The lamplight flickered against the stone walls, throwing long, restless shadows over the table before me. The archives had grown hushed, empty but for the scratch of my quill and the weight of the silence. My eyes burned from hours bent over ledgers, hunting for patterns that refused to reveal themselves. Every missing name, every blot of ink, every uneven margin clawed at me like a half-finished sentence.
Catherine’s voice still lingered in my head, sharp as glass. Her denial. Her accusations. The venom threaded beneath every word. And the Duke—smug, deliberate, daring me to believe half-truths. I had pressed until my throat felt raw, and still, I left with more shadows than answers.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing the ache from my eyes, when the first sound split the quiet.
A bell.
One strike. Then another.
Not the soft, measured chime of the palace hour, but a frantic, clanging peal that rattled down the stone corridors. I froze, the quill slipping from my hand and blotting the parchment with black.
Shouts followed. Distant at first, then swelling. Boots thundered against the floors above me.
I pushed back from the table so quickly my chair scraped against the floor. My pulse leapt in my throat, too fast, too loud. Bells only rang like that for one reason—disaster.
The door burst open before I reached it. Bonnie, hair tumbling from its braid, her cheeks flushed from running.
“There’s trouble in the lower quarter,” she gasped, clutching at the doorframe. “Smoke—they say there’s smoke everywhere. Maybe a fire, maybe something worse—”
I didn’t wait for her to finish. My body was already moving, skirt gathered in my fists as I ran. The air in the corridor seemed tighter, heavier, full of the echo of bells and fear.
Bonnie’s voice followed me, half-panicked, half-pleading: “Kira, slow down! We don’t even know what it is yet—”
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t sit in the archives while the city burned.
The night outside was no longer dark.
As I burst from the palace doors, I saw it—a smear of orange against the horizon, smoke coiling into the stars.
And all at once, I knew: whatever waited for me in the quarter, it would not be gentle.
The courtyard was alive with chaos. Guards sprinted toward the gates, their torches throwing gold and red across the cobblestones. Horses stamped and snorted, half-harnessed, their riders shouting orders no one seemed to hear.
I forced my way through the crush, the bell still tolling overhead, each clang hammering against my ribs. Smoke stung the air already, faint but growing stronger the further down the slope of the city I looked.
“Princess Kira!” A soldier barred my path, his arm sweeping out like a wall. His face was damp with sweat though the night was cool. “It’s not safe—please, return inside!”
I shook my head. “If the quarter burns, people will be hurt. You’ll need every hand you can get.”
He faltered, jaw tight, but I didn’t give him a chance to argue. I slipped past, skirt dragging ash and dirt as I ran. Bonnie clung to my side, panting with every hurried step, though she refused to fall behind.
The streets were chaos. Windows thrown open, families spilling out into the road with their belongings clutched tight—babies swaddled, pots and pans clanging against sacks. A child sobbed into his mother’s shoulder as she stumbled barefoot across the stones.
“Keep moving! To the upper gates!” a guard bellowed, waving a spear toward the palace.
I caught the sleeve of a fleeing man. “What happened?”
His eyes were wide, white with terror. “Explosion,” he rasped. “Down by the tannery. Fire leapt from the vats—they say the whole row’s gone up.”
An explosion. Not an accident, then. My stomach coiled, tight and bitter.
We pressed deeper, the smoke thickening until it scraped my throat raw. Shouts and screams tangled in the air, mingling with the crackle of flame. The fire painted the night in violent light, shadows leaping like mad things along the walls.
The quarter I had walked in peace only a week ago—where children clung shyly to their mothers’ skirts, where I healed a young girl on the street—was now unrecognizable. Panic throbbed through it like a pulse, unrelenting and hot.
I drew a hand over my mouth and nose, but the smoke still clawed its way inside. My lungs ached. Bonnie coughed beside me, clutching my arm as though afraid she’d lose me to the mob.
And through the haze, I saw it.
Flames swallowing the row of houses nearest the tannery. People with buckets forming desperate chains from the wells, their water swallowed uselessly by the inferno. Sparks leapt skyward, carried on the wind toward the next street.
It wasn’t just a fire. It was a storm, hungry and fast.
I knew, even before I saw the fallen body in the street, that this was going to demand more than water.
I didn’t think. I couldn’t.
The fallen body in the street was a boy—no older than twelve, face blackened with soot, chest rising shallowly beneath the weight of splintered wood. His mother knelt beside him, shrieking hoarsely, her hands bloodied from trying to drag the beam away.
I dropped to my knees. “Move.”
She blinked at me through tears, frozen.
“Move!” My voice cracked sharper than I meant, but it broke her paralysis. She stumbled back, clutching her skirt.
The wood was searing hot against my palms, but I shoved it off him with a strength born of panic. My magic surged instinctively, cool and sharp, water gathering beneath my skin. I pressed both hands to his chest.
Light flared. The burn marks hissed and softened under my touch, torn skin knitting, smoke rising from his cracked lips as his breath steadied. He gasped—alive.
The mother sobbed, clawing her child into her arms. Her words tangled in her throat, but the gratitude was raw enough to steal my breath.
I pushed to my feet. No time. The fire was spreading.
“Buckets aren’t enough,” I said aloud, though no one listened. The air shimmered with heat, the flames greedy, lashing higher. If the wind carried sparks further uphill, the palace itself would not be safe.
I raised my hand, willing the water in the wells to answer. It tugged like a thread in my blood, a low familiar ache. Then, with a surge, it came.
A column of water burst upward, scattering the men still forming lines with their buckets. Gasps rose all around me. I dragged my arm in a wide arc, and the water followed, sweeping over the row of burning houses with a hiss like fury. Smoke and steam exploded into the air, blinding, choking—but the fire dimmed, snarled against my power.
I didn’t let up.
The strain carved into me, pulling at my muscles, wringing sweat down my spine despite the cool aura of the water. My magic wasn’t infinite. I knew that. But if I stopped, the fire would roar back even stronger.
“Your highness!” someone shouted. A guard, I thought, his voice somewhere to my right. But I couldn’t afford to look.
Another swell of water surged through the street, dousing flames, flooding gutters. People fell to their knees in prayer, or in awe—I couldn’t tell which. Their voices were faint under the rush of water and fire.
I only knew this: if I faltered now, the city would burn.
So I didn’t.
I pressed harder, dragging every drop of water I could from the wells, the barrels, even the very air. My body shook with the effort. My ears rang with the screams, the clash of steel, the groaning collapse of a roof somewhere behind me.
But slowly—inch by inch—the fire began to bow.
My arms ached. My chest burned as though I’d swallowed the fire I was trying to smother.
But the flames finally faltered, shrinking into smoke and steam, gutters running like rivers at my command. The worst of it was over—at least, for this row of homes.
A cheer erupted somewhere behind me, ragged, uncertain. The sound pierced the haze in my head, and for a heartbeat, I felt lighter. They thought it was done. They thought I had done it.
I lowered my hand, meaning to let go, to breathe.
Then a scream tore through the crowd.
“Help! My baby!”
My eyes snapped to the farthest house, a shack I hadn’t reached yet. Its roof sagged inward, flames licking greedily through the gaps. And there—in a broken window—two tiny hands slapped against the glass. A child’s face, red and streaked with soot, shrieked for a mother who clawed at the arms holding her back.
The world tilted. I was already moving, though my body screamed in protest. My boots sank into mud I’d made of the street, my fingers trembling as I gathered water again. There was nothing left in the wells—the barrels were empty, the air so hot it yielded barely a drop.
Not enough.
I staggered closer. The house was collapsing. I could feel it in the tremor of the earth beneath my feet.
“Move back!” I shouted at the men trying to force their way inside. They hesitated—then obeyed, pulling the mother away though she fought like a wild thing.
I pressed my palm to the ground, desperate, clawing for anything.
And I felt it.
A vein of water deep underground. Old. Cold. Sleeping.
I called to it with everything I had left. The earth cracked, groaned, then erupted. A geyser shot upward, surging around me as though it had been waiting centuries to rise. I hurled it at the burning house.
The fire screamed and died in a hiss of steam. The roof collapsed inward, smothered. Silence fell, broken only by the child’s sobs as two men dragged him free from the wreckage. He was coughing, crying—but alive.
The smoke clung to me even as the fire died. My lungs burned, my skin stung, and my magic was nothing but a frayed thread unraveling fast.
The boy’s cries reached me through the ringing in my ears, followed by the broken sob of his mother as she threw herself over him. Relief should have steadied me, but instead, it hollowed me out. My legs buckled beneath me. I caught at a half-burned post, my hand slipping on soot.
The street swam. My body wasn’t mine anymore—it was heavy, waterlogged, as though all I’d summoned had sunk into my bones and dragged me under.
Then—hands. Strong, certain.
“Princess.” Adrian’s voice, close, low, grounding. His arm slid around my waist, steadying me as though he’d done it a thousand times before. My head dropped against his shoulder without my permission, too heavy to hold upright. His coat smelled of smoke and iron and something sharper, like cedar.
“You’ll drown yourself if you keep pushing like this,” he murmured, his breath brushing my temple.
“I had to,” I rasped. My throat ached, the words raw. “The boy—”
“He’s alive,” Adrian said firmly. “Because of you.”
I wanted to tell him not all of them. That the fire had already claimed too much, that I could still hear the timbers collapsing, the silence of homes that hadn’t answered. But the words tangled and dissolved. I couldn’t form them.
The voices of the crowd blurred into a dull hum. My name. His name. Whispers I couldn’t catch. Some sounded reverent, some fearful. None of it mattered.
All that was real was the heat of his hand pressing against the small of my back, keeping me upright, and the strange, steady rhythm of his heart beneath the layers of his coat. I wanted to move, to pull away, to stand on my own. But my body betrayed me—I swayed, and Adrian’s hold only tightened.
“You’ve done enough,” he said softly. His tone was gentler now, stripped of command, threaded with something I couldn’t name.
The world tilted again. Darkness swept the edges of my vision.
I felt myself being lifted—Adrian’s arms sliding beneath me, his chest solid against my cheek. Gasps rippled through the crowd, but he didn’t falter. His stride was unshakable, purposeful, as though carrying me was no burden at all.
“Rest, Kira,” he whispered, just as everything slipped away.
—
I woke to silence.
The first thing I noticed was the bed—too soft to be mine, sheets cool against my skin. My lashes fluttered open, revealing not smoke-stained rafters or scorched streets but the pale canopy of a chamber gilded by moonlight. The palace.
The second thing I noticed was the ache in my body—dull, bone-deep, the kind of weariness no sleep could fix. My magic still throbbed faintly beneath my skin, restless, fragile.
I shifted, and the faint rustle of fabric drew my gaze.
Adrian sat nearby in the half-light, angled toward me in a chair pulled close to the bed. His coat was gone, sleeves rolled, soot streaking his skin in places. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but I saw the tension in his jaw, the way his hand rested too tightly against the armrest, as though holding himself in check.
His eyes lifted the moment I stirred.
“You’re awake.” His voice was low, relieved—but guarded, too, as though weighing how much to show.
My lips were dry. “How… long?”
“Long enough for the healers to panic. Half a day.” He leaned forward, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “You burned yourself out.”
I swallowed, memories flickering back—the water bursting from the ground, the child’s cries, the weight of fire pressing down on me. “The boy?”
“Alive,” Adrian said, steady, certain. “His mother hasn’t left his side.”
A shaky breath escaped me. Relief hurt almost as much as the exhaustion.
His gaze lingered on me then, too sharp, too intent. “You can’t keep doing this—giving until there’s nothing left of you.”
I should have argued. I should have told him it was my duty, that I would do it again if it meant saving even one life. But the way he said it—quiet, not a command but almost… personal—stole the words from me.
His hand lifted, hesitated in the air between us, then lowered again as if he’d thought better of it. Still, the warmth of his presence pressed in like a tide, pulling me closer without touch.
I turned my face away, staring at the canopy. My pulse wouldn’t settle.
I should have felt strong after saving lives. Instead, I felt fragile. Too fragile. And Adrian sitting there in silence, watching over me as though I were something breakable—something he wasn’t willing to let go—was almost too much to bear.
Adrian didn’t move at first. Just sat there, shadows cutting sharp across his face, eyes unreadable in the moonlight.
Then—finally—he spoke, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
“You terrify me sometimes, Kira.”
The words startled me. I turned toward him, searching his expression, but he was staring at the floor as though the admission cost him something.
“Terrify you?” My voice came out hoarse.
“You throw yourself into danger without a thought for yourself,” he said, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes burned, dark green in the dim light. “Like your life is worth less than theirs. You don’t hesitate. You don’t stop.”
My breath caught. The accusation should have stung, but instead… there was something in it, something dangerously close to care.
“I couldn’t just stand by,” I murmured.
“I know.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees now, closer. “That’s what makes you… different.” His voice dipped, almost reverent. “But it’s also what will break you. And I—” He stopped, jaw tightening.
“And you what?” I asked, my pulse betraying me.
Adrian’s eyes flicked to my lips before returning to my face. For a moment, I thought he might actually say it, whatever truth had caught in his throat. Instead, he reached out—slowly, deliberately—until his fingers brushed my wrist. The touch was light, tentative, but it sent a shiver up my arm all the same.
“I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
The words settled heavily in the air between us. Too heavy.
I pulled in a sharp breath. “Adrian—”
“Don’t,” he said quickly, his thumb grazing against my pulse. “Don’t tell me you’re fine. Don’t tell me this is your duty. I’ve heard enough of duty to last me a lifetime.” His tone grew harsher, cutting, but not at me—it was aimed somewhere else, someone else. “They’ll use you until there’s nothing left, if you let them.”
I wanted to protest, to tell him it wasn’t like that. But wasn’t it? The Queen. The people. Even my own family. Everyone needed me to give and give and give, and I never stopped to think what it cost.
His hand tightened, just slightly. “Let me worry about you. Just once.”
The room was too quiet. My heart thundered so loud I thought he could hear it.
I should have pulled my hand back. I should have pushed him away with a laugh or a sharp word. Instead, I let the silence stretch, his warmth seeping into me until I couldn’t tell where exhaustion ended and something more dangerous began.
When I finally spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. “And what if I let you?”
Adrian’s expression shifted—surprise, then something softer, something that unraveled his careful control. He leaned in, close enough that I felt the heat of his breath, close enough that the world outside this chamber didn’t exist.
“You’d never regret it,” he murmured.
I couldn’t tell if it was a promise or a threat.
The silence between us stretched, taut as a bowstring. Adrian’s thumb brushed against my pulse again, deliberate this time, like he knew exactly how fast it was racing.
His face was close enough that I could see the faint scar at his temple, the flecks of lighter green in his irises. Too close. Dangerous close.
I should have pulled back. Instead, I leaned ever so slightly forward, caught in the gravity of him.
“Kira…” His voice was a whisper, low and rough. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
The way he said my name—it wasn’t a question, it was a confession. His gaze dropped to my lips again, and I knew—knew—if I breathed wrong, if I shifted an inch, he would kiss me.
The room was suffocating, heady with something unspoken, when—
A sharp knock rattled the door, followed by Fennie’s muffled voice.
“Your Highness? Are you awake? I—I thought I heard voices—”
I jolted back like a string had snapped, my hand slipping from Adrian’s. Heat flooded my face, and I was suddenly acutely aware of how close we’d been, how fast my heart was still racing.
Adrian didn’t move for a beat. He just sat there, his jaw tight, eyes hard as stone. Something dark flickered through his expression—anger, sharp and hot—but it was gone in an instant, replaced with that same careful composure he always wore in public.
“Of course,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet as though nothing had happened. “You’ve been exhausted, Princess Kira. You should rest. I’ll see that you’re not disturbed again.” His tone was warm, protective even, but I caught the way his hand curled briefly into a fist at his side before he smoothed it out.
Fennie pushed the door open a crack, her wide eyes darting between us. “Oh! I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… I thought Princess Kira might need—”
Adrian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “She was in good hands.”
Fennie shifted, visibly uncomfortable, and gave me a questioning glance. I forced a reassuring smile, though my heart still hammered.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
Adrian inclined his head toward me, his expression unreadable but his voice honey-smooth. “Sleep, Kira. Please. For once, let someone else carry the weight.”
The words sounded gentle, but there was steel threaded beneath them, a quiet command. He gave me one last look—lingering, possessive—before brushing past Fennie and disappearing into the hall.
Only when he was gone did I realize how tightly I’d been gripping the blanket in my lap, my knuckles white.
Fennie shut the door softly and came to sit at the edge of the bed. “He… was awfully close, wasn’t he?” she asked carefully.
I pressed a hand to my chest, still feeling the ghost of his touch. “Too close,” I whispered. But even as I said it, part of me wasn’t sure I meant it.