This is not sentiment, I tell myself.
It is instinct. Strategy.
A viyella brings a boon.
A boon stabilizes the crown.
The crown protects Nightfall.
This is simple logic.
And yet.
Will you tip the scales, Shula? Will you be brave enough to withstand the heat?
I do not say it aloud. I would never give such weakness a voice.
But a spark has kindled inside me—small, treacherous, undeniable.
For the first time in centuries, I dare to want something not for Nightfall.
Not for The Ember Vein.
Not for the crown buried beneath my keep.
But for myself.
And that—gods help me—may be the greatest sin I have ever committed.
Chapter 2
Delia
Ashfell, Nightfall
The air still smells like smoke.
Not choking.
Not cloying.
Not the kind that claws at your throat or stings your eyes or makes you regret every breath.
This is different.
It’s pleasant—unexpectedly so.
The kind of smoke that lingers after a fire has already given all it had to give.
When the last log has gone soft, mostly embers, and the heat is no longer urgent, just comforting—like a held breath finally exhaled.
There’s a sweetness to it.
A richness, too.
Not sugary, but deep. Layered.
Like smoked vanilla and aged cedar met in a dimly lit jazz lounge and decided to dance.
