I grip the edge of the brazier with both hands and stare into the fire, waiting for something. A flicker, a surge, a reaction, anything, but it dances as it always does. Serene and detached. Insultingly calm.
“You’ve already made your move,” I say, voice low. “You brought her here.”
The flame crackles, but it’s meaningless. A coincidence. A breath, not an answer.
“Don’t pretend otherwise. I know how you reach.” My fingers tighten on the stone lip. “She’s not Daemari. Not blooded. Not bound to this place. And yet you let her walk through the Wastes and into the Rite’s circle like she was carved for it.” My voice sharpens, and I hear it tremble at the edges. “She isn’t.”
She can’t be.
I don’t know if if believe it yet, she’s still unmarked. I could still be wrong. My father could be wrong. A coincidence aided by circumstances, not the Flame. Not the magic of Crimson. I close my eyes and exhale hard through my nose. Because I know what I will do if I’m wrong. Or maybe if I’m right.
“You should be different,” I hiss at the flame. “You should feel different.” You should answer.
Except why would it? I’m the one who turned my back. I told the flame to fuck off. To leave me alone. I told it no more, and now I’m surprised, angry, that it appeared to listen. The power humming under my palms is the same as before—hot, old, steady—but I am not the same. The court is not the same. She changed everything. And the flame does nothing.
“Why?” I demand, louder now. “Why her? What do you want from her?”
I slam my palm against the brazier rim. The fire flares slightly—more from my movement than any true response. Still no voice. Still no sign. Just the weight of old magic sitting on its throne of silence. Mocking me.
“She doesn’t belong here,” I bite. “She’s not trained. She doesn’t know what the Rite demands. She doesn’t even know what we are.” My heart pounds against my ribs. “I told you I wouldn’t burn again. I told you I wouldn’t let you use me. So, you found someone else.”
I step back, breathing hard, chest rising with every word.
“I see it now. I see your game.” The rage is hot, brittle, crawling up my spine. “Fine. Pick her. Mark her. Watch her die. See if that saves your kingdom.”
I turn away, take two steps, and stop.
Because I can’t. Because underneath all of it—under the fury, the logic, the refusal—I feel the crack forming. It starts in my chest and spreads. I brace one hand against the wall, breathe hard, force the tremor down. But it’s there and I hate it because I know what it means. I’m lying. To myself, to the flame, to Solonar and my father.
If the flame has chosen her… If she’s one of the thirteen… If she must walk the Rite…Then I cannot stand aside. Not again. I will break my vows before I let her blood spill for my father’s cruel game.
I bow my head and whisper, to no one: “It cannot be her.”
But it is.
I know it. I feel it in the marrow of my bones, and I hate the Flame for it. I cannot ensure my father’s fall if I have to protect her instead. And I will protect her. I already am. Because I’ve seen this once before. A life devoured in the name of power. A woman sacrificed for my silence. And I will not—can not—watch another innocent die for a cause she never asked to carry.
Not again. Not for me, and not for this damn place.
I leave the chamber slowly. One hand against the stone wall to steady my breath. By the time the door seals shut behind me, I’ve smoothed the edges of my rage into something quieter. Sharper. More controlled but not gone. It simmers beneath my ribs like the last embers of a blade—cooled enough to hold, but still capable of cutting.
I start down the corridor that winds back toward the citadel’s central stair. These halls are older than the Rite itself. Used only by Sovereignsand those who remember what it cost them. The Ember Chamber isn’t forbidden, but it’s use has been forgotten. There are those who believe in the Flame, that it marks and gives and chooses, and yet they still think they have no right to its guidance.
I’m so deep in my own thoughts I don’t notice him until I round the final bend. Elder Solonar leans against the carved archway like he owns it. Arms folded. Head tilted. His posture is casual. His timing is not.
“I thought I might find you here,” he says, voice smooth as poured ink.
“I imagine you did,” I reply. I don’t stop walking. He falls into step beside me. Of course he does.
“I take it the Flame was… silent?” he asks.
There’s something in his voice. Not smug. Not sympathetic. Curious.
Hungry.
“You already know it was,” I say.
He shrugs. “I thought perhaps this time it might offer something.”
