I concentrate on the walk before I lose myself completely in this fruitless train of thought.
The bedchamber doors loom ahead—obsidian veined with molten gold, humming faintly with old magic.
This room has seen conquest. Rage. Victory.
But never this.
Never the risk of wanting something I cannot afford to lose.
I pause at the threshold, breathing hard, grounding myself in the weight of my duty—The Ember Vein, my people, the crown buried beneath the hearth.
This is why I brought her here.
This is what I must remember.
But when I look back at her—standing in white, firelight haloing her like a promise—I know the truth I have been denying since the moment she ran into the flames on Earth.
This is no transaction.
This is no convenient bond.
This is the most dangerous thing I have ever faced.
And still—I open the door and step aside, letting her pass first.
Because maybe even fire must learn to yield.
Chapter 8
Delia
Ashfell, Nightfall
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
Then he offers his hand.
Not as a command.
As an invitation.
And I take it.
I place mine in his.
And something shifts in him at that.
The fire seems to lean closer, listening.
The corridors leading to his chambers are quiet now, the castle settling into a watchful stillness.
Firelight follows us, blooming softly along the walls as we pass.
“Delia,” he says softly.
I look up at him.
His expression has changed.
