The ink on the record had barely cooled when Duke Maelion rose from the Sunspire bench, his voice slow and deliberate — the voice of a man who mistakes distance for wisdom.

“Your Radiance,” he began, “why did Her Majesty of Starveil leave her demesne without full guard authorization?”

A murmur rippled through the half-moon of nobles. Of course it would. Maelion never needed to raise his tone to command attention — he had centuries of entitlement to do that for him.

“Starveil’s staff is still assembling,” he continued. “To travel without a complete garrison is reckless — unbecoming of a duchess so newly sworn.”

Across the chamber, Zyrella Thornsflame’s fan flicked open like a blade. “A fair concern,” she said, her smile as polished as her venom. “The sanctity of Summer’s crowns rests on discipline, not youthful indulgence.”

Her lapdog, Marquis Corveth Veyra, murmured assent.

I did not stop them. Let them speak. Let them spool their own rope.

Maelion pressed the advantage. “Had the ambush gone differently, Your Radiance, we might be speaking of succession rather than report. The line itself would stand imperiled.”

Selene’s hands tightened on the dais, but I signaled restraint. She knows better than to interrupt when a fool declares himself.

I waited until their echoes thinned into silence, then inclined my head — regal, measured.

“Your concerns are… noted,” I said, and let the pause sharpen the word to a point. “The Solar will have its answers soon enough. Her Majesty of Starveil will speak for herself.”

The chamber stilled, confusion fluttering through the ranks like startled birds. They’d expected me to cut, not concede. But better they underestimate the trap.

I turned toward Mira and Cassie — flame and anchor — both seated in the golden light of scrutiny.

“Mira, my lightning bug,” I said, warmth threading through the steel, “the Solar invites your account.”

The chamber rippled with tension. Maelion had baited the hook; now the rest of the Solar snapped at it like well-trained hounds.

A Marchioness of Thornspire rose first, voice clipped and sweet. “Is Her Majesty suggesting that her personal curiosity outweighs established security protocols?”

Another joined in before Mira could answer — Corveth Veyra, of course. “We all cherish the common folk, but that is precisely why we protect ourselves. The sight of a royal in the streets invites unrest. Visibility breeds risk.”

And then, softly — the one I knew would wound most — Zyrella: “Or perhaps Her Majesty enjoys spectacle more than service. What better way to appear humble than to walk among the mud and call it duty?”

Mira didn’t flinch. She merely rose, the plaid of her mortal uniform a deliberate contrast to the gilded chamber.

“I don’t walk among the mud,” she said, voice steady, “I walk among my people. And they are not dangerous because they’re seen — they’re dangerous when they’re ignored.”

Her words dropped like coals into the silence.

The Marquis of Dawnsfire frowned, trying for logic. “Your safety, Majesty, is the safety of the realm. Had that attack ended differently—”

“Then at least,” Mira cut in, “I’d have fallen doing something worth the fall.”

Cassie’s fingers brushed the hem of Mira’s sleeve under the table — a quiet tether that only those of us on the dais noticed. Mira’s pulse, I could feel it from here, steadied instantly. Gods, how that girl knows her.

Mira continued, calmer now, sharper for it. “You ask why I went without a full guard. Tell me—what happens when a duchess arrives with banners and soldiers? The merchants rehearse their best smiles, the beggars vanish, and the truth hides under silk. I can’t lead a people I only see through ceremony. So yes, I walked among them. I listened. I saw the cracks in the wards, the price of grain, the children playing in dust that should’ve been gold. None of that would’ve reached this chamber otherwise.”

The murmurs began again—quieter this time, like the hum of something being understood against its will.

“She makes herself a target,” someone muttered.

“She makes herself known,” another answered, before realizing they’d said it aloud.

Selene hid a smile behind her hand. I didn’t bother hiding mine.

Mira finished simply, “If I am to serve Starveil, I must know Starveil. All of it. Not just the view from the manor balcony.”

The words were too earnest for court polish, too real for strategy—and that, of course, was why they hit harder than any speech I could have written for her.

Cassie’s eyes met mine across the dais—brief, questioning. As if asking whether she’d done enough to keep Mira steady. I gave her the smallest nod in return.

She doesn’t yet realize that she steadies the entire room, not just my daughter.

I let the silence stretch until even the bravest noble looked away, until the air itself seemed to bow to the girl who refused to.

Then, softly, I said, “The record will show Her Majesty’s account. And the court will remember that compassion is not contradiction.”

No one dared to argue.

But I could feel it in the air—the tension still simmering, waiting for my verdict. Which, of course, would come.

The chamber holds its breath when I rise.

Heat gathers along the edges of the marble, the faint shimmer of summer radiance answering before I even speak.

“Mira.”

My daughter’s name is a soft invocation and a warning both. She looks up — defiant chin, trembling hands hidden under the table, the scent of lightning under starlight clinging to her like a second skin.

“Your heart was right,” I begin, the weight of a queen laced through the tenderness of a mother. “Your reasoning, sound. A duchess who will not walk among her people forgets what she rules for.”

The murmur of approval is cautious, uncertain. They’ve learned that praise from me is rarely the end of the lesson.

I step down one tier of the dais. The Veillight shifts with me, threads of gold following the line of my sleeve.

“But you forget the cost of a crown, my little lightning bug. Compassion does not make you fragile — but visibility does. When you walk without guard, you do not walk alone. You carry every life sworn to you, every vow bound to your flame.”

The nobles are silent now, listening not for rebuke but for revelation.

“You have only just begun shaping your duchy,” I continue, my voice low but carrying. “Starveil’s defenses are still rebuilding after generations under my command. My forces have now been withdrawn to their proper posts — and in the wake of that change, your bloodsworn, Lord Ashvane, has spent the day assembling your permanent guard.”

I let the words hang just long enough for the nobles to understand the weight of that transfer — power passing from one era to another, and by my choice

.

“You will have your security detail in place before dusk tomorrow,” I say, steady as sunrise. “Each chosen as much for discretion as for loyalty. Use them well, Mira — not as barriers between you and your people, but as bridges. Their purpose is not to shadow your freedom, but to safeguard the fire that keeps Starveil alive.”

Her eyes lift — wary, proud, understanding and resisting in the same breath.

“I do not mean to cage you,” I say, softer now. “But you must learn to ask for help when the tide rises too fast. Power is not meant to be shouldered alone, and neither are you. A queen who refuses aid does not prove her strength — she endangers her kingdom.”

Cassie’s hand shifts again, grounding at her wrist. Mira breathes out, steadying. I see the flicker of realization — that this is not a punishment, but a promise.

“As your High Lady,” I continue, letting the title ring formal, “it is my duty to ensure your success. As your mother, it is my right to ensure your survival. Learn the rhythm of counsel as you have learned command. Take the wisdom offered, even when it tastes of restraint.”

Her lips part — not to argue, but to absorb.

“Yes, Your Radiance,” she says at last. The sound is steady. Grown.

I incline my head, allowing the faintest curve of a smile. “Good. Then we understand one another.”

I turn back to the chamber, voice carrying once more with the ease of authority.

“Let the record reflect that Her Majesty of Starveil acted in devotion to her people and that the Eternal Summer Court stands united behind her. The Moonwell Incident is closed pending further investigation by Captain Ashvane and the Starveil Guard.”

A flicker of relief and admiration ripples through the Solar — none of them bold enough to question further.

Selene’s lips twitch into the faintest grin at my shoulder.

Cassie’s hand remains over Mira’s wrist, steady as an oath.

And I, at last, allow myself to breathe.

She will learn.

And when she does, the world will have to learn with her.

Before the echo of my final words has even faded, Cassie lifts her chin.

The motion is small — a ripple in still water — but the effect is immediate. The court leans in, hungry, unsure whether to brace for audacity or apology.

“With respect, Your Radiance,” she says, voice steady as a drawn bowstring, “if the Crown asks her to serve, then the court should stop punishing her for doing it.”

A pause. Then, like tempered steel sliding home:

“She didn’t defy the law. She fulfilled it.”

The statement lands like a gauntlet.

For half a heartbeat, the Solar forgets to breathe. Then the nobles erupt — fans snapping, robes rustling, half-formed protests colliding in a cacophony of indignation. The audacity — a human

, speaking unbidden, contradicting them in their own chamber.

I can feel the heat spike from Mira before I see it. The air between her palms trembles, invisible but alive — her power rising instinctively in defense of the one person they have no right to touch. Her shoulders draw tight, every heartbeat a warning.

Cassie feels it too.

Without breaking eye contact with the nobles, she reaches out, her fingers brushing Mira’s wrist — gentle, deliberate. The faintest shimmer of blue light flares between them — the bond humming with restraint. Cassie doesn’t speak aloud, but her glare says it for her: Not here. Not for them.

Mira exhales, sharp and ragged, the sound of a storm remembering how to rain instead of burn. The Veillight steadies again.

I rise before the court can take another breath.

“Enough.”

The word cracks through the Solar like a whip.

Every voice dies. Even the flames in the wall sconces bow inward for a heartbeat.

I let my gaze sweep the room — each noble who dared to sneer, each fool who forgot what kind of family rules this court.

“Princess Cassandra Firebrand,” I say, each title deliberate, “is a princess of this court and the wife of the Duchess of Starveil. She bears no voting seal, but she bears my name. And as such, she will be spoken to — and of — with the respect owed to her station.”

The silence that follows is absolute, brittle, perfect.

Cassie bows her head — just enough for diplomacy, not submission. “Of course, Your Radiance.”

Mira’s fingers curl tight around hers, gratitude flickering across her face like dawn through glass.

I allow myself the smallest smile, hidden in the turn of my wrist. Good girl.

Let them choke on their decorum. Let them learn that fire takes many forms — some blaze, some burn slow and sweet, and some simply refuse to be extinguished.

The court breathes again, chastened but restless. I can feel the shift in the air — the nobles realigning their masks, rehearsing their next performance. The Seneschal clears his throat, eager to retreat into the safety of procedure.

“The Solar will now proceed with scheduled petitions,” he announces, his voice wobbling just enough to betray relief.

Scrolls rustle. The rhythm of governance resumes — tariffs, trade routes, harvest quotas — the kind of endless talk that feeds the illusion of stability.

Mira and Cassie remain where they are, side by side in the radiance of scrutiny. My daughter looks exhausted but unbowed, her flame banked and waiting. Cassie leans close enough that their shoulders almost touch, a subtle shield against the eyes that still linger too long.

They will be trapped here for hours yet — dutiful, polite, enduring the machinery of rule. It’s a lesson every sovereign must learn: that power is not always battle, sometimes it’s simply surviving the tedium without surrendering yourself to it.

I lean forward just enough that only they can hear me.

“Play the game, Mira,” I murmur, my voice carrying the warmth of warning. “Or be played by those who quote your prophecies.”

Her gaze flicks to mine — wary, thoughtful, understanding. The same spark that once burned in me flickers behind her eyes, only brighter.

The brazier beside the dais flares, sudden and sharp, as if it heard us. The rune-scripts etched along the ceiling hum in answer — faint, rhythmic, the word Cinderborn ghosting across the gold before fading into light.

I sit back, the heat fading to calm, and let the chamber move on without me.

She will learn the rules. And when she does, the court will remember who taught her to set the board aflame.