The kind that tested—seared, burned, and branded.
She stood in the private council chamber the morning after the attack, draped in shadows and impatience. Her gaze was fixed on the ornate map spread across the obsidian table, but her thoughts drifted—again—to the scholar with the storm-filled eyes and the royal ward spell no one should know.
Auren Valen.
She hated not knowing people's secrets. And he reeked of them.
Behind her, the heavy doors creaked open.
She didn't turn. "You're late."
"I was told the meeting was canceled," came his voice, quiet and annoyingly calm.
"I lied."
Now she turned, slowly.
He was dressed as he always was—in plain black robes, ink stains on his fingers, and a medallion of the College hanging from his belt. But now she knew better. The robe didn't hide the way he moved, precise and calculating. The scholar's eyes had a soldier's cold discipline behind them. And the way he'd stood between her and that curse mark…
She had questions. And if necessary, she would burn the answers out of him.
He approached, stopping across the table. "Your message said you wanted to discuss magical infrastructure."
"I lied about that too."
A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. "Is this how all Duskfire negotiations go? Or am I special?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You're dangerous."
"I'm observant."
"You used a dead language to cast a royal spell."
"Perhaps I'm well-read."
She leaned forward, hands braced on the table. "You deflected a death curse with a single word and no circle. That's not being well-read. That's being royal."
The smile vanished.
She stepped closer, voice low. "So tell me, Auren Valen—what throne did you fall from?"
His eyes darkened, and the air between them tightened like a drawn bow. "The kind that doesn't forgive traitors."
For a beat, silence reigned.
She searched his face, and in it, she saw the ghost of something ancient. Pain buried beneath precision. Regret beneath restraint.
And something else—something raw and unsettling.
He was dangerous, yes. But not because of what he'd done.
Because of what he might still do.
"You're not scared of me," she said, almost surprised.
"No," he replied, stepping close enough that their breath mingled. "I think you want someone who isn't."
She sucked in a breath. That infuriating calm. That measured voice. He didn't challenge her with arrogance—but with insight. As if he already knew the parts of her that even her mother hadn't dared name.
"Careful, Valen," she said, voice soft like a blade in velvet. "I burn people like you for breakfast."
"I don't doubt it," he said. "But you haven't burned me yet."
Something flickered between them—hotter than fear, sharper than curiosity.
Her heart betrayed her with a flutter.
She stepped back.
"Why save me?" she asked suddenly.
His expression shuttered. "Because the world will need both of us soon."
"Spoken like a prophecy."
"More like a warning."
He paused, then added, "There's something coming. That attack was just the beginning."
"What is it?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he handed her a folded parchment.
"What's this?"
"A list of people who financed the Liora attack. All nobles. All supposedly neutral."
She opened it, scanning names. Her breath caught. "Half of these are Guild Councilmen."
He nodded. "That's how you know it's real."
She met his eyes again. "Why trust me with this?"
Auren leaned in, voice low. "Because you burn everything in your way. And right now, I need someone willing to set this world on fire."
Two hours later, they rode together through Liora's eastern sector, hidden beneath enchanted cloaks. She shouldn't have gone with him. She should've handed the list to her mother, let the Duskfire spymasters pick it apart.
But she hadn't.
Because Auren wasn't just offering information. He was offering war.
And some part of her—deep, reckless, hungry—wanted it.
They stopped at a rundown warehouse warded with blood-magic locks. Auren disabled them with a flick of his fingers.
"More spells you shouldn't know?" she asked.
"I learn fast."
Inside, the scent of old paper and engine oil hung in the air. Machines—half magical, half mechanical—lined the walls.
Seraphina turned in a slow circle. "This is a blacksite."
He nodded. "Mine."
"You're not a scholar. You're a strategist pretending to be harmless."
"Because harmless people get left alone," he said.
She walked toward a massive blueprint pinned across the back wall. It showed a magical transportation grid—runes and rail lines weaving across the continent, connecting kingdoms with glowing sigils.
"You're building a network," she whispered.
"A new empire," he corrected softly. "One run by logic, not blood."
Her gaze snapped to him. "And you expect me to help?"
"No," he said. "I expect you to try to stop me."
She laughed. "What if I did?"
"Then I'd find a way to make you an ally instead."
The silence returned—charged, breathless.
She moved toward him. "You want power."
"No," he said, reaching out—then stopping an inch from her face. "I want peace. But I know it only comes to those who seize it first."
Their eyes locked.
And then—
A scream tore through the air.
Not outside.
Below them.
Seraphina turned, drawing her blade. "What was that?"
Auren paled. "I don't know. No one else should be here."
They ran toward the stairs leading to the lower levels. The air grew colder, heavier.
At the bottom, a door hung ajar—light flickering inside.
Auren pushed it open—and froze.
A girl stood in the center of the chamber. Barefoot. Eyes glowing white. She was no older than sixteen, her dress torn, her arms marked with runes that shimmered like starlight.
"Who—?" Seraphina began.
Then the girl spoke.
"You shouldn't have remembered."
Auren's breath caught. "What did you say?"
"You weren't supposed to wake up, Auren Valen. You weren't supposed to burn again."
And then—
The girl's body convulsed.
Magic exploded outward, ripping through the chamber like a wave of stars and lightning.
Seraphina grabbed Auren, shielding him as the blast slammed into them both.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And in the echo of that silence, a single word trembled through the air:
"Run."
Seraphina Duskfire was fire. Not the kind that warmed.