Nira giggled behind her hand. “I am behaving. I’m also admiring.”
Behind them, Jakobav lifted an eyebrow as if he somehow knew exactly what had been said.
Behind her, Marisol, the castle’s chief steward, the woman who had smuggled sweets into Ella’s bed as a child and taught her the difference between herbals and poisons, wrapped her in an embrace that smelled like cinnamon and home. Ella’s knees nearly gave out.
“Marisol,” she breathed, her voice breaking around the name. “I’m so happy to see you. I have so many questions I need to ask you.”
Marisol smiled, warm and knowing, and held her tighter. “Of course, but I might have more questions for you, Ellandria.” She glanced over at Jakobav. Marisol laughed softly, lifting a hand to her mouth as if to contain it, and Ella felt her cheeks warm in response.
This was going better than she’d dared to hope.
The crowd gathered in the courtyard was a mix of familiar faces and newcomers—castle staff in their formal attire, members of the royal court in embroidered silks, and even a scattering of citizens from Aradessa who must have rushed uphill at the news of her return. She’d worried they would take one look at the brute from Dravaryn and recoil, whisper treason or demand answers she wasn’t ready to give.
But instead, the welcome rose around her in a warm, swelling chorus—servants and courtiers, childhood friends and strangers alike—calling her name, cheering as though she’d returned from a long voyage rather than the brink of war. For one fragile moment, it felt as though she’d simply come home.
Then King Eryndor of Orchid stepped forward.
Her father had aged since she last saw him, his dark hair streaked with silver, his shoulders thinner beneath the ceremonial mantle, but his eyes, pale blue as sea-glass, were as sharp as ever.
“Ellandria,” he said, his voice carrying through the courtyard like judgment.
“Father!”
His arms went around her, sudden and strong, crushing the breath from her chest. She froze, then clung back, breathing cedar oil and the remembered scent of the old throne room where she’d spent many days at his feet.
When he drew away rigidly, the shift was immediate; the warmth fell away, and the authority of the king settled over him again, cold and uncompromising. His gaze cut past her to the man she’d brought to her kingdom’s gates.
Jakobav was already dismounting, boots striking the pavers with a sound that stilled the noise of the courtyard. He stepped forward, massive and inked, every inch of him exuding power, a warlord from their enemy kingdom. Courtiers shrank back at the sight of their standoff, and Ella could imagine what they werethinking: Was he the reason she’d gone missing? Why had she brought him here?
Jakobav stopped just beyond her father’s reach, steady as a drawn blade, and inclined his head a fraction. “King Eryndor.”
He might have spoken more, but before the next step was taken, the air snapped brittle. Every torch along the walls guttered and then roared higher, flames stretching toward the sky as though yanked by invisible strings. Heat fell over the courtyard stones. Sparks hissed from her father’s fingertips, and then fire spidered across the ground in molten veins, racing toward Jakobav’s boots.
And above it all, a fiery crown burst from her father’s shoulders and formed over his head, a burning coronet that made him seem less man than god. Courtiers gasped, garlands ignited into ash, and the crowd stumbled back in terror as Orchid answered its king’s fury.
Ella’s body moved before her mind could stop it. She stepped between them, palms raised. The wildfire surged at her feet, the crownfire burning overhead, and she pulled the two raging currents together, twisting them into a single roaring column that shot skyward and burst like a comet above the city, scattering embers harmlessly into the humid air.
She lowered her hands, her palms tingling with power, faintly glowing as though it hadn’t entirely released her. The courtyard had gone completely still, the kingdom pausing to witness what she’d done.
Manipulating fire like this was not soldier’s magic, nor even the refined craft taught to Orchid’s nobles. Only women born into the royal line could bend another’s flame into obedience, and even then it demanded focus, discipline, and years of training. It was the reason Orchid passed its Crown through its daughters—the kingdom’s strength lived in its queens. But this…this had been different.
The sacred waters of the Claiming still lived in her veins, amplifying the Orchid fire she carried from birth until the flames answered her as if she were their source. She’d pulled two warring currents together with barely a thought, and the ease of it unsettled her almost as much as the display itself. The thought sent a tremor through her even as she lifted her chin to the silence.
Gods, she hadn’t meant to put on a show. But the Court had seen one now, and before the welcome banquet even began.
She looked between her father and Jakobav, her voice cutting clean through the hush.
“Anyone I invite into Orchid answers to me. I answer to no one but the Crown.”
Ella said nothing more. If her father wished to challenge her authority, he would have to do so in front of all of Orchid. She would not back down.
Her father’s expression changed from anger to grief and then pride, the storm shifting behind his eyes, until at last it fully softened when he looked back at her. “Ellandria,” he said again, his voice quieter now, a thread of weariness woven through it.
Jakobav hadn’t moved. He watched, eyes narrowed.
Ella stepped forward before the courtyard could draw its next breath, her hand closing around her father’s arm as if the gesture had been planned all along. She knew what she was doing, knew she had to put on a show strong enough to steady the court and bend the moment back in her favor.
Eryndor’s gaze slid past her to Jakobav, his words carefully selected. “I assume you mean for your…guest…to stay for dinner, then?”
