SERAPHINA
Seraphina woke feeling better than she had in weeks.
She pushed herself upright and waited for the familiar burn in her chest. It did not come. The fire-scars on her forearms glowed faintly gold in the morning light, but they stayed where they were, contained and retreated.
She touched the boundary where the golden marks ended. Yesterday they had been creeping past her elbows. Now they stopped well below.
The ritual had worked.
The door opened. Yona entered, already scanning Seraphina with the sharp assessment of someone who had spent days watching the fire-scars advance.
"You slept through the night." Yona crossed to the bed. "First time in how long?"
"I lost count."
"Let me see the scars."
Seraphina held out her forearm. Yona pushed the sleeve higher, examining the golden marks with focused attention.
"The boundary has not moved since last night." Yona traced the edge with her fingertip. "If anything, it may have retreated another fraction. The heat is minimal."
She sat back and studied Seraphina's face. "How do you feel?"
"Like I borrowed someone else's body. One that actually works."
"That will pass. Your system is adjusting to the reduced fire energy." Yona pulled a small notebook from her satchel and began making notations. "The ritual did more than stabilize you. It reversed weeks of progression in a single night."
She looked up from her notes.
"You have months now. Perhaps longer before the scars reach dangerous levels again."
Months. She had been counting hours and planning in minutes, and now she had months.
"But the seventh moon," she said.
Yona's pen paused. Her expression shifted to something more serious.
"Less than three weeks. The Ember Sanctum window does not care about your scars. The ritual bought you time to live. It did not buy you extra days to reach the Sanctum."
"So I have time to survive the journey," Seraphina said slowly. "But the same deadline to get there."
"Correct. The ritual bought you breathing room, not calendar days." Yona tucked the notebook away. "Your body is no longer racing toward death. But the cosmic window will close when it closes. Use the breathing room wisely."
A knock at the door interrupted them.
Liora appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral in that way that meant something significant was happening.
"My lady. Lord Marcus Branthorne has arrived. He is asking to see you."
"Send him in."
Liora hesitated. "You are still recovering."
"I will see him now."
Yona began gathering her things. "I will check on you again this afternoon. Try to eat something. Do not overexert yourself. And if the scars start warming again, send for me immediately."
She was gone before Marcus appeared in the doorway.
MARCUS
She was alive.
Marcus stopped in the doorway and let himself look at her. Sitting upright in bed. Color in her face. The fire-scars visible on her forearms, golden and strange, but contained. Not spreading.
Word had reached him that she was dying, that the scars had spread to her heart. He raced across the countryside in his fastest carriage, barely stopping to change horses, arriving at the palace with his stomach in knots and his mind cycling through every terrible possibility.
And here she was. Breathing. Looking at him with those sharp eyes that always saw too much.
"I heard you collapsed." He stepped into the room, closing the distance between them. There was no point pretending this was a business call or inventing excuses about trade routes. "I had to see for myself."
"As you can see, I am still breathing."
"You are sitting up. That is more than the rumors suggested." He moved closer. "I heard you were dying."
"The rumors were not entirely wrong."
He stopped at the foot of her bed. His hands found the wooden frame and gripped it, knuckles whitening before he forced himself to relax.
"What happened?"
"An experimental ritual. It worked."
"Experimental." The word tasted bitter. "You let them try experimental magic on you while you were dying."
"I let them try experimental magic on me because I was dying. It was that or nothing."
Marcus looked away. Toward the window. Then back at her.
"My trade network has been chaos. Demon attacks on the routes, caravans refusing to travel." He met her eyes again. "And then I heard the palace district was barricaded. No one getting in or out."
"The barricades lifted after the threat was contained."
"I came as soon as I heard they were down." He paused. "How much have I missed?"
"Alaric is under house arrest at the Vessant estate. The Empress ordered his confinement after the divorce."
"The divorce." Marcus let the word settle. "So it is final."
"It has been final for some time now."
He filed that away. The marriage dissolved. Alaric confined. And still, she had almost died.
"The court is calling you Flamebearer now," he said. "I heard it from three different sources before I even reached the gates."
"The court calls me many things."
"This one seems to worry them." He watched her face. "Ancient bloodline. Fire magic. Half of them think you caused the chaos."
"And the other half?"
"Think you ended it." His voice softened. "Which is it?"
"Both, in a way." She did not elaborate.
He did not push. That was not his role here.
"Vorenthal is at the border," he said. Redirecting.
"Yes. Communication has been limited since he left."
"And Gravenor?"
"At the border as well, fighting alongside him."
Something loosened in his chest. Both of them gone. Neither of them here.
The relief lasted less than a heartbeat before the shame replaced it.
"Is the border situation that serious?" he asked. "My caravans are reporting demon attacks worse than anything we have seen in decades."
"Serious enough that both Vorenthal and Gravenor went, and the Crown has committed significant military resources."
"And you are here, recovering alone."
"I am not alone. I have Yona and Liora and others."
"You know what I mean."
Before she could respond, the door opened again.
Crown Prince Thalion entered first. Marcus straightened immediately, his body responding to royalty before his mind caught up. Whatever his wealth, whatever his influence, he knew exactly where he stood in the presence of the heir to the throne.
"Your Highness." A proper bow.
Thalion acknowledged him with a cool nod. His eyes moved from Marcus to Seraphina and back again.
"Lord Branthorne." Thalion's voice gave nothing away. "I was not aware you were visiting."
"I came as soon as I heard about the Duchess's condition, Your Highness. The news was alarming."
"Indeed they were."
Behind Thalion came another man in ash-gray archivist robes. Tall, composed, dark hair pulled back simply. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of a scholar, but his eyes swept the room and settled on Marcus with unsettling focus.
"Lord Branthorne." The stranger's voice carried weight. "The third richest man in the empire, if the ledgers are accurate."
Marcus turned to face him. "And you are?"
"Lucien." A pause. "I keep records."
An answer that explained nothing. Marcus filed it away.
Marcus found his attention drifting back to Seraphina despite himself. The morning light catching her hair. Her hands resting on the coverlet. Her eyes meeting his directly, no flinching, no pretending, no games.
He had already told her how he felt. At the D'Lorien estate, months ago, when he stopped pretending friendship and admitted he wanted more. She chose Vorenthal. He accepted it. He promised to wait.
He was still waiting.
Thalion was watching him. Marcus could feel the prince's gaze like a physical weight, assessing, cataloguing, drawing conclusions.
Lucien was watching too. Those scholar's eyes missed nothing.
Do they like her too?
The question formed before Marcus could stop it.
"I could stay," Marcus said finally. "Help coordinate supply lines. Be useful while you recover."
"Thank you, Marcus." She held his gaze. "But I have what I need here."
He accepted it without argument or pressure. He had promised himself he would never push her or be the man who demanded more than she was willing to give.
"If you need anything, Seraphina." Her name, not her title. "Anything at all. You know where to find me."
He looked at her a moment longer. Aware that Thalion and Lucien were watching. Not caring.
Then he bowed to the prince, nodded to Lucien, and walked out without looking back.
SERAPHINA
The door closed behind him.
Thalion and Lucien exchanged a look. Neither commented on what they had witnessed.
"I came to check on your condition," Thalion said. "The ritual took more out of you than Yona reported."
"The ritual worked. That is what matters."
"It matters that you nearly died."
Lucien cleared his throat. "I should be going."
He moved toward her, and she realized this was goodbye now that his work was done.
"I will be researching everything related to the Ember Sanctum. When you are ready to prepare, contact me."
"Thank you," she said. "For everything. The ritual. The knowledge. All of it."
"Until then, Seraphina."
He used her name, not her title.
Then he turned and left the room.
Seraphina stared at the door. Two men had called her by her name today. Both walking out with things unsaid.
Thalion remained by the window, looking out at the grounds below.
"You collect powerful men like others collect coins," he said without turning around.
"I did not ask for any of them."
"No." He let the word settle. "That is what makes it interesting."
She did not have the energy to unpack what he meant by that.
"The border situation," she said instead. "How bad is it really?"
Thalion turned from the window. His expression had shifted to something more serious, more worried than he probably wanted her to see.
"Bad enough. Reports are inconsistent and communication has been difficult." He crossed his arms. "The fighting has intensified, casualties are mounting, and the lines are holding only barely."
Three days since Caelan rode out. Three days to reach the fortress, Gravenor had said. He would be arriving now, or already fighting.
"I should let you rest." Thalion pushed away from the window. "The morning has been long enough."
She did not argue.
Thalion paused at the door. "For what it is worth, I am glad the ritual worked."
Then he was gone, and she was alone.
Her eyes found the nightstand.
The letter sat where it had been for days. Caelan's handwriting on the front, her name in his steady script. The wax seal unbroken.
She had avoided it since he left. Held it against her chest without opening it. Glanced at it a dozen times and turned away each time. Reached for it and pulled back.
Reading his words would make the distance unbearable. That was what she had told herself. She needed to stay focused. The ritual. The enemies. The fire burning toward her heart.
Those reasons were gone now. The ritual had worked. She had time. And Caelan was out there fighting while she held his unopened letter like a coward.
She reached for the letter.
The paper was soft from handling, edges worn from all the times she had touched it without breaking the seal. His scent had faded from it, or maybe she had imagined it was ever there.
Her thumb found the wax.
She pressed down, and the seal cracked.