We made it to my car—a sleek black coupe that gleamed like it had something to prove. I slid into the driver’s seat, fingers drumming once against the wheel before I forced them still. Cassie buckled herself in without a word, that quiet confidence of hers somehow louder than the engine when it purred to life.

Behind us, three carriers were strapped in like precious cargo: a white husky pup who fogged the grate with a sneeze, a russet fox kit curled into a warm comma of sleep, and a lynx kitten sulking in silence, tufted ears barely visible through the slats. The car smelled faintly of pine from the tree at home, leather, and baby-animal heat—milk-sweet and wild. I kept a soft glamour pressed over all three, sanding down the impossible edges: the pup’s too-bright eyes, the fox’s ember-glow, the lynx’s not-quite-right grace.

I peeled us out of Emberhall, its marble-and-gold suffocation shrinking in the rearview. My chest loosened, just barely. Next stop: cinnamon-scented guilt, awkward family tension, and my dad pretending like he could keep everything normal.

And maybe… for a second… it could be.

We barely made it up the porch steps before the door swung open. The carriers bumped my calves—tags jingling, kitten thumping an indignant paw against plastic. Cassie hooked two fingers under the husky’s handle without being asked, matching my pace; our shoulders brushed, steadying the static fizzing under my skin.

Elias Quinveil—my dad, my anchor, my last bastion of non-magical normalcy in this nuclear nightmare of a life—stood framed in the doorway. Flannel button-down, reading glasses perched on his nose like he’d forgotten he needed them. He smelled of cinnamon, old aftershave, and coffee left too long on the burner.

His eyes landed on me first, warm and grounding as always. Then they flicked to Cassie. The shift was subtle, but I caught it—the smallest widening, a blink too long. Surprise, yes. But no hesitation. His smile broke across his face like sunrise.

His gaze dipped again—past us—to the carriers.

“You brought company,” he said, voice full of unpolished delight.

My throat bobbed. My hands twitched at my sides until I caught one in the other. “Dad, this is Cassie.” And before he could decide that meant anything, I blurted, “Cassie, this is my other favorite human.”

The husky yipped once, like seconding the introduction.

Cassie extended her hand with perfect poise, firm but charming. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Quinveil.”

“Please,” he said at once, stepping back to let us in, a quick smile softening the correction. “Call me Elias. Any friend of Mira’s is welcome here. Though you might regret agreeing to dinner.”

He angled an elbow under the fox kit’s carrier to help before I could protest. The weight surprised him; he adjusted without comment.

I groaned. “He’s being humble. He makes an actual roast, Cass. Like, meat and potatoes, from scratch. It’s absurd.”

The warmth of the townhouse wrapped around us like a blanket. Yellow lamp-glow pooled against the walls. Handmade garland draped the banister, the threadbare kind Juliana insisted on reusing every year. A real pine tree stood proud in the corner—not glamoured, not sculpted, not set alight in ceremonial flames—its branches sagging under the weight of mismatched ornaments, half of which I remembered painting when I was eight.

The husky’s nose pressed through the crate door, whuffing pine-scent like a connoisseur. The lynx kit went statue-still, pupils blown wide at the sparkle of tinsel. I smoothed the glamour again, a quiet fingertip of heat; ordinary, ordinary, ordinary.

The kitchen air carried garlic, butter, and something caramelizing slow and sweet. My chest ached. This was home.

Cassie took it in silently, icy-blue eyes flicking over family photos, dog-eared books leaning against one another, the scuffed rug. To anyone else, it might’ve looked… ordinary. But Cassie had been raised in the ice palace of performance that was the Fairborn estate. To her, this probably felt like folklore—messy, alive, real.

And that was the dangerous part. Because she was here now, inside it. Inside me.

Lucien’s footsteps thundered on the stairs, too loud for someone trying so hard to look composed. My younger half-brother paused at the landing, blazer too stiff for a house full of lamplight and dinner smells. His gaze locked on Cassie, and for a second, shock softened his expression.

His attention snagged on the carriers next—quick, assessing, skeptical. The husky jangled his tag as if to say hi; Lucien’s mouth tightened.

Then he blinked, recalibrated, and said flatly, “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Cassie smiled, smooth as ice over glass. “Funny. Mira says that a lot too.”

His eyes cut to me. The softness was gone. His voice sharpened. “Does she know everything about you?”

The jab landed cold. My nails bit into my palm where I clenched my fist. The lynx flattened one ear at the tone; the fox kit made a small, drowsy chirp. I adjusted the crates to put myself between them and Lucien without making a scene.

Cassie didn’t so much as flinch. “We just left her mother’s palace, actually. Spent a delightful evening exchanging gifts with the entire Firebrand line.”

The silence snapped, brittle as dry wood.

I forced a smile that showed too many teeth. “You should’ve seen Seara’s face when Cassie—my mere mortal—kissed me on the cheek in front of the whole damned court.”

Lucien flushed, red rising slow like heat under glass. His jaw worked, but he didn’t speak. Only the twitch at the tip of his ear betrayed him.

From the hall, Juliana’s voice rang too bright. “Mira, sweetheart! Come in, dinner’s almost ready!”

She bustled out a moment later, overdressed in a cranberry wrap dress embroidered with gold thread, like she couldn’t decide between festive or formal and landed awkwardly on both. Her perfume—floral and powdery—clashed with the garlic in the air. Her eyes found the crates and did a delicate little panic flutter. “Oh! You—brought… animals.”

“Babies,” I corrected, already kneeling to set the husky’s crate gently by the radiator and the fox’s near the hearth’s warm-but-not-hot spill of heat. “And glamoured. Promise.”

Elias’s mouth twitched, surrendering. “Towels. We’ll put an old sheet over the good throw,” he said, already heading for the linen closet.

“Oh! You must be Cassie!” Juliana pivoted back to her script, smile so tight it threatened to shatter.

Cassie inclined her head with practiced polish. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Quinveil.”

Juliana flushed, flustered but clearly pleased. “Please, Juliana is fine. Mira’s told us…” Her glance darted to me, then back to Cassie, then—inevitably—to the crates. “Well, not much, actually.”

Cassie’s smirk curled, subtle and lethal. “I get that a lot.”

We trailed into the living room like guests at some small-town bed-and-breakfast. Juliana fussed in ahead of us, her cranberry dress swishing as she snatched up a tray of steaming mugs from the sideboard. I slid the lynx’s crate beside the couch where she could see the room without seeing the tree; the pup’s crate door clicked as I cracked it, letting him sniff the edge of the rug with cautious dignity. Another pass of glamour—just in case.

“Here we are, hot cider—extra cinnamon sticks!” she chirped, cheeks already flushed as if my bringing Cassie through the door had raised the thermostat.

The scent hit first—apples stewed down to velvet sweetness, spiced with cloves and cinnamon so strong it clung to the back of my throat. I curled my fingers into fists, nails pressing crescents into my palms, just to ground myself. Too warm. Too many eyes. The husky’s tags jingled as he turned twice and collapsed with a sigh against my boot; the fox kit yawned, tiny teeth flashing, and settled into the radiator’s hum like a living ember.

Cassie’s hand brushed mine as she accepted her mug, knuckles grazing my wrist. A subtle squeeze—two pulses, quick, private. I exhaled, tension slipping out on the steam.

Grams settled into her armchair with the ceremonial sigh of someone who’d been waiting all day for this exact moment. Her gaze skipped from my face to Cassie to the cracked-open crate at my feet and lit. “So,” she said, eyes twinkling as she stirred her cider, “is this the girl who thinks she can keep up with our Mira? And are those our grand-critters?”

Cassie didn’t flinch. She crossed one leg over the other, leaned back just enough to look relaxed but not disrespectful, and smiled like she’d been preparing for this all her life. “I do my best. Though I’m beginning to suspect Mira sets the bar wherever she feels like it.”

She tipped her chin toward the pup with a conspirator’s smile. “They’re very well behaved.”

Pops barked a laugh that rattled his chest. “Good answer. Smart girl.” He offered the back of his hand for the husky to sniff; the pup bestowed a solemn lick, then thumped his tail against my ankle like a drumroll.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks. I ducked my head, picking at the edge of my sleeve, stimming against the scratch of fabric. Cassie’s knee nudged mine under the coffee table—gentle, anchoring. The lynx blinked slow approval from her crate like a tiny judge.

Juliana hovered like a too-bright moth. “Well, she certainly has good manners. And such posture! Mira, sweetheart, you never mentioned your friend was so polished.”

“She’s more than polished,” I muttered, earning myself a sidelong smirk from Cassie that made my stomach flip.

Lucien, half-slouched on the loveseat, sipped his cider like it might poison him. His gaze flicked between us, sharp and simmering, but he said nothing. Not yet.

The husky’s ear twitched toward him, then flattened in canine Switzerland. I rested my foot against the crate door until the pup stilled, and let the house’s warmth try—just try—to seep back in.

The room hummed with ordinary chaos—fire popping in the hearth, Pops chuckling to himself, Grams asking Cassie questions faster than Juliana could refill her mug. And Cassie… gods, she handled it all like a queen in disguise. Complimenting Grams’s knit shawl, laughing softly at Pops’s bad puns, leaning just far enough toward Juliana when she praised the cider that my stepmother nearly melted into the carpet.

And all the while, her hand kept finding me under the table. A brush of fingers when my leg bounced too fast. A squeeze when I twisted my rings round and round until the band cut into my skin. No one else noticed. But I did. Every single time.

From the arm of the sofa, Elias sat back in his flannel and glasses, watching the scene unfold. He laughed when Pops laughed, smiled when Grams teased—but his eyes weren’t on them. They lingered on Cassie. On the way her smile never faltered. On the way her fingers lingered on mine.

And once, when Cassie reached for her mug, his gaze dropped to her left hand. Then to mine. His expression didn’t change, but something in the air tightened—just for a breath.

I swallowed, throat dry despite the cider. He knew. Or he was starting to.

But for now, he stayed silent.

And I couldn’t decide if that made it better, or infinitely worse.

The dining room was too warm, and not the cozy kind. Radiator heat pressed in from one side, oven warmth from the other, and too many bodies crowded around a table meant for six, not eight. The air clung heavy with roasted garlic, rosemary, and pine from the real tree glimmering in the corner.

The table itself looked like a holiday card brought to life: roast chicken glistening in golden skin, carrots caramelized at the edges, potatoes whipped into perfect clouds, bread steaming as if it had just leapt from the oven. Real food. Human food. Nothing conjured. Nothing glamoured. Nothing I could hide behind.

Cassie looked flawless in it. She leaned into Juliana’s questions, complimented Grams’s knitting, even teased Pop about his over-generous pour of cider. She carried herself like she’d rehearsed, charm flickering between sharp and soft as needed.

I tried to match her, but my leg bounced under the table, too fast. I picked at the corner of my napkin until it frayed. My fingers tapped restless rhythms against my thigh until Cassie brushed my hand beneath the table, grounding me without breaking her smile.

Lucien, of course, couldn’t stand it.

“So what now?” he said, slicing his chicken with surgical precision. “Going to let the Courts marry you off to whatever creep bids highest?”

My chest went ice-hot.

Cassie didn’t blink. She only tilted her head, smile steady. “Funny. That’s exactly what she didn’t do.”

Juliana sputtered on her cider. Elias coughed into his napkin—a sound that was definitely a laugh. Lucien’s jaw flexed like he was chewing gravel.

But then Elias’s gaze shifted. Careful. Measuring.

Not at Cassie.

At me.

At my left hand.

My stomach plummeted.

“Mira,” he said slowly, like he was in court, weighing every syllable. “Is there something more you’d like to tell us?”

The room stilled. The clink of cutlery, the quiet chatter—all of it evaporated. Every pair of eyes tracked to my ring finger. To the silver band glinting there.

Heat burned my skin hotter than the radiator. My pulse hammered in my throat. My nails dug crescents into my palm under the table.

Cassie didn’t save me. She didn’t flinch either. She just waited, calm as a blade in its sheath.

I swallowed, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

“She’s… my consort.”

The word landed like a blade splitting the table in two.

Silence. A thick, stunned silence. Even the radiator hissed louder for a beat.

Grams’s fork clattered against her plate. Juliana’s hands flew to her mouth. Pop squinted at Cassie like she’d grown antlers. Lucien’s knuckles whitened around his knife.

And I couldn’t leave it there. Not with their stares burning through me. Not when they deserved the truth.

“It wasn’t random,” I said, my voice rough. “At Frostfire, the Small Folk crowned me their queen. Their Starcrown. And Mother—she was about to announce my engagement to Daevan Nightvine, the Autumn Court prince.” The name scraped my throat raw. “He sees me as property. Something to own. Something to breed with. Nothing more.”

My hands twisted the napkin until it tore. “But queens have the right to name their own consort. So I struck first. I chose Cassie. Not because it was easy. Because it was mine. Because I refuse to let anyone—my mother, Daevan, the Courts—decide for me.”

The silence broke in fragments.

Juliana made a sharp little gasp, pressing her hands to her lips. Grams’s eyes brimmed, her lips pressing tight as if to hold back words. Pop muttered, “Damn right,” under his breath, loud enough for the table to hear.

Elias didn’t move at first. He just stared at me, the weight of it almost unbearable. Then he set his fork down, slow and careful, and leaned forward. His eyes were glass-bright, jaw working like he was grinding stone.

“You should never have been in that position,” he said finally, voice low and tight. “That should’ve been me standing between you and your mother. Between you and him.” His hand clenched once on the tablecloth, knuckles white. “You shouldn’t have had to protect yourself from that.”

My chest cinched, too tight to breathe.

But then his voice broke softer, the steel cracking. “And yet—you did. Saints, Mira… you did.” His throat bobbed. Pride and grief tangled in his eyes, warring in every line of his face. “I’m proud of you. Furious, terrified—but proud.”

Cassie’s fingers tightened on mine beneath the table, steady and sure. “She didn’t choose a stunt,” she said quietly, her voice carrying anyway. “She chose me. And I chose her.”

Uneven laughter broke through—half nerves, half relief. The tension didn’t vanish, but it shifted, jagged edges dulled by something warmer, heavier: acceptance, however fragile.

But Lucien’s silence sat heavy at the end of the table, his knife scraping his plate like a warning bell.

Grams, eager to redirect, leaned forward. “Mira, love, why don’t you show us some of your flame dancing? For your poor grandparents who don’t get to see enough magic?”

Pop grunted. “So long as it doesn’t take the power grid down again.”

Juliana gasped. “At the dinner table?”

Elias didn’t so much as blink. “It’s her choice.”

The choice wasn’t really a choice. My magic hummed beneath my skin, restless, demanding. My fingers twitched against the tablecloth. I rose slowly, palms damp.

The glamour slid away like a second skin, leaving my starlit eyes bare—brown threaded with flecks of gold and silver, burning brighter in the candlelight. Cassie’s gaze caught mine—steady, fierce, proud.

A flame bloomed in my palm, soft and eager. It spun into ribbons, twisting into a fox, a blooming flower, then the Summer Court crest—just long enough for Lucien’s scowl to deepen.

When it dissolved in a quiet shower of golden sparks, the room erupted in applause.

Even Pop clapped once. “Better than last year’s Veilflix yule log.”

Grams wiped a tear from her eye. “Beautiful, baby. Just beautiful.”

Cassie’s hand found my knee again under the table, anchoring me in the storm.

And for just one heartbeat—it almost felt safe.

Laughter rolled around the table. Even Juliana managed a watery smile. For one fragile breath, it felt like belonging—like family.

Then Lucien ruined it.

“She still doesn’t belong here.”

The words landed like an ice draft under the door.

I froze, leg bouncing under the table. My nails dug into my thigh, a desperate stim I couldn’t stop. “Lucien—”

“I mean it.” He stabbed his fork into his potatoes like he wanted to kill them. “We all pretend it’s normal. That you’re normal. But you live in a castle. You vanish into Faeworld for months. You come back acting like you’re better, bringing home a—” his eyes flicked to Cassie, wounded and venomous all at once “—a consort. Of all people, you had to make her your consort?”

Cassie didn’t flinch. Her smile iced over, perfect and polite, but her voice carried steel.

“I’m not here to replace you, Lucien.”

He barked a laugh, ugly and too loud. “You already did. She never comes home, and when she does, she brings you.”

My throat constricted. Guilt twisted sharp in my chest, because underneath the jealousy, underneath the cruelty—he was just sixteen. A boy who wanted his sister to be home. A boy who had a crush on the one girl I claimed as mine. And I couldn’t fix that.

But I couldn’t apologize for Cassie either.

The scrape of Elias’s chair cut through the tension. He rose slowly, his shadow falling across the table, and when he spoke the air shifted.

“Lucien.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was steel.

The room stilled.

“You don’t have to like that your sister is Fae,” he said, low and even. “You don’t have to understand her life, or where she disappears to, or who she brings to dinner. But you will respect her.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

Elias leaned forward, eyes sharp as knives, and the heat in his voice sharpened. “I get one damn weekend a month with my daughter. One. Holiday dinners, court-approved visits—that’s it. So if you can’t find it in yourself to be decent, then you can find another room. But you will not ruin what little time I have with her because you can’t get over whatever teenage resentment is living under your stupid hair gel.”

Silence.

Lucien’s face flushed red, but he bit his tongue, stabbing at his plate instead.

Elias straightened, the storm already draining into tired lines at the corners of his eyes. He turned to me then, softer but not weak. Protective still, always.

“You’re still staying the night, right?”

I swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

His gaze flicked to Cassie. “Snow’s picking up. Roads’ll be hell soon.”

Cassie met his stare head-on, shoulders squared. “If the offer’s open—”

“It is,” Elias said simply, final as a gavel.

The house exhaled in pieces after the fight—forks settling against plates, chairs scraping gentle apologies across the floor, the radiator hissing like it had opinions. Cinnamon and clove lingered thick in the air, stitched through with garlic and pine; the kind of warmth that clung to your clothes and your hair and the soft inside of your throat.

I sat very still, counting the ridges along the edge of my plate with my thumbnail—one, two, three—until the restless hum in my chest stopped trying to burst out of me. Across the table, Cassie’s knee nudged mine under the tablecloth. Two presses, light as a secret. My breath found itself.

Grams reached over, papery hand warm over my wrist. “Families fight,” she said in that careful, no-nonsense voice she used to use on Elias when he was late for curfew. “We raised a stubborn son; he came right, eventually. You two will sort it.”

Pop tugged his tartan blanket up with a grunt that was more fondness than complaint. “Your dad could sulk for a county. Didn’t help his algebra. You’ll be fine.”

A laugh scraped out of me, small and useless and needed. I smoothed the napkin in my lap, then smoothed it again—too many times—until Cassie’s pinky hooked mine under the table, a quiet catch-and-release that broke the loop.

Later, when the dishes were stacked in precarious little towers and Juliana’s hovering had cooled to a mild simmer, Elias tipped his head toward the den. That look—no words, just the soft gravity of them. I followed.

The den smelled like old paper and pine dust and the clean, dark line of his aftershave. Books leaned in conspiracies along the shelves; rolled maps nested in a wire basket beside the desk. He didn’t speak at first, just pulled open the bottom drawer of the rolltop and lifted out a slim case, setting it on the blotter like it might burn through.

I opened it.

A Veilmap—real, etched, layered. Depth markers fine as hairline cracks. Phase gates charted in ink that seemed to deepen when the firelight breathed. Pulse sigils not meant for good, obedient citizens. The kind I had no right to expect in my father’s desk. The kind the wrong eyes could get him killed for.

“Dad,” I said, and the word broke on the edge of my breath. “This is—”

“They’re tightening the lines.” His voice was low, even; the steadiness he used to help me measure flour when I was eight and everything had to be exact or I’d throw the bowl. “You need to know your ways out. And through.”

“You’re not supposed to know about those routes.”

“You’re not supposed to be a Firebrand.” His hand—warm, callused—settled on my shoulder. Light enough that I could shrug him off. Strong enough that I didn’t. “Yet here we are.”

The map caught on the fire’s glow, a faint shimmer like a living thing. My fingers itched to trace the inked arteries and memorize them the way I memorized steps for a routine—muscle by muscle, breath by breath. I rubbed my thumb over the edge of the case instead, three beats—tap, tap, tap—until the compulsion slipped.

“I know I only get one weekend a month,” he said. “Holidays if the courts are feeling generous. But I still see what’s happening around you, Mira. I won’t pretend I don’t.”

“You’re seventeen,” his silence added. “Seventeen and someone’s wife. Seventeen and carrying maps that belong to rebels.” Pride and fear tangled tight in his mouth and he didn’t let either win.

“Thank you,” I managed.

He nodded once, like he was filing the moment away in some ledger I’d never get to read. “That’s not your only gift.”

We carried the case back with us, quiet between us. The living room glowed soft—lamp light, firelight, the little string of cheap fairy bulbs along the bookshelf Juliana refused to take down after Lumenfeast because “they make the place feel kind.” Cassie was curled at the end of the couch, ankles crossed, hands around a chipped mug that declared RAVENREST SCIENCE FAIR CHAMPION 20228 in peeling gold letters. Her gaze slid from me to the case and back again. She didn’t ask. But I watched the way her fingers tightened on the mug, the way her breath went shallow for one beat. Noted. Filed.

I set the map case on the end table and crouched by the carriers. “Okay, monsters,” I murmured, palm pressed to the latches. “Parole.”

“On the rug, please,” Elias said automatically from the doorway, already reaching for an old sheet. “Not the good throw.”

Juliana fluttered in with two towels. “If there are… little feet… they can be little feet on this.”

“They’re glamoured,” I promised, sliding a steadying hand over each crate—heat smoothing the not-quite-human edges. “They’ll behave.”

The husky tumbled out first—white fur, bright eyes dulled to reasonable, tags giving a proud jingle as he tasted the room with his nose. He pressed his head into Pop’s knuckles like the man had always belonged to him. The fox kit unfolded from a cinnamon curl and oozed into the hearth’s fringe of warmth with a tiny, squeaky yawn. The lynx kitten slipped out last, whisper-pawed along the sofa back, and perched like a small, judgmental crown.

Grams clasped her hands. “Grand-critters,” she declared, misty-eyed.

Juliana opened her mouth to protest and then watched the fox sink boneless by the radiator and sighed. “Fine. But no paws on the coffee table.”

Juliana clapped her hands like someone about to announce a door prize. “Presents!”

Chaos bloomed, domestic and earnest. Paper crinkled; tape surrendered with indignant little clicks. I unwrapped Juliana’s slippers—one sun, one moon, fabrics mismatched and hand-tugged into place. The seam under my thumb was a little crooked; the stitch, imperfect. My throat did something soft and dangerous.

“They’re silly,” she blurted, already apologizing. “But I thought when you’re here—well—warmth.”

“They’re perfect,” I said, and meant it. More than perfect. Juliana had stitched her apology into fabric, tried to knit belonging into yarn. I pressed my palm to one, feeling the loopy stitch with the pad of my thumb until the urge to cry backed off.

Grams and Pop presented a leather journal embossed with sunflowers. It smelled like paper and dust and promise. “Maybe write something not explosive,” Grams said, pretending she wasn’t watching my face like a hawk. Pop added, “We’ll take bets,” and I snorted, because we both knew I’d probably draw fire glyphs in the margins before I wrote a single nice thing. The husky thumped his tail against my boot like he agreed; the lynx blinked slow at the journal and then at me, unimpressed.

Elias’s public gift came in a slim box: a silver charm bracelet, five tiny icons catching the hearth’s flicker—a flame, a book, a moon, a compass, a sunflower. The clasp clicked; the charms chimed softly against my wrist when he let go. Something in my chest cracked open and warm.

“Fill the rest with whatever matters,” he said.

The charms dug into me with memory—he knew me. He’d always known me, even from the outside. I looked away before my eyes betrayed me. Cassie’s fingers slid over the back of my hand—one steady stroke, palm to knuckle—like she could press my ribs back together from the outside. The fox kit made a pleased little chuff and tucked his nose under his tail.

Lucien’s turn came wrapped in plain brown paper, edges aligned with irritated precision. Inside: a pencil sketch. Me on stage, frozen in motion, mouth open mid-line, hair caught in an arc of light like a comet tail. The lines were sure. Honest. A little angry.

He leaned in close enough for only me to hear. “I still hate the fae,” he whispered. “And I still don’t understand… this.” The smallest tilt of his head toward Cassie. “But I do love you. I’m trying. Even if I’m shit at it.”

The words stabbed and soothed in the same beat. I nodded. That was all I trusted my voice for. It was enough.

The husky, as if sensing the truce, nosed Lucien’s ankle. He didn’t kick him away. He didn’t pet him either. Progress.

When I handed out my gifts—labels I’d hand-lettered on candles poured into old jam jars; a sun-gold scarf soft as a breath for Grams; a little booklet of my favorite spicy recipes for Pop with warnings like may ignite sinuses scrawled in the margins—Juliana pressed her hand to her chest and said “Oh, Mira,” like the candle was an apology she didn’t deserve. Elias unwrapped the fountain pen, turned it in his fingers so the nib caught the light, and pulled me into a hug that felt like a promise: I’m here. Even if I can’t fix it. Even if none of this is simple.

The lynx decided Pop’s recliner shoulder was a throne and settled with royal gravity; Pop pretended not to notice, then adjusted his blanket to give her more space.

The fire settled to a steady hum. Grams and Pop drifted into twin dozes beneath their blankets, glasses slipping down noses. Juliana migrated to the kitchen under the guise of prepping breakfast, banging around more than necessary. Elias stretched out on the couch with a book open against his chest, eyes closed but not asleep.

The fox kit’s breathing matched the radiator’s whisper. The husky curled on Juliana’s discarded shawl until she came back, saw him, sighed, and left it there on purpose.

Peace tried to gather.

Lucien shattered it.

He dropped into the armchair across from us with exaggerated casualness, elbows bracketing his knees. “Cassie Fairborn,” he said, like he was greeting a visiting dignitary he’d decided not to like. “Never thought I’d see you at a Quinveil dinner.”

“I go where the roast is good,” Cassie replied, polite as a blade in a silk sheath.

He smiled, all teeth. “Next time you’re free, I can show you the best coffee in Ravenrest. I know some spots.”

She tilted her head. “That’s generous.”

She didn’t take the bait. She also didn’t move her hand from where it rested—light, unassuming—over my wrist. The husky lifted his head, ears flicking toward Lucien’s voice, and let out the smallest warning whuff. I brushed his ruff—easy—and he put his chin back on his paws.

“We’re on the same debate circuit,” he pressed. “Same circles. Surprised we haven’t hung out.”

“You were busy,” she said. “And I was—” her thumb traced once along my skin, soft as smoke “—otherwise engaged.”

His eyes tracked that thumb. Something in his face faltered, wounded pride bleeding through the bravado. “Right. Engaged.” A beat. “You’re into girls now?”

Cassie’s voice went velvet and steel, deliberate as a verdict. “I’m into Mira.”

The words landed like a hammer. I didn’t breathe.

Lucien opened his mouth. Closed it. His ears flushed.

“You should work on not making the people you care about feel like a sideshow,” she added, sweet enough to sting.

Lucien stood too quickly, muttered something about air, and took the back porch door with him. The lynx’s ears flattened, then eased up once the door clicked shut.

The quiet he left behind was softer. Not fixed. But softer.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, barely above the fire’s purr.

“Yeah,” she said, and her smile went crooked as a secret. “I did.” A pause. “You’re not a secret. Not anymore.”

The last of the cider went lukewarm in our mugs. The house settled into itself—radiator ticking, fire breathing, Grams’s soft snore, Pop’s throat-rattle counterpoint. Elias’s book rose and fell with even breaths. Snow ghosted the window—hushed, persistent, more whisper than storm.

I traced the new charms on my bracelet—flame, book, moon, compass, sunflower—each one a small weight. Cassie’s shoulder brushed mine. The map case on the end table caught the lamplight like a warning and an invitation.

The fox kit gave one last tiny sigh and went boneless. The husky’s paw twitched in a dream, tags chiming once like a bell. The lynx watched the fairy lights like she was memorizing their pattern for later judgment.

I let my head fall back and let the house hold me up. Safe. Quiet. Golden. For now.

By the time the room thinned to the clink of mugs and the grandparents’ TV murmur, Cassie caught my eye with that tiny question-tilt of her head. I was already warm from the cider and the fireplace and her thumb skating lazy circles over the back of my hand. Too warm. My three-beat finger tap had crept back—tap, tap, tap against my thigh.

“You tired?” I asked anyway, casual on purpose.

“A little,” she said, glancing toward the hallway. “Where am I crashing?”

Grams and Pop had the guest room. The couch was technically an option. My stomach flipped.

“My room has space,” I said, trying not to make it a capital-P Problem.

Her mouth curved. “Oh?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“No promises.”

We slipped past Lucien—his gaze snagged on our joined hands, then darted away like it burned. Cassie didn’t flinch. Her knuckles brushed mine again, a private Morse code: here.

In my room, the world shrank to familiar edges: poster corners curling, a ribbon-winner’s blue fade, Veil-vein maps like constellations pinned to drywall. Laundry-detergent clean and a whisper of pine from the old dresser. The radiator ticked a slow heartbeat. My Firestarter Academy tee waited on the dresser with flannel pants and a pair of socks that hadn’t had partners in months.

The husky’s crate went beside the door; I cracked it so he could see us and not panic. The fox kit stayed covered near the radiator—a warm loaf of sleep. The lynx, unbothered by rules, hopped up to claim the end of the bed with a slow blink that read: my realm now.

“Cozy,” Cassie said, voice soft, taking everything in like evidence.

“It’s not Emberhall.” I toed the rug straight with my heel. “No enchanted mirrors judging your posture.”

“That’s a plus.” She held up the tee, smirking. “Firestarter Academy?”

“Classic,” I said. “You can borrow it if you promise not to disrespect the institution.”

She put a hand to her heart. “Never.”

I fished a towel from the linen shelf and tossed it to her. “Shower’s across the hall.”

She paused in the doorway. “You sure?”

“If I go first, you’ll accuse me of dramatic steam exits.”

Her laugh left frost-citrus in the air, bright and clean. Then she was gone. The fan hummed. I stood there for a breath. Then two. Then too many. Cuff seam: roll, unroll, roll. Tap, tap, tap.

When she came back—hair damp and darker at the ends, sleeves pushed to her elbows, my shirt hanging loose on her, gods—she carried lavender soap over her own chilled vanilla musk, white camellia, that glacial citrus that made something in me sit up. It laced through my toasted-marshmallow warmth and the stargazer bloom clinging to my skin. Sparks met ice. My bracelet on her wrist gave a barely-there glow, emberstones warming to her pulse.

“I left you some hot water.” A beat. “Barely.”

I flicked her with the towel on my way past, regaining one (1) dignity point.

When I returned—hair damp, cheeks pink, scar above my brow more obvious without glamour—Cassie had turned back the blankets on the right side, neutral-ground pillow barrier established like the world’s gentlest treaty. Her phone lined under the lamp; her bracelets stacked neatly on the dresser—except for mine. Ours. The consort ring sat on her left hand like it had always been there. Mine hummed in answer—faint, like a moth behind glass.

The lynx regarded us, tucked her paws beneath herself, and decided we were acceptable.

Then: a knock.

I froze mid-step. Cassie’s eyebrows shot up.

“Sweetheart,” Dad’s voice through the wood, infinitely gentle and infuriating, “don’t close it.”

Heat lit my ears. “Dad.”

“If it were a boy, the door stays open. Same rules apply.”

I cracked it two inches. Hallway light sliced a golden bar across the rug.

“You’re the worst,” I muttered.

“I’m your father,” he said. “Same thing.”

I hesitated, fingers on the knob. “But—she’s my wife.” The word slipped out, soft and defiant all at once. “Consort.”

Silence breathed on the other side. I could feel him thinking, the near-give of it like a loosened knot. Then a steady exhale. “You’re still seventeen, and you’re sleeping under my roof,” he said, gentler, not softer. “Same rules I’d use for anyone you brought home.” A heartbeat. “I trust you. I want you happy. Door stays open.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, which in our language meant okay, I hear you.

Cassie smothered her laugh in my pillow. I threw myself face-first onto the bed and groaned into the mattress.

“Don’t say it,” I warned.

“I wasn’t going to,” she lied, smiling into the cotton.

We stared at the ceiling for a minute. Snow ticked the window like fingertips. The house exhaled and settled. Under the coverlet, my foot started a traitor bounce. Cassie noticed—of course she did. Her pinky hooked mine under the sheet, gentle tension that stilled the tap-beat. Knee pressure followed, light and sure. Cuff seam—she slid her fingertip along the inside of my sleeve, soothing the roll-loop itch until it faded. The crisis playbook, executed like muscle memory.

The husky huffed once from his crate and settled; the fox kit dreamed in quiet squeaks; the lynx, sentinel and smug, did not blink.

“I meant the vow,” she said into the quiet, tone low and unadorned. “Not as a show. Not to win the room. I chose you.”

The ring warmed—just a breath of heat. The tether hummed along my bones like a far train.

I stared at our hands and let honesty drag me by the hair. “What if it traps you?” My voice came out smaller than it had any right to be. “Consort. It’s… heavy. I was impulsive. And you were—brave. And now everyone has opinions and rules and open doors and—” I caught my braid, stilled my own spiral with a gentle touch to the plait. Brow scar, pinky hook, inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for six. The room cooled on the out-breath. My magic eased its shoulders under my skin.

Cassie shifted closer, shoulder-to-shoulder. “I’m not trapped.” She turned my hand palm-up and traced the soft lines there with a deliberate, grounding drag. “I’m anchored. There’s a difference.”

I huffed a laugh that wasn’t really one. “Anchored to a bonfire.”

“Then I’ll be your firebreak.” Her mouth tilted. “Besides, if I were trapped, would I be teasing your father’s open-door policy? Ten out of ten comedy. Would heckle again.”

Against my will, I smiled. Starlight flickered in my eyes—glamour loosening like a sigh. She noticed immediately—the way she always did. Her gaze went wide, soft. The lamp caught the metallic flecks in my irises; the air around my hair shimmered with a heat mirage you only saw if you knew where to look.

“You,” she breathed, like a secret, “look like yourself.”

“That’s either very sweet or deeply insulting,” I said, too fond for it to land.

“Sweet,” she decided. “I think.”

She kept looking, unblinking, like she could map constellations in me. “My Firefly,” she whispered, reverent and sure, as if naming a thing made it real.

Another quiet fell, full and not empty. I let myself look at her—really look. Damp hair leaving darker crescents on the collar of my tee. A hint of smudged mascara at the corner of her eye, proof she was, in fact, mortal. The faint firelight halo clinging to her skin, like summer had touched her and refused to let go.

“Okay,” I said, softer. “Say I believe you. That you chose this. Chose me.” My throat worked around the sharp/sweet of it. “Even if my family isn’t ready—”

“I’m ready,” she said, clean as a blade. “For you. For the weight. For the rules. For the open doors.” A beat. “And for calling them Elias and Juliana until they tell us otherwise.”

I snorted. “Strategic retreat. How very captain of you.”

“Debate champion, actually,” she said primly.

“Insufferable,” I murmured, but I curled toward her anyway.

We shuffled down under the blankets, the crack of hallway light still slicing the floor like a benign ward. She hesitated for exactly one heartbeat and then slid behind me, an arm gliding beneath the curve of my ribs. Her knees tucked into the back of mine. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” My answer fogged the cool cotton between us. “Yeah.”

“Goodnight,” I added, quiet as an ember. “My firebreak.”

Her palm settled over my diaphragm, found the rhythm of my breath and matched it—pressure on inhale, easing on exhale. The bracelet at her wrist warmed against my skin; my ring answered with a faint, answering thrum. Her scent—frosted citrus and cold vanilla—threaded into my toasted-marshmallow heat until the room smelled like a campfire on the edge of snow. The stargazer bloom in my pulse unfurled, slow and soft.

“I’m not a secret,” she said into my shoulder, drowsy and stubborn at once.

“Not anymore,” I agreed.

Outside, the snow thickened, blurring the streetlight into a halo. The radiator whispered. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked and then stilled. I let my eyes slip shut. The house held us. My magic, finally sated, banked low and safe.

Cassie’s breathing evened. The open door stayed open. And in that small, rule-bound rectangle of night, I let myself believe—just for now—that ready was enough.