test. To cut.

I forced the spoon into the chilled globe. The sorbet stung sharp as frostfire—acid-sweet, merciless. Like her.

Across the table, my mother set down her goblet.

The sound was quiet, but it carried like a warhorn. The hall stilled. Even Tharion’s shoulders shifted, his soldier’s ease hardening into readiness.

Seara Firebrand did not need to raise her voice. She never had.

Her gaze slid from me to Cassie and back again, deliberate as the sun’s path. “You’ve made bold choices, Mira,” she said, her tone measured, almost conversational. Which made it worse. “Claiming a mortal Consort. Closing doors that were not yours alone to shut. Do you understand what that costs the Court?”

Heat prickled behind my ribs. My spoon trembled in my fingers. “I know what it cost me not to.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “You think only of the now. Of how it feels in your chest this moment. But alliances stretch generations. Thrones rise and fall on such choices. And you—Her Majesty, Her Highness, Queen and Princess both—still choose with a child’s heart.”

The words sliced, clean as a blade.

Cassie didn’t flinch. Her hand rested on the table, steady despite every eye watching. “Maybe so,” she said carefully, her voice clear, deliberate. “But hearts make choices thrones never would. And sometimes they’re the only choices that matter.”

A ripple passed down the table, whispers like wind through dry leaves. Approval? Disbelief? Both.

My mother’s eyes narrowed, faint firelight catching in their gold. “And what of time, mortal? When you fade, and she does not? What then, when her centuries stretch empty without you?”

Cassie’s jaw tightened. “Then I make the years I have worth something,” she said. “Enough that she won’t regret them.”

The words landed like a hammer. My chest ached with something fierce and stupid and too much.

But Seara’s gaze cut back to me, sharp as ever. “And you, Mira. Do you truly believe you are ready for the weight of such grief? Or is this just another impulse you will tire of once the shine fades?”

The fire surged in my throat before I could stop it. “Maybe it was an impulse,” I said, the words spilling hot and raw. “But it was mine. And I would rather be burned by it than live cold and empty, doing what’s ‘right’ for everyone but me.”

Gasps cracked down the table. My own voice echoed back at me, reckless and unsoftened.

Selene’s golden eyes softened, though her words were clipped. “At least she finally sounds like a Firebrand.”

Zyrella’s laugh chimed, low and venom-sweet. “Or like a child playing at being one.”

Kaelen kicked his legs under the table, blurting with the subtlety of an eight-year-old, “I like Cassie better than all of you. She makes Mira happy.”

Tharion’s jaw worked once, slow and deliberate, before he spoke. “A soldier who doesn’t choose her own ground is already dead. Mira’s chosen hers. That counts for something.”

The whispers deepened, spreading like wildfire through the chamber. Some scoffed, some nodded, some studied me with new weight in their eyes.

Seara didn’t move. She only studied me, her expression unreadable—like a queen weighing an heir, or a mother bracing to watch her daughter stumble so she might learn to stand taller after.

And for the first time all night, I felt the weight of every eye not just as judgment, but as wonder.

Was Mira Quinveil Firebrand still the half-blood embarrassment?

Or was I becoming something else?

The last of the sorbet melted on my tongue, sharpness fading into a faint, bitter-sweet aftertaste. Servants moved in silence, collecting empty glass globes, their footsteps barely echoing across the marble.

Then the doors opened again.

Dessert swept in like a promise—scorched lemon tarts stacked on silver tiers, candied emberfruit glistening like captured fire, honeycombs crystallized into fragile gold. Sweetness after so much spice, a reprieve meant to soften the edges of the night.

But even before the trays touched the table, I felt it—that subtle shift. Conversations grew tighter instead of looser. Glances sharpened instead of softening. The air was too sweet, too heavy, like perfume masking poison.

Cassie reached for her fork with easy grace, but her eyes flicked across the table, measuring, bracing. My family might treat dessert as the sugar course, but I knew better. Sweet things carried the deadliest barbs.

Zyrella’s smile was already waiting.

Steam curled from the tarts, candied fruit gleamed like molten jewels, honeycombs glistened delicate as spun glass. The sweetness flooded the air—but beneath it, the tension coiled tighter than ever.

I tried to steady my fork. This was supposed to be the easy course. The indulgence. But with Zyrella smiling like that, I knew it was anything but.

She toyed with her spoon, delicate, idle. “Well. Isn’t this charming? A half-blood niece who names a mortal Consort. You do love your… novelties, Mira.”

Gasps trembled down the table’s edge.

Cassie’s hand brushed mine beneath the linen, grounding me. Her smile was slow, sharp. “Better novelty than redundancy,” she said sweetly. “At least I bring something new to the table.”

The air fractured—scandalized murmurs like breaking glass. Even Selene’s eyes flicked, quick as lightning, before she smoothed her face back to calm.

Zyrella’s lashes lowered, her tone dripping sugar. “Oh, darling. You think standing at her side makes you more than a passing indulgence? You’ll wither long before her fire fades. And what will Mira do then? Move on to the next pretty distraction?”

Heat blazed in my chest. My blood roared. I could taste lemon tart on my tongue, sweet turned acrid.

Cassie didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Her voice landed like steel hidden in velvet.

“Then let me wither at her side. Better that than rot in envy on the sidelines.”

The room went silent.

Even Tharion paused with his goblet halfway to his mouth. Selene’s posture angled subtly, a shield that didn’t look like one. Kaelen’s wide eyes darted between us, as if even he understood this was history being carved into bone.

I pushed back my chair. My voice cut through the silence, hotter than flame, sharper than glass.

“She’s not passing. She’s not novelty. She’s mine. My Consort.”

The word cracked like thunder.

“And if you think her mortal heart makes her lesser, remember this: she stood here tonight and faced every blade you threw. She’s still standing. You can’t say the same, Zyrella—not anymore.”

Zyrella’s painted smile didn’t falter, but her knuckles whitened against the stem of her goblet. The hush that followed was heavier than sorbet, heavier than boar.

Selene’s laugh was soft, airy, almost dismissive—yet it sliced the tension just enough for the table to breathe. Tharion only drank, slow and silent, his golden eyes never leaving Cassie.

But the whispers had already begun, hissing down the table like sparks catching dry kindling.

And for the first time in my life, they weren’t whispering about a half-blood embarrassment. They were whispering about me. About us.

About the Consort who didn’t break.

Seara set down her goblet, and the soft strike of crystal on stone was enough to silence the hall. The Grand Solar Parlor hushed, as though even the flames dared not crackle without her leave. She rose, sunlight silk spilling like molten gold around her, and every gaze bent toward her.

“Family,” she began, voice rich and measured, “tonight we have tested, tasted, spoken hard truths. As it should be. For what is Summer if not fire tempered, steel sharpened, fruit ripened by both heat and trial? We are not kind to one another because kindness softens. We are fierce with one another because fire strengthens.”

Her gaze swept the table like a blade’s edge. Zyrella wilted under it, Selene straightened with grace, Tharion inclined his head with soldier’s ease. And then Seara’s eyes landed on me. On Cassie.

“My daughter Mira,” she said, and even now my chest constricted at the weight of it. “Child of two worlds, and yet tonight she claims one all her own. By the will of the Small Folk she is their Queen—their Starcrown, their Hidden Flame. It is hers to protect, hers to answer, hers to bind. None at this table, not even I, can strip that mantle from her. And with that mantle comes the right she has already exercised: to name her Consort.”

A ripple stirred through the nobles—half disapproval, half awe.

Seara’s hand extended toward Cassie. “Cassie Fairborn, by Mira’s naming and by my recognition, you are Consort to the Queen of the Small Folk, and daughter of this house. With that comes duties: you will stand at her side when she sits in judgment. You will represent her when she cannot appear. You will learn our customs, our laws, our dances and our games—because a Consort does not merely survive this family, she shapes it. And you will be given the means to do so.”

A faint smile curved her lips, sweet as summer wine but sharp as the glass it filled. “An allowance will be arranged. Attendants assigned. Access to the Court’s archives granted. You will be expected to serve with dignity, to speak with grace, and to bear the weight of your title without faltering. For you are no longer an outsider. You are my daughter, now.”

Her hand fell, but her voice rose, ringing against the carved stone. “Let all here tonight acknowledge it. Rise. Bow.”

Chairs scraped, silks whispered. One by one, every cousin, sibling, aunt, and uncle bent their head toward me. Toward Cassie. Even Zyrella, though her lashes hid the venom in her eyes.

Seara lifted her goblet high, and the room seemed to ignite around her. “The year turns swiftly. The Veil grows restless. Enemies circle like carrion. But so long as Summer burns bright, we endure. We will direct our efforts toward vigilance, toward prosperity, toward the unbreakable bond of this family. And when one of us rises, we all rise. Tonight, that includes Mira. That includes Cassie.”

Her smile softened, almost tender. “To Summer. To family. To the fire that will carry us into the new year.”

Goblets lifted, voices echoed.

And as the toast died, Seara’s voice carried once more, warm but commanding:

“Now comes the tradition that binds us closer still. The exchange of gifts. First, between the direct line of this house and their Consorts. Then, as always, our draw of fortunes—may fate itself guide our giving. Let this be a reminder that even in fire’s fiercest heat, generosity is the bond that makes us whole.”

The hall stilled when Seara clapped her hands—sharp, final. Attendants wheeled forward a lacquered table draped in sun-gold silk. Upon it rested two velvet boxes and three gilded cages, each faintly glowing from within.

“Family,” Seara said, her voice carrying like sunlight through glass, warm but impossible to ignore, “tonight we do more than share bread and wine. We welcome a new bond into our line. And bonds, as you know, are to be honored, to be formalized.”

Her gaze lingered on me for a beat too long, then flicked to Cassie. Sweet as honey, sharp as a knife.

She gestured, and an attendant opened the first velvet case. Gasps rippled down the table.

Two rings, delicate as starlight, gleamed in their bed of crimson velvet. The gold was braided with sun-thread filaments, faintly glowing when the light caught them just right. Subtle enough to pass in the mortal world as simple promise bands. But here, under Seara’s eye, they meant far more.

“These,” she said, “are not simply adornments. They are shields, reminders, promises.” She lifted one with slender fingers, letting the court see it flash. “Wards woven to protect. Threads of thought to tether your minds. Careful, though—power shared too often becomes power that drains.”

Cassie’s face had gone pale, but her chin didn’t drop. I felt the weight of every stare in the hall as Seara crossed to us, carrying the rings herself.

She took my hand first, sliding the warm band onto my finger with a precision that felt more like a coronation than a gift. “A symbol of what you claim,” she said softly, so only I caught the warning beneath.

Then Cassie’s hand. Cassie didn’t flinch, though I felt her pulse quicken in the air between us as Seara slid the second ring into place. “And a symbol,” she added, louder now for all to hear, “of what we now claim with you.”

The murmurs swelled, hungry and scandalized.

Before Cassie could react, Seara gestured again. The three cages were carried forward. Inside: a white-furred husky with eyes like new snow, an ember fox glowing faintly red-gold, and a lynx whose spotted coat shimmered as though threaded with starlight. The creatures shifted restlessly, but none looked afraid—they looked expectant.

“Loyalty. Cunning. Vigilance,” Seara intoned, one hand raised over the cages. “The companions of a consort and a daughter of this court must reflect both heart and duty. They will guard you. They will mirror you. And they will remind you that the Summer Court does not send its children unprotected into the dark.”

The husky barked once, sharp as a vow. The fox’s tails flicked, sparks scattering. The lynx blinked, golden eyes fixed on Cassie as though it had already chosen her.

Seara smiled, sweet as poison. “May they serve you well, Mira. May they serve you well, Cassandra.” And then she stepped back, sipping her wine as though she hadn’t just shifted the ground beneath us.

She lingered before us, the velvet case now empty in her hand. The hush in the hall pressed against my ribs, though her words had been so honeyed they might have passed for blessing.

Cassie flexed her fingers, staring at the band now settled on her hand. A simple ring. Elegant. Harmless to any mortal eye. But its weight hummed like a living thing.

Mine burned against my skin.

And then—

—Mira?

I flinched.

Cassie’s lips hadn’t moved. Her wide blue eyes lifted to mine, panic sparking sharp in them.

You heard that too, didn’t you?

My pulse tripped. “Oh gods.” It slipped out before I could stop it.

Seara’s smile curved, sharp enough to draw blood. She’d meant for this. For us to realize it like this.

It wasn’t just a ring. Not just a symbol. It was binding. Formal. Final.

Consort.

Not a whispered dare under lanterns, but, in the eyes of the Veil and every infernal court beyond it—Cassie was mine, and I was hers.

Married.

Her shock rattled against mine like flint on steel—too loud, too raw. Neither of us knew how to dampen it. Our thoughts collided, ricocheting until I had to clench my jaw just to breathe.

This can’t be—

It is.

Her head jerked at the force of my thought and I winced. I hadn’t meant to shove it so hard. I hadn’t meant any of this.

“Careful,” Seara murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. Her eyes moved between us, almost pitying. “Shared fire burns brightest when it learns restraint. You’ll find your balance soon enough.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

I had been impulsive, reckless—and now Cassie Fairborn wore my fire on her hand.

There was no undoing it.

For a beat, silence pressed in. Then Cassie’s fingers slid across the table, quick, like she was stealing something. She caught my hand beneath the cloth, warm and unyielding. She leaned in, breath brushing the shell of my ear. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me.”

The words vibrated through me—grounding, terrifying, right.

Her grip tightened when she felt me tremble. And along the new, raw thread between us, her thought slipped through—softer, steadier:

—I’ll learn this with you. If you’ll let me.

It struck deeper than it should have, unspooling something tight in my chest. Heat curled under my skin; for a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.

I let the answer rise before I could stop it, clumsy and too much, but true.

—There’s no one else I’d want beside me.

Her answering warmth flooded across the thread, a pulse of quiet joy so fierce it nearly broke me.

I swallowed the heat clawing at my throat and forced myself upright. The hall still hummed with the aftermath of the rings—whispers snaking like smoke through the Firebrand line, speculation sharpening every glance.

Fine. If my mother wanted a performance, I’d give her one.

I set the first box before her, careful, deliberate. “From us,” I said, letting the word echo. Us. Cassie and me. Together.

Cassie’s hand twitched in mine beneath the cloth—she wanted to argue, to disclaim—but no one here would blame her for being dragged into this firestorm overnight. No one expected her to give. This was my burden. My shield.

Seara undid the ribbon with surgical precision and lifted the lid: fireglass letter knives and a gold-veined quill. The blades caught the lanternlight, edges tempered for precision, not blood.

Her silence was a blade of its own.

“Still convinced my affections are best delivered in writing?” she asked at last, voice honeyed but edged.

“I figured you’d appreciate the precision,” I said, steady as I could make it.

A heartbeat’s pause. She weighed one knife like a short sword. “I do.”

Relief surged through me before I could smother it. Then she reached for her own offering.

The box was narrow, wrapped in deep crimson with Veil-thread embroidery. When I lifted the lid, my chest clenched.

A comb—Veilpine, smooth beneath my thumb. Sun-motifs carved along the spine, the same that had glowed faintly on my nursery walls. Symbols I used to trace with trembling fingers when the dark frightened me.

“To keep your fire from turning feral,” Seara said, as if it were nothing more than a trinket.

But the weight of it—gods, it felt like she’d seen me. Not the heir. Not the half-blood. Me.

Silence stretched—too long—until Selene, as ever, rescued me.

She accepted her gift with quiet grace: the painting I’d made of her favorite balcony. She unwrapped it slowly, fingers pausing over the teacup, the journal, the single candle.

“You remembered the curve of the glass,” she murmured.

“You always stared at that corner like it held secrets,” I said, softer than I meant.

Her lips curved into something not quite a smile, more warmth than most ever saw. Then she pressed her own offering into my hands: a firehide-bound recipe book in her elegant script. Every page familiar. Every dish from my childhood.

“So you can taste warmth,” she said, “even in winter.”

My throat tightened. I hugged it close, pretending not to blink too quickly.

Then came Uncle Tharion. He took my painting—him training me when I’d been Kaelen’s age—and studied it with an expression I couldn’t name.

“I didn’t think you remembered,” he said roughly.

“I remember everything,” I whispered.

His answering gift stole my breath: a velvet box, earrings inside—his mother’s—enchanted with a summoning charm, a blade that would come to me in an instant if I called.

“I have no daughters, Mira,” he said, voice low but carrying. “So I trust you’ll wear these in their stead.”

My heart clenched so tightly it hurt.

Tharion’s words still echoed when I looked up. His face was iron and battlefield-rough, but when I rose, stepped into his space, and wrapped my arms around him, the world went quiet.

He stiffened—as he always did at first—unyielding, scar-carved. Then, slowly, his arms came around me. Brief. Firm. Real. A kind of affection he reserved for no one else. The lines of his face eased—only for me.

I pressed my cheek against his shoulder for a heartbeat longer than was proper, then pulled away before anyone could weaponize it. His eyes followed me back to my seat, softer than I’d ever admit.

The next gifts came with less sincerity.

A great scraping of wood signaled servants dragging forward the pair of thrones—ornate, gilded, ridiculous in their excess. The Firebrand elders announced them with tight smiles: “For the Queen of the Small Folk and her Consort.”

The insult cut sharp, but I didn’t flinch. I leaned back, studying the gleaming gold as if I’d ordered them myself. “How thoughtful,” I said coolly.

Cassie tilted her chin, lips curling. “Even thrones carved in spite are still thrones.”

The court rippled with sound—half laughter, half outrage. A shifting weight, glances flicking sharp as knives.

Then all attention turned to Cassie.

She rose awkwardly, fingers brushing her ring as though it might anchor her. “I didn’t know of the tradition,” she said, voice steady even as her cheeks flushed. “I have no gifts to offer. Only this—” Her gaze slid to me, sure, defiant. “I vow to take this role seriously, as long as Mira will have me.”

A murmur surged like a tide. Then sharper still: “Will you seal it as a bargain?”

Cassie hesitated—but only for a breath. “If that’s what’s required.”

The air shifted. Not just silence—magic. Old, sharp, predatory. The kind of stillness that meant the Veil itself was listening.

My fire roared up before I could stop it. My whole body knew what Cassie didn’t: a bargain spoken in this hall would bind her. No gifts, no loopholes, no mercy. She’d be chained by the very laws that chained every Fae in this room, bound to serve until the words killed her.

Magic didn’t just burn—it consumed. It smelled of scorched cedar and smoke-warmed citrus, sharp and alive. The taste of iron flooded my tongue, metallic and electric, like blood and lightning together. Heat crawled over my skin in waves, too much for my body to hold. The sound of it thrummed in my ears, a low, pulsing roar, as though the hall itself had become a furnace, the stone humming with my fury.

Someone gasped. “Is she more than Cinderborn?”

For years, that had been their word for me. A spark. Barely a cinder. Almost nothing.

But the moment my control slipped, every cinder turned to kindling. Flames licked at the edges of my vision, heat warping the air. Power poured off me in tides—wild, searing, vast. Not the ember of a half-blood girl, but the inferno of someone who would not let her Consort be shackled.

Gasps rippled sharper now, as if the whole court was seeing for the first time why my mother never let me out of her sight, why her leash on me was always so taut.

And of course Zyrella’s voice cut through, sweet as poison: “Calm down, Cinderborn. Showing everyone why you can never rule this court.”

The fire surged—ready to consume, to scorch the sneer from her face, to burn the whole gilded hall—until Cassie’s hand found mine.

Just her hand. Her steady grip. Her warmth.

And like water on flame, the inferno buckled. Collapsed. Snuffed not by force, not by command, but by her.

The silence that followed was heavier than flame, heavier than steel.

They had all seen it: how close I’d been to burning them all. And how easily Cassie had stopped me.

And in the fragile, untested thread between us, Cassie’s thought brushed mine again, soft as velvet:

—I’ve got you.

The whispers that followed carried a new edge—fear, awe, disbelief.

And then Kaelen’s voice cut through it all.

“That was amazing!” he blurted, eyes wide, practically bouncing in his seat. “Did you see it? Mira was glowing—like a real sun—and then Cassie just grabbed her hand and poof, all safe! You’ve gotta teach me how to do that!”

His grin was too big for the weight of the room, unbothered by the stiff jaws and wary stares around the table. To him, it hadn’t been a weapon leveled at the court—it had been the coolest trick his favorite cousin had ever pulled.

I forced a smile for him, heart twisting. Gods, he had no idea how close he’d come to ash.

But I winked at him anyway, because that’s what he needed.

And the tension in the hall only sharpened in contrast—Kaelen’s unfiltered wonder against the adults’ dawning realization that the girl they’d called Cinderborn was something else entirely.

The silence didn’t last.

Selene’s gaze found mine first, steady as sunlight through glass. No fear in it—just quiet calculation, like she was already adjusting her strategies around this new truth.

Uncle Tharion leaned back in his chair, expression carved from stone, one scarred hand curling around his goblet. He didn’t speak, but the lines around his mouth were tight—like he’d seen this kind of power before, on a battlefield, and knew exactly how dangerous it could be.

The elders whispered loud enough for the whole hall to hear, their voices a hiss of awe and dread. “Not Cinderborn. Not if she burns like that.”

Zyrella smirked into her cup, poison sugar on her tongue. But even she couldn’t hide the flicker of unease when Cassie’s hand stayed locked on mine.

And my mother—High Lady Seara—sat regal, composed, every inch the queen. But I saw it in the subtle curve of her lips, the gleam in her eyes: she had wanted them all to see this. Wanted them to know exactly why she sharpened me, caged me, tested me.

Her silence said it all.

I swallowed hard, pulse still thundering, the weight of their eyes pressing against my skin. Whatever they called me before—Cinderborn, half-blood, mistake—none of them would ever look at me the same way again.

The air still thrummed with the echo of my nearly loosed fire when I rose a fraction higher in my chair, letting my gaze sweep the table. One by one, I caught their eyes—Selene’s calculating calm, Tharion’s war-honed steel, the elders’ darting whispers, Zyrella’s poison-slick smirk. And then I fixed my stare on the one who’d dared press Cassie to bargain.

My voice carried, low but ringing clear:

“There will be no bargains with my Consort.”

The hall hushed, tension coiling tighter.

“If any of you think to play your little games with her, remember what you just saw was but a drop in the bucket. You won’t find protection in my mother’s shadow, nor her mercy, if you test me there. Cassie Fairborn is mine, as I am hers, and no Fae treachery will touch what we have claimed. Not while I still draw breath.”

The words struck like tempered steel. And above it all, my mother—High Lady Seara—remained silent. Not chastising. Not correcting. Simply watching, the faintest curve of satisfaction in her lips, the gleam of approval in her eyes. She let the words stand. Let the court feel the weight of them.

It was her permission as much as my defiance, and every Fae in the room knew it.

I sank into my chair again, Cassie’s hand still woven with mine, her thumb brushing steady circles against my skin. It was enough to let me breathe, enough to stop the fire trembling beneath my ribs.

And just like that, the ritual shifted.

Servants brought forward velvet pouches and wrapped boxes, the signal for the Firebrand family’s tradition: the secret gift exchange. One gift, drawn by lot, shared openly before the whole table. A game meant to soften politics with tokens of affection—or sharpen them with veiled strikes.

My draw had been Kaelen.

His small hands tore into the package, and when the toy car whirred to life across the table, powered by the sound of his laughter, he howled so brightly the car spun faster. He clutched it to his chest, declaring it the “best gift ever,” and I knew it would keep him—and the halls—filled with laughter for months.

Other gifts scattered down the table—veil-crystal hairpins, enchanted cookbooks, mortal trinkets polished to brilliance. Some genuine, some posturing.

Then came Zyrella’s offering to me.

An ornate mirror, its silver frame curling in ivy and flame. The glass shimmered faintly as I held it, the reflection rippling—showing not my face, but some perfected version of it. The heir they wished I’d been.

The insult was sharp, deliberate.

“I’m not trying to be anyone else,” I said coolly, setting it aside untouched.

Cassie leaned in, her voice sweet but cutting as a blade. “Are you sure she didn’t mean that for herself?”

The laughter that broke across the hall was sharp and scandalous. Zyrella’s face flamed crimson, fury barely leashed, and for once, the poison was turned back on her.

The laughter at Zyrella’s expense still echoed when I turned to Cassie, pulse hammering in my ears. The air was thick with spice and smoke from the banquet, but all I could smell was her—crisp frost and citrus, sharp enough to cut through everything else. The court watched, some expectant, some scandalized, as I drew a small box into my lap.

“This one’s from me,” I said, softer, the words carrying only because the hall had gone still again.

Inside lay the bracelet—simple woven cord, threaded with emberstone beads that glowed faintly when touched. Heat pulsed from them like the thrum of a heartbeat. Not gilded, not jeweled, but mine. Every knot tied by my own hands, every stone carefully chosen.

I fastened it around her wrist, my fingers brushing her skin—warm, steady, grounding against the tremor in my own hands. My voice came steadier than I felt. “Three enchantments. It’ll warm you when the cold gets too sharp. It’ll always point you toward me if you’re lost. And if you press this bead here—” I brushed the center stone, “—it’ll call to me. Silently. No one else will hear it.”

Her throat worked, eyes bright as she lifted her gaze to mine. Her perfume clung faintly to her skin—frost and blood-orange—and for a moment I forgot to breathe.

And then Cassie Fairborn—my supposed rival, my Consort now before the entire Summer Court—leaned across the narrow space between us and pressed her lips to mine.

Not a chaste brush. Not some fleeting courtesy. A kiss that said mine as clearly as the rings on our fingers. Her mouth was cool, citrus-sweet, and the world tilted with heat roaring up my throat in answer.

Gasps rippled like wildfire through the table. Someone dropped a goblet, the metallic clang ringing sharp as steel. Even Selene’s composure cracked, her brows arching a fraction higher. Tharion only drank deeper, the scent of smoke and steel rolling off him as the rest of the court tried to decide whether to faint or riot.

Cassie pulled back, lips curved in that sharp, impossible smile of hers, as if daring anyone to challenge her.

The heat in my face could have burned down the hall, and I swore the faint scent of scorched cedar clung to the air. But my hand never left hers. I leaned in just enough, my voice low but sure, for her alone: If this is being stuck with you, I’ll never ask to be free.

Her eyes widened, steel confidence faltering for a heartbeat—and gods, it nearly undid me.

Later—when the gifts were finished, when the stares turned elsewhere—she slipped something small into the pocket of my coat. A folded scrap of paper, edges worn from her fingers.

I didn’t open it then. But I felt its weight, heavier than gold.

And later, alone, I’d unfold it to read her uneven scrawl: I never thought you’d be mine. Not really. Not like this.

The laughter and whispers were still curling through the hall when the tug hit me—sharp, insistent. Not magic. Time.

Gods.

I blinked at the lanterns, at the still-murmuring court, at Cassie’s hand still laced with mine, and realized the night had run away from me. Of course it had. Hours slipped like water through my fingers when the fire took hold, when everything was too bright, too sharp.

I shoved back from the table, earning startled looks. “Shit.”

Cassie arched a brow. “Elegant.”

“I was supposed to be at my dad’s—” My throat tightened. “They always… we always do this, too. Just us.”

Understanding flickered across her face. Then, without hesitation: “Do I get to come with?”

The question hit harder than any insult tonight. I searched her eyes—sharp, stubborn, too bright to be afraid—and let the corner of my mouth curve. “You’re my Consort now,” I said, the word tasting both strange and right. “Of course you do.”

She grinned, reckless and unshaken. “Good. Then tomorrow you can take me to my parents for the gala. Tonight? Let’s go meet yours.”

The simplicity of it nearly undid me. As if it were that easy. As if she hadn’t just been dragged into a war she hadn’t asked for.

I rose fully then, ignoring the eyes that followed, the whispers already brewing. I hugged Selene first—her arms warm, steady, sunlight wrapping tight around me. She murmured something soft against my temple, a promise I’d unpack later.

Uncle Tharion got a squeeze to his shoulder, and Kaelen—beaming up at me as if I hadn’t nearly set the world on fire—earned a kiss to his temple.

And then my mother. Seara waited, regal and unyielding, until I leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek. “I love you, Mother,” I whispered, words tight but true.

Her hand brushed my jaw, fleeting, iron and velvet at once. “I know,” was all she said. But her eyes gleamed—sharp, proud, unreadable.

I whistled, and the little chaos I now called mine stirred—the white husky pup yipping from his carrier, the ember fox curling tight in another, the fae lynx kitten hissing softly until I soothed it with a flicker of warmth. Not trained yet, not calm yet, but I wasn’t leaving them here. Not tonight.

Cassie slung her bag over her shoulder, bracelet glinting on her wrist. She fell into step beside me as I hefted the carriers, every eye burning into our backs, the weight of the court heavy as chains.

But as the doors opened and the cooler night air swept in, I exhaled.

One family’s fire behind me. Another waiting ahead.

And for the first time, I wasn’t going alone.

We were halfway down the lantern-lit steps when Cassie spoke, voice low, uncertain in a way I hadn’t heard all night. “Back there—when they asked if I’d seal it as a bargain. You went… nuclear. Why?”

I stopped dead, the carriers swaying in my hands. My throat tightened. “Because if you’d said yes, it would’ve bound you. Not like a promise between friends. A binding. You’d have been chained to whatever they decided those words meant, with no escape until it killed you.”

Her eyes widened, the color draining from her cheeks. “I almost—”

“You almost shackled yourself to the Veil.” My fire stirred just saying it, bitter and hot. “And they would have loved it. Loved to watch you stumble into a trap you didn’t even know existed.”

Cassie’s jaw tightened, defiance rising through the fear. “And you stopped it.”

I blew out a shaky breath, forcing my hands steady on the carriers. “I’d burn the whole damn hall before I let them take you like that.”

For a moment she just looked at me, frost-blue eyes sharp and unflinching. Then her hand found mine again, grip fierce, grounding. “Guess I’d better start learning the rules of your world,” she said quietly. “So I don’t make you go supernova every time I open my mouth.”

Despite myself, I huffed out a laugh, raw and uneven. “You’d better. My heart can’t take many more of those.”

Her answering smile was reckless, bright as a match struck in the dark. “Good thing you’re fireproof.”

And with that, we kept walking—out of the Summer Court’s furnace, into the waiting dark.