The stars glittered above Ember like spilled diamonds across a midnight canvas, but her eyes were on the dancing flame cupped in her palm.
It was the size of a coin, trembling but alive—obedient to her will. She breathed in slowly, guiding it into the shape of a blooming rose, its petals flaring orange and gold. A wisp of pride stirred in her chest.
"You're getting better," Kael said quietly from behind her.
Ember startled, and the flame flickered out. "I didn't hear you."
"That's becoming a habit." His lips curved as he stepped closer, his voice lower now, softer. "You disappear at night, and I find you whispering to the fire like it's an old friend."
"It listens better than most people," she said, trying not to smile.
Kael chuckled and crouched beside her, stretching out his legs so that their knees nearly touched. The firepit in front of them crackled gently, illuminating the planes of his face—the sharp jaw, the scar just above his eyebrow, the thoughtful eyes that never quite looked away.
Ember turned back to the empty space between her palms. "It still fights me. When I reach for it too hard, it burns."
"Because you're forcing it," Kael said. "Fire's wild. It doesn't respond to control—it responds to understanding."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "And you're an expert now?"
Kael's smile faded slightly, but not unpleasantly. "I grew up near the edge of the Flamewood. My sister had magic—earthbound, not flame—but I saw what happened when she tried to master it with anger."
There was something in his tone. A shadow. A sorrow. Ember didn't press—not yet.
Instead, she said, "I don't want to control the fire. I just don't want it to control me."
Kael studied her. Then, gently, he reached out and brushed his fingers against hers.
"Then let it feel you."
Their hands hovered together, palms up, barely touching. Ember's breath caught, her heart suddenly racing—not because of the fire, but because of him. The way his touch grounded her. The way his voice slipped beneath her skin like heat.
"Close your eyes," Kael whispered.
She did.
"Breathe. Think about the first time you felt the fire—not when it scared you. When it protected you."
A memory surged forth, unbidden.
She was seven. Her father had dragged a soldier into the throne room, accused of stealing bread. When the man begged for mercy, her father turned to her with eyes like coal and said, "Burn him, daughter. Let him serve as an example."
Ember had screamed instead—and the fire had burst from her in a wild storm, setting everything ablaze but the man.
That night, they locked her in the obsidian chamber. She never saw that soldier again.
Her fingers twitched. A small flame curled into her palm, steady and sure.
"I remember," she whispered.
Kael opened his eyes. "Good. Now give it shape."
She focused, shaping it into a phoenix, wings flaring with gold and crimson. It hovered in her palm like it was breathing. Kael watched in awe, then reached out and let the flamebird rest on his fingertips. It didn't burn him.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"So are you," Ember replied, too quickly, too honestly.
Their eyes met.
Kael didn't move right away. Neither did she. But the space between them became unbearable, buzzing with unspoken heat.
Then he leaned in.
And Ember didn't stop him.
His lips brushed hers—tentative, testing, like he wasn't sure if he had the right. But Ember melted into it, her hand sliding to his chest, feeling the fast thump of his heart.
The kiss deepened, slow and hungry. There was no fire between them now—only the echo of one that burned brighter with every heartbeat.
When they pulled apart, breathless, Ember pressed her forehead to his.
"I don't know what this is," she whispered.
"Neither do I," Kael murmured. "But I want to find out."
She didn't know whether to feel terrified or safe. Maybe both.
But for the first time in a long time, Ember didn't feel alone in the fire.