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The moonlight caught on his new bow tie as he turned his skull toward the distant halls of Wickem.

The dead things were quiet now, but not gone.

Waiting.

Just like me.

10

Cyrus

Blue fire.The image haunted me, no matter how I tried to dismiss it. My flames had never burned that color before—that impossible shade matching the raw power beneath the stage. Even now, hours after the ceremony, Ember’s feathers still held traces of that ethereal blue glow where Marigold’s necromancy had touched our magic.

I paced my rooms, trying to burn off restless energy. The temperature spiked, then dropped again, making the ancient stones groan. Ember watched from his perch, his black eyes sharp, too knowing.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I muttered, flexing my hands. Flames coiled around my fingers, but the usual deep amber was tainted—still, still—by that impossible blue. I willed it back to normal, tried to force the color to bleed away, but it resisted.Like it had a will of its own.

Ember trilled, the sound carrying a distinct note of disagreement. He had been watching her since she arrived, drawn to her power in ways that made no sense. Phoenixes were creatures of life and rebirth. They shouldn’t be drawn to death magic.

But then, none of this was following the rules I’d spent my whole life memorizing.

A sharp ding broke the silence—my father’s message. The air in the room thickened before I even picked up my phone, heat rolling off me in waves as I read:

Your display at the ceremony was unacceptable. I watched your flames submit to lesser magic.

My grip tightened.

Have you forgotten what these creatures did to your mother? What that traitor’s legacy represents?

The Council cannot appear weak, especially now. Show the Shadow Heir her proper place. Do not disappoint me further.

The phone screen cracked from the heat before I could stop myself. Ember launched into the air, circling me, his wings catching the candlelight like molten gold.

“Lesser magic?” I scoffed, but the words tasted like ash. I had felt it—our magic flowing together, becomingmore. My father wanted me to reject it, but how could I, when it had felt so… right?

I turned sharply, catching my reflection in the window. The blue in my flames flickered like a ghost of something long buried.

Something buried with my mother.

Fire can warm as well as burn,she had told me once, when I was barely old enough to summon a spark.Control does not always mean suppression.

That had been before. Before grief turned my father into stone. Before the Council’s lessons twisted what I knew of power into something cold and unyielding. Before I learned that fire was meant to consume, not embrace.

I clenched my fists, snuffing out the flames.

It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t my mother.

I had a duty—to the Council, to my family, to the world we had built. Marigold Grimley threatened that world. My father was right about one thing: I couldn’t afford to be weak.

Ember flapped once, landing on my desk, his talons tapping deliberately against an open tome. I followed his gaze despite myself.

When magical signatures align naturally, no amount of artificial restriction can prevent their harmony. Such connections transcend traditional magical boundaries, creating new forms of power previously thought impossible…

I slammed the book shut.

“Enough,” I snapped. The temperature in the room spiked again, making the window panes rattle. “The Council has its reasons. We can’t just—”

I cut myself off. Because I didn’t believe that.