Nothing happened at first, and then her magic surged, reckless and desperate, clawing its way upward as if it might tear her open to save her. Ella gasped and thrust her hand toward the hearth. Heat flared across her palm, but what came was not fire, not in the way she knew it.
For one glorious second, the air around the fireplace rippled.
Not flame, not even heat, but the stone and fire bent like the surface of a pond struck by a falling drop, the image warping as if the world itself had been tugged sideways. Her chest seared over the hidden Orchid sigil, a sudden burn that pulsed in time with the ripple.
Ella froze, heart stuttering, eyes wide as she blinked hard, but the distortion vanished, the fire crackling as though nothing had happened.
“Burn,” she whispered anyway, her voice breaking the silence.
The flames flickered, a single hitch in their glow before they dimmed.
“Seriously?” Her voice rasped, raw and furious.
Gods, she missed her fire.
Back in Orchid, she’d been known as the strongest flame-wielder in generations, proud not just for producing fire but for the way she could manipulate any she touched, which was almost unheard of. She had not only commanded her own flames, but could reach for any nearby and make them hers, a secret she and her parents had guarded, saving it for after what would’ve been her coronation. She could steal, amplify, twist, even smother, and years of practice had made it effortless.
Now, with her gift buried beneath foreign soil, it was like slamming her fists against locked doors—feeling the fire behind them, but never being allowed in. Her magic had always come so easily that the sudden silence felt like a betrayal, and the more she reached for it, the further it slipped. She had expected her flame to die here, knowing fire born of Orchid soil would not burn on Dravaryn ground. But the more her hidden mark pulsed and flared when it shouldn’t, the more it felt like a cruel kind of hope—one she couldn’t afford.
Ever since she crossed the cursed wards at the castle, the burn would pulse when she least expected it, a throb that felt like it was trying to drag her attention somewhere, whisper something she wasn’t ready to hear.
Fuck, this was maddening.
Exhaustion slammed into her, sudden and brutal, leaving her dizzy. Weak. A word she despised.
“Shit.” Her vision swam, her fingers twitched, and for a razor-thin heartbeat, the air shivered in the corner of the hearth, as if some unseen door had almost opened before slamming shut again.
“Great,” she muttered at the embers. “You’re just like the rest of this kingdom. Moody, unhelpful, and full of misplaced superiority.”
The shadows stirred, a ripple so slight she might have dismissed it, but then the darkness thickened and something stepped forward.
Ella blinked once, twice, and her blood went cold. A figure stood at the edge of the firelight, solid and undeniable. Not a phantom, not a trick of fever or smoke, but real.
He was tall, close to seven feet if not more, and his presence carried a sense of inevitability, as if he would find her if she hid, catch her if she ran, smother her if she screamed. It was not the brute force of a soldier nor the crude menace of a cutthroat, but something quieter, honed to a lethal grace.
Ella’s body locked, her throat closing like a fist. For one frantic heartbeat, she nearly yelled for help, but she didn’t know if anyone in this gods-forsaken castle would hear her, and she feared she didn’t even have the breath to scream.
She stood there, every muscle frozen, as if she were watching her worst nightmare step out of the shadows and take form.
Her instincts finally broke free, and she stumbled backward. The backs of her knees struck the edge of the bed, and she toppled onto the mattress with a gasp, scrambling until her spine pressed against the headboard, chest heaving as if her lungs could not keep pace with her fear.
Still, he didn’t move to follow.
No blade gleamed in his hands—at least none visible—only the unnerving stillness that he wielded like a weapon.
He was dressed in tailored black trousers with a silver buckle, a dark collared shirt open at the throat, its sleeves cuffed neatly at his forearms. The cut was severe yet elegant, the fit impossibly bold, as if he belonged not to one place but every room atonce. His style was timeless, imperial, the kind of authority that seemed to have no beginning and no end.
Across his chest, just above the sternum, hung a pendant that caught the firelight like a secret, gleaming with a slow, pulsing shimmer. The pendant itself was an oval of obsidian wrapped protectively around a violet stone that seemed to breathe with its own faint light. The moment she saw it, her chest flared in answer, her hidden sigil burning hot beneath her skin. She couldn’t look away.
She remembered that pendant.
Gods, his features were too perfect to be real—square jaw, strong nose, high cheekbones. His hair was clean-cut at the sides, darker than night, the top left just long enough to fall in loose, intentional disorder. A single curl slipped across his forehead, as if the wind had styled it just to please him. His pale skin caught the firelight and glowed gold along the outline of him.
When his eyes met hers, she felt stripped bare, as if every lie she had ever told was peeled back and laid open. He didn’t smile, only studied her, his gaze cool and unhurried, as if she were something rare he intended to savor.
Her pulse thrashed, wild and uneven, but reason steadied her. If he’d meant to kill her, he would’ve done so already. She forced her voice into something that almost sounded like defiance. “Who are you?”
The figure tilted his head, considering her for a moment that felt eternal. Then he spoke, his voice deep and resonant, thunder wrapped in silk.
