Nothing more.
I could not leave her in the uniform she wore—hard, utilitarian, ugly with its buckles and jangling metal.
It was armor meant for order and rules and a world that pretends fire can be controlled.
It felt wrong.
Disrespectful.
So I removed it. With care I would never admit to aloud.
And magic, because it was faster.
Now soft black sheets cover her, and firelight licks along the stone walls, painting her skin in gold and shadow.
Flames dance across her curves, tracing her like a lover’s touch—and I find myself envious of them.
I stand at the edge of the bed, power humming low and dangerous, and remind myself—again—that this is not about want.
Stealing a human to win the crown of Nightfall is, by any reasonable measure, morally corrupt.
But morality does not keep The Ember Vein from collapsing.
I am Thorne.
Lord of Fire.
Demon Prince of the Broken Plains.
Keeper of the Flame.
The title is not ornamental. It is not ceremonial.
It is a brand seared into my soul, forged in heat and pressure and duty.
Everything I am—everything I carry—is bound to flame.
Beneath Ashfell—beneath this very chamber carved from obsidian and bone—the crown lies buried deep in the hearth.
Sealed in fire and stone.
Only I can access it.
Only I should.
I hid it there, after the last meeting with my fellow Lords.
Because the crown is not a trinket.
It is not power—it is responsibility.
And power handed to the unworthy is ruin.
Without a Prime to wield it, Nightfall fractures.
And without Nightfall?
The Ember Vein goes dark.
