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One of the palace guards pointed at the door. “This will be the room of the heir.”

The guard Magin knew said, “The supreme has asked for everyone to settle in before she calls on them by fireletter.” He looked over Torin and back at Emara. “She will let you know how she wants to proceed with the evening in due course.”

Torin nodded and a guard handed Magin a set of brass keys that wound around a ring, keeping them all together. “Your rooms are down the hall, to the left.” He gestured to a corridor that wound around a bend.

Magin nodded and the guards moved forward in sync with each other as they took their leave. It was evident they had done this a few times already, and she found herself wondering which empresses were already within the palace walls.

House Fire? House Earth? Was Gideon here?

Her heart twitched.

Maybe it was House Spirit.

Or Water.

She wondered if the heirs in waiting felt the same way she did. Of course, they would know more of the ceremonies than she did. They’d probably grown up with a life full of magic and witchcraft, learning the ins and outs of what it took to become an empress of magic.

Dread and fear coursed through her mind, brewing up a storm of doubt. Could she really do this?

Before it could take over her, a brass lock turned, giving way to the key, and the door to her room opened.

She walked in sheepishly, Torin on her heels.

The room was beautiful, but it didn’t feel like her one in the Huntswood Tower. Oddly, she missed the view of the city. She missed the bed she had just made familiar, and she longed to sit on her windowsill with a book on witchcraft, or train in the common sparring room.

Was the tower somewhere she could feel at home?

Never in a million moons did she think she would feel like the Blacksteel Tower was home, but compared to this, it was.

The flames were already alight in the fireplace, across from her bed, warming the room as she walked forward. Quickly, she realised the flames were more golden than red or orange, and there was something about the stillness of them that had her questioning her sight. She blinked a few times.

Emara turned towards Torin.

“Magic,” was all he said, as if he had anticipated her question.

“It feels real,” she said as she placed her hands closer to the flames.

“The heat is real, but the flames are not.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “In the early world, only witches used this type of fire to communicate, but now we all do. Witches are basically responsible for our timely letter service due to one crafty little fire spell.”

“Your mother told me about these flames.” Emara recalled her conversation with Naya, and she was grateful that she’d had it. “I know how to receive a fireletter and send one—I think.”

But she had never done it before, never practised, only knew of it.

It was a start.

“We have witchfire in the tower,” Torin told her. “So that we can also send and receive fireletters.” He dipped his head. “That’s how my clan and Father get their information so swiftly. Can you see now why having an alliance with a witch is powerful and efficient?” He pressed his full lips together. “It would take a carrier days to deliver a message; witchfire can do it in seconds.”

“Now I can see why you hunters always want us witches on your side,” she joked with a smirk. “I guess I will see how I will make myself useful in House Air.”

But the point he made was valid. Witchfire was astounding.

Torin grinned. It was so genuine and bold that it caught her off guard, knocking the air from her lungs.

“What?” she asked, unsure what to make of it.

“That’s the first time you have properly referred to yourself as a witch, used your faction and referred to yourself as one of them.”

She looked around the room again, taking a break from his striking face. “I suppose it is starting to settle in.”