The first thing I felt was cold.

Not the bite of winter air—Emberhall never allowed such a thing—but the hollow chill of sheets that should have held fire. My hand slid over the empty space beside me, finding nothing but cool linen where Mira should have been.

For a beat, panic caught sharp in my throat. Had she run? Had I dreamed her warmth, her laughter, the way her breath hitched against my neck last night? No. Firebrand wasn’t a coward. If she’d left, it wasn’t to escape me. Still, the bed felt too vast, too alive without her anchoring it, and the thought gnawed at me like a splinter.

I pushed up on an elbow, hair a tangle, and scowled at the quiet chamber. Emberhall thrummed faintly—like all Fae places—listening, waiting. This was only my third night sleeping under its roof, and I still hadn’t decided whether I belonged here… or whether it was already weighing and measuring me. Without Mira, it felt like the whole place stared.

Grumbling, I kicked free of the blankets and reached for the nearest thing draped across the chair: one of her shirts, oversized and soft from wear. It swallowed me to mid-thigh and carried her scent so thick it stole the air from my lungs—smoke and starlight, salt-rain and summer bloom. Gods, it was her. Comfort and chaos in one. I pressed my face to the collar, breathing her in until the clawing edge of insecurity dulled.

And yet… I still hated waking alone. Hated that she’d managed to slip from my arms without waking me. “Damn Fae stealth,” I muttered, voice hoarse with sleep and annoyance.

A sharp yip answered. Kit—our ember fox—leapt from the bed and landed with all the grace of a pebble in a bucket, scrabbling to follow like he’d decided I belonged to him now. In the bay window, the lynx kitten barely twitched an ear, sun gilding its fur as it watched the gardens with imperious disinterest. And the husky pup? Nowhere to be found. Which could only mean Mira had taken him with her. Of course she had.

The shirt still clung to Mira’s scent as I padded barefoot into the hall, Kit trotting at my heels like a flicker of living fire. Emberhall greeted me the way it always does: unsettling.

The corridor outside Mira’s room wasn’t the same one I’d fallen asleep knowing. The carpet stretched longer than it should have, woven in patterns that shimmered faintly, embers under ash. Stairwells shifted when I glanced at them—steps rolling in deliberate reversals that made my stomach dip, as if gravity had gone optional. Even the walls seemed to breathe, firelit sconces sighing brighter as I passed.

And the portraits—gods, the portraits. Regal Firebrands with molten eyes and blades in their hands; every one of them turned as I walked by, painted gazes tracking, weighing. Judging.

I swallowed hard and forced my spine straight, tugging Mira’s shirt lower over my thighs like fabric could shield me from bloodlines and stares. “Of course,” I muttered under my breath, sharp to cover the unease, “even the architecture here negotiates.”

Kit yipped, ears flicking, amused at my misery, then brushed my ankle—warm as kindling—and trotted a pace ahead, glancing back to be sure I followed.

At first I blamed my sense of direction. Then a stair run reversed under my foot, and I knew: Emberhall was guiding me.

The thought curled cold fingers around my ribs. Mira trusted this place, breathed in sync with it as though it were part of her. But me? I couldn’t shake the feeling Emberhall was studying me, shifting and stretching until I walked exactly where it wanted.

My fingertips skimmed the wall for balance—the plaster pulsed faintly, a heartbeat deep in stone. The hall narrowed, drawing me forward. The sconces dimmed, pooling shadow, until one door ahead held a thin seam of gold.

I slowed. Kit chirped, nudged my calf—onward.

The door stood slightly ajar. Voices threaded through the crack—low, sharp enough to prickle skin.

“…don’t play your court games with me, big sister.”

Tharion—Seara’s brother.

I froze, breath catching in my throat.

Kit pressed closer, tiny heat seeping into my shin, but it wasn’t enough to thaw the ice crawling higher through my veins. My breath fogged faint in the corridor’s gold, though the air wasn’t cold. Emberhall was watching. Waiting. And gods, I knew—bone-deep—I hadn’t wandered here by chance. Step by step, turn by turn, it had led me to this cracked door like a moth dragged to flame.

“Don’t play coy with me, sister.”

Tharion’s voice cut through the wood like a blade, rough as iron on stone. No court polish, no soldier’s mask—just a man demanding truth. “What is she? At Lumenfeast, when your daughter and her human consort stood before us, I felt it.”

My throat went dry. Consort. He meant Mira. He meant me.

“That kind of power should not live in one so young,” he pressed, voice like a war-drum. “When that fool cousin tried to twist the vows into a bargain, Mira’s control almost broke. Had she loosed it, half the hall would’ve gone up in flame. Perhaps even you.”

Kit whined and brushed my ankle with his tail—warmth against skin, useless against the chill sinking deep.

Mira. My Mira.

Silence stretched, long enough I could almost picture Seara’s smile—sharp, slicing. But when her voice came, it wasn’t honed steel. It was frayed. Ash.

“I don’t know.”

The words slipped through the crack like dying embers, landing heavier than any decree.

“She is more than Fae,” Seara whispered—and gods, I had never heard her sound so tired. “Greater than us. Her path is unclaimed. She may rise as a Scion, or fall as a Cinderborn. She may become our salvation… or our ruin.”

My palm flattened to the frame, nails digging grooves like pain could anchor me. I didn’t need a glossary: Scion sounded like salvation; Cinderborn, like a destroyer wearing my girl’s face. The way Seara spoke them—prophecy, prayer—made my skin prickle as if the words carried fire.

Softer still, the mask slipped—no High Lady, no viper—just a mother. “I love her. I want her safe. I would bear this burden for her if I could. But not even I can stop what’s stirring. I’ve tried.”

Something cracked in my chest. For the first time, I believed her. Not heir, not pawn—daughter.

A rumble answered, tempered steel. Tharion. “Then we don’t stop it. We sharpen her steel. So when the choice comes, she chooses salvation.”

Kit pressed his head hard against my calf, ears flicking toward the door like he understood. My pulse thundered—loud enough to give me away.

Scion. Cinderborn. Salvation. Ruin.

Each word a blade hung over Mira’s shoulders. A burden she didn’t even know she carried.

But I did.

And it nearly broke me. Because I loved her—gods, I loved her—and now I had to decide whether to carry this secret alone… or shatter her heart with the truth.

I leaned closer, breath catching—

The door slammed.

Not a latch, not a hand. Wood groaned and sealed by unseen magic, finality rattling down the corridor. Kit yipped, startled, pressing tighter to my leg.

And then—silence.

The manor shivered, like a beast exhaling after feeding me just enough to keep me hooked. My pulse roared in my ears, but some part of me knew: Emberhall had wanted me to hear that much—and no more.

I stumbled back, heart hammering, nearly tripping over Kit. I fled down the corridor, not caring where my feet landed, until I realized the house still wasn’t done with me. Staircases bent. Painted eyes in the portraits swiveled, following. The very floor tilted—subtle but insistent—funneling me down its chosen path.

And then came the scent.

Warm butter. Cinnamon. The comforting crackle of firewood and spice, weaving through the shifting air. The house wasn’t guiding me with walls anymore—it was luring me with comfort.

By the time I slowed, chest heaving, I stood at a wide doorway.

The kitchen.

Mira stood at the stove, back to me, sleeves rolled to her elbows, flamelight gilding her hair. She hummed under her breath, wooden spoon moving in an easy rhythm. Completely unaware of me. Completely at peace.

Like nothing in the world was wrong.

I gripped the doorframe, throat tight. She deserved to know. Gods, she deserved to know what her mother and uncle had just confessed—that her future wasn’t just hers, that it might devour us or save us.

Then I saw her shoulders, loose for once. No mask. No fight. Just Mira, humming to herself in the heart of her house, safe.

Kit circled my feet once, then padded forward to curl at her heels, letting out a tiny sigh as if even he’d made the decision for me. Emberhall echoed it—a soft groan in the rafters, warmth settling into stone.

I couldn’t do it. Not this morning. Not when she carried enough already.

Tomorrow, maybe.

I smoothed my expression, forced air back into my lungs, and stepped into the warmth as though none of it had touched me at all.