Delia.
Not because she is perfect.
Not because she is docile or easy or simple.
But because the moment I saw her, my fire settled.
Because the world—my world—didn’t roar when she touched me.
It sang.
And I do not deserve that song.
But I want it.
Gods help me, I want her.
Even if it means burning everything else down to keep her.
Even if it means baring my flame and daring her to stay.
I look at her now—filthy from travel, flushed from heat, stubborn in every line of her stance—and I feel that human part of me I try so hard to bury ache.
For once—not as a Lord.
Not as a weapon.
But as a man.
Wanting to be seen.
To be chosen.
To be loved.
Maybe fire can’t ask for that.
Maybe fire only takes.
But she hasn’t run yet.
And if she stays—I’ll burn for her.
And make the whole realm watch.
I look at her again.
Delia.
My Shula.
I should not call her that.
The word is ancient, bound to The Ember Vein itself—a name given only when fire recognizes its balance.
When flame meets something that does not consume it… but steadies it.
She stirs faintly, brow creasing as if dreaming, and something sharp twists in my chest.
