The laugh that escaped me sounded unhinged. “I manifested fire and murdered four people. I’m not sure adjustment is the right word.”

  I stared at the amber liquid swirling in my glass, watching how the light caught in it. Nothing like the flames that had poured from my hands like they’d been waiting there all along.

  “They weren’t just flames, were they?” I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. “The way everyone reacted⁠—”

  “No,” Eilrys said quietly. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and her posture shifted. Less elegant courtier, more... someone else. Someone harder. “They weren’t.”

  Shaelith made a sound that might’ve been agreement or warning. Hard to tell.

  “Those flames,” Eilrys continued, her voice careful now, measured, “were shadow fire. And shadow fire doesn’t just happen, Isara. It’s not random magic.”

  My fingers tightened around the glass. “Then what is it?”

  “Nyxarian.” The word fell between us. “Specifically, it’s tied to their court magic. To their bloodlines. To their power.”

  I looked up then. “That’s impossible. I’m not—I was human. I crossed the Veil. I’m changing, but that doesn’t mean⁠—”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Shaelith cut in, her tone sharper than broken glass. “Which is why everyone’s losing their collective shit over it. You shouldn’t have Nyxarian magic. You definitely shouldn’t have that much of it. And you absolutely shouldn’t be able to wield it with zero training while barely conscious.”

  “I wasn’t—” The protest died in my throat. Because she was right. I’d been half-mad with rage and terror, and the fire had answered like it had been mine all along. “Fuck.”

  “Nothing about the Veil is random.” Shaelith leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Shadow fire is rare. Exceptionally rare. Most Nyxarians never manifest it. Those who do...” She trailed off, sharing a look with Eilrys.

  “What?” I demanded. “Those who do what?”

  “Become very powerful,” Eilrys finished quietly. “Or very dangerous. Usually both.”

  “Fantastic.” I pressed my palms against my eyes. “So I’ve been gifted cursed fire from the realm that’s hunting me. That’s just perfect.”

  “It’s not cursed.” Shaelith shook her head. “It’s yours. And Varyth wants Brynelle and me to train you to control it before you accidentally burn down his castle.”

  My head snapped up. “Brynelle. Is she⁠—”

  “She’s fine.” Shaelith’s expression gentled fractionally. “Resting. Those binding ropes are nasty, they suppress magic, burn like acid. But she’s tough. She’ll be back to her usual self by tomorrow.”

  Eilrys laughed. “Your wife’s definition of ‘usual’ involves colour-coding battle strategies and alphabetising weapons.”

  “She’s very organised chaos,” Shaelith said with a grin that transformed her entire face. “It’s part of her charm.”

  The pieces clicked together in my exhausted brain. “Wait. You and Brynelle?”

  “We’re married,” Shaelith said simply.

  “To each other?”

  “No, to the furniture.”

  I blinked. “Sorry. Brain’s not working.”

  “Clearly.” But Shaelith’s smile softened her face, made her look younger. Less like she was mentally evaluating nine ways to disembowel someone. “Yes. Brynelle is my wife.”

  The way she said my wife—like Brynelle was a weapon and a wonder and the best damn thing that had ever happened to her—made something crack in my chest.

  Because that’s how Navaire used to talk about me. That same bone-deep certainty. That same impossible pride.

  Eilrys smiled. “They’re disgustingly perfect together.”

  “We’re not disgustingly anything,” Shaelith protested, but her cheeks had taken on the faintest hint of colour. “We’re a perfectly normal amount of in love.”

  “You literally threatened to fight the sun because it was too bright for Brynelle’s hangover.”

  “The sun had it coming.”

  I couldn’t help it, a laugh bubbled up, rusty and broken but real.

  It died as quickly as it came, reality reasserting itself. “Those people in the garden,” I said, setting the empty glass aside. “They knew I crossed the Veil. They were looking for my children specifically. How?”

  Shaelith’s expression shuttered. “We’re still investigating⁠—”

  “Bullshit.” The word came out flat, hard. “You know something. Maybe not everything, but something.”

  “Isara—”

  “They said my scent matched what they found at the Veil.” I pushed myself forward in the chair, ignoring the way the room swayed. “They mentioned Ashterion by name. They weren’t random attackers, they were sent. With purpose. With information.” I fixed Shaelith with a look that demanded truth. “So, I’ll ask again. How did they know?”

  Eilrys and Shaelith exchanged another one of those looks.

  “The Veil,” Shaelith said. “It leaves traces. When someone crosses, especially someone who survives the way you did, it creates... ripples. Disturbances in the magic.”

  “Varyth mentioned that.”

  “Ashterion has resources.” Shaelith’s fingers drummed against the armrest. “Eyes everywhere. It’s possible he sensed the crossing and decided to investigate.”

  The explanation was smooth, practiced. Reasonable.

  And absolute horseshit.

  They weren’t lying. But they weren’t telling me everything either. The way Shaelith’s gaze slid fractionally to the left when she mentioned tracking. The way Eilrys’ hands had tensed in her lap. These were tells I’d learned to read in my old life, in courts where survival meant knowing when people were feeding you selected truths.

  But I kept my mouth shut. Tucked the knowledge away.

  If they wouldn’t share with me, I wouldn’t share with them. The fire, the way it had felt so right pouring out of me, the strange sense of recognition when it had manifested? All of that stayed locked behind my teeth.

  “What now?” I asked instead, letting exhaustion bleed into my voice. Let them think I was too tired to press. “You train me not to accidentally immolate people?”

  “Pretty much.” Shaelith’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. “Brynelle will help with control, I’ll work on combat applications. Between us, we’ll make sure you can defend yourself without levelling half the countryside.”

  “Assuming I don’t pass out again.”

  “You won’t.” Eilrys’ certainty was absolute. “That was your first time manifesting real power. Your body wasn’t ready, didn’t know how to regulate the flow. It gets easier. More natural.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  Something flickered across Eilrys’ face, memory, maybe pain. “I knew someone who manifested exceptionally powerful magic when he was young. Nearly took out half a classroom when he did. He had… difficulty with it.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Took him time to learn control. But he did learn. You will too.”

  I studied Eilrys as she poured me another glass, the way she moved with that particular brand of grace that came from knowing exactly how dangerous you were and choosing not to prove it. An elegant lethality that made you want to both befriend her and never, ever cross her.

  “You’re staring,” Eilrys said mildly, not looking up from the decanter.

  “Just thinking that Darian’s either the luckiest bastard alive or completely doomed.”

  Shaelith barked a laugh. “Both. Definitely both.”

  Eilrys’ lips curved. “He grows on you. Like a particularly charming fungus.”

  “I heard that!” Darian’s voice drifted through the door, muffled but indignant.

  “You were meant to!” Eilrys called back, then turned to me with a conspiratorial grin. “He’s been hovering outside for the last ten minutes. Won’t come in because Shaelith threatened to remove important bits, but also won’t leave.”

  “Remove which bits specifically?” I found myself asking.

  “I hadn’t decided yet.” Shaelith smirked. “Wanted to keep my options open.”

  The casual violence in her answer should have been alarming. Instead, it was almost comforting. These people understood that sometimes the world required teeth.

  I took another sip, letting the warmth settle before I asked the question that had been clawing at my throat since they’d said the words. “This shadow fire. Tell me about Nyxaria.”

  The temperature in the room dropped about fifteen degrees.

  Shaelith’s expression went blank. Eilrys set down the decanter with precise movements.

  “That’s a complicated question,” Eilrys said finally.

  “Then give me the simple version.”

  “There isn’t one.” Shaelith leaned back, but her posture had stiffened. “Nyxaria is... old. Powerful. Dangerous in ways most courts aren’t.”

  “Varyth mentioned he has history with them.”

  “Everyone has history with Nyxaria.” Shaelith’s tone could have etched glass. “They make sure of it.”

  I waited. Sometimes silence was the best interrogation technique. Let people fill it with things they didn’t mean to say.

  But these two had been trained by someone who knew that trick too.

  Eilrys broke first, though it felt deliberate. Calculated. “Nyxaria’s court magic is tied to shadow, darkness, the spaces between things. It’s subtle. Insidious. They don’t conquer with armies—they infiltrate, manipulate, corrupt from within.”

  “And the fire?”

  “Rare.” Shaelith’s fingers drummed once against the armrest. “Even among Nyxarians. It manifests in those with exceptionally strong bloodlines. Old blood. The kind that remembers when the courts were first formed.”

  My stomach twisted. “I’m not Nyxarian. I didn’t even know this realm existed until I crossed the Veil.”

  “We know.” Eilrys tilted her head as she met my gaze. “Which is why this is so concerning.”

  “Concerning,” I repeated flatly. “That’s a diplomatic word for ‘we think you’re fucked.’”

  Shaelith snorted. “More like ‘we think someone is trying to fuck you over and we don’t know who yet.’”

  “That’s so much better.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I pressed my palms against my eyes again, trying to organise the chaos in my skull into something resembling coherent thought. “Ashterion. The Creepy Lord of Nyxaria. What does he want?”

  The silence that followed was answer enough.

  “You don’t know,” I said.

  “We have theories,” Eilrys offered.

  “Share them.”

  “When we’re sure they’re not going to send you into a panic spiral that ends with you burning down the castle.”

  “I wouldn’t⁠—”

  “You manifested shadow fire while unconscious three hours ago,” Shaelith cut in. “Forgive us for being cautious.”

  She wasn’t wrong. And I fucking hated that she wasn’t wrong.

  I let my hands drop, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. Like I was in control of something, anything. “Fine. Then tell me about the fire itself. How do I control it?”

  “You don’t.” Shaelith’s bluntness was almost refreshing. “Not yet. First, you learn to not summon it accidentally. Then you learn to summon it on purpose. Control comes after you’ve stopped setting things on fire every time you’re mildly annoyed.”

  “I wasn’t mildly annoyed⁠—”

  “Fair. You were righteously fucking furious.” Shaelith grinned. “Which is valid. But still. Baby steps before we teach you to weaponise rage.”

  Eilrys shot her a look. “What she means is that magic responds to emotion, especially when you’re new to it. Strong feelings act as a catalyst. So we need to teach you to separate feeling from casting.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Then you become very good at staying calm,” Eilrys said simply. “Or very good at directed violence. Preferably both.”

  I wanted to ask more. Wanted to demand they tell me everything about Nyxaria, about shadow fire, about why the fuck I’d been marked with magic I shouldn’t possess. But exhaustion was creeping in like fog, heavy and inexorable. The adrenaline that had been holding me upright was finally giving out.

  Shaelith must have seen it in my face. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for today. You need rest.”

  “I need answers⁠—”

  “And you’ll get them. After you sleep. After your body has time to recover from channelling enough power to incinerate four grown males.” Shaelith stood, all business now. “We’ll bring your children to you. Let them see you’re alive. Let them climb all over you and demand stories. And then you’re going to sleep for at least eight hours or I’m going to drug your tea.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  I believed her. Completely.

  Eilrys rose too, graceful as water. “For what it’s worth, you did well today. You protected your children. You didn’t hesitate when it mattered. That counts for something.”

  The words should have been comforting. But all I could think about was those four bodies—burning, screaming, dying because I’d willed it. Because some part of me had wanted it.

  And the worst part?

  I’d do it again. Without question. Without hesitation.

  For Mireth and Eryx, I’d burn the whole fucking world.

  “Thank you,” I managed. “For... this. For not treating me like I’m about to explode.”

  “Oh, you absolutely might explode,” Shaelith said with a smirk. “We’re just choosing to be optimistic about your ability to aim it at enemies instead of furniture.”

  “Inspiring.”

  “I try.”

  They moved toward the door, and I almost let them leave without saying anything else. Almost.

  “Shaelith?” The name felt strange in my mouth, unfamiliar. “Earlier, Brynelle said Varyth keeps people’s secrets to protect them. Even when it makes them hate him.”

  She paused, hand on the door. Didn’t turn around. “She mentioned that.”

  “Is that what this is? Protection?”

  Now she looked back, her expression softer than I’d seen before. Tired, maybe. Understanding. “I think Varyth is trying to protect everyone. You. Your children. His court. Sometimes that means keeping truths locked up until people are ready for them. Whether that’s the right choice...” She shrugged. “Above my pay grade.”

  “And if I’m never ready?”

  “Then he’ll probably tell you anyway. Eventually. When the alternative is worse than the truth.” Shaelith’s smile was crooked, almost sad. “He’s an asshole, but he’s not a liar. Not when it matters.”

  She slipped out, Eilrys following with a small wave. The door closed with a click.

  And I was alone.

  But not for long.

  Because somewhere in this castle, my children were playing. Safe. Whole. Alive.

  And soon they’d be here. Soon I could hold them and breathe them in and pretend, just for a little while, that I hadn’t just discovered I was marked with the magic of monsters.

  The silk sheets whispered against my skin as I shifted, and I thought about Varyth’s silver eyes. About the way he’d pulled me from the Veil when he could have let me burn. About that book, hidden on his reading table, filled with maps and bloodlines and histories of Braerlith.

  What are you looking for? What have you already found?

  Outside the window, something sang. Low and distant and patient as stone.

  And I finally let my eyes close.

  Just for a moment.

  Just until my children arrived.

  12

  The dining hall was excessive. That was my first thought when Shaelith led me through the carved double doors—that whoever had designed this room had never heard the word “restraint” and wouldn’t have cared if they had.

  Crystal chandeliers dripped from vaulted ceilings like frozen waterfalls. The table stretched long enough to seat a small army, dark wood polished to a mirror shine and set with enough silverware to fund a modest kingdom.

  I hated it immediately.

  Too big. Too open. Too many fucking exits to watch.

  “Relax,” Shaelith murmured, catching my inventory of escape routes. “We swept the room three times. Brynelle’s got wards on every entrance. You’re safe.”

  “I’ll feel safe when my children are sleeping in a room with one door and no windows.”

  “That’s called a prison cell.”

  “Your point?”

  She snorted but didn’t argue, just steered me toward the cluster of bodies already assembled near the table.

  I’d already put Mireth and Eryx to bed an hour ago—a process that had involved three stories, two glasses of water, one check under the bed for monsters, and approximately forty-seven promises that I would be here in the morning. Mireth had clung longer than usual, her small fingers twisted in my shirt like she was trying to anchor me to the world. Eryx had fallen asleep mid-sentence, exhaustion finally claiming him.

  Two guards were stationed outside their room, Lira along with them. I’d tried to persuade her to join me for dinner, but she’d declined.

  The others were already arranging themselves around the table. Varyth was at the head because of course he was, Darian and Eilrys together on one side looking unfairly comfortable with each other, Brynelle moving to claim a seat near the middle. She spotted me and offered a small smile that looked like it cost her. The binding burns, probably. Still healing.

  I started toward an empty chair near Shaelith when movement caught my eye.

  Lincatheron stood near the window, dark wings folded tight against his back, having a low conversation with Fenric. The third-in-command’s ink black hair caught the light, but his posture was off. Too still. As though he was holding himself together by force of will alone, every muscle locked in place.