The first thing Elira noticed when she woke was the scent of roses.
Not the wild, thorny kind that grew beyond the manor's walls—no, these were **velvet-petaled**, drenched in honeyed oils, their fragrance clinging to the silk sheets tangled around her bare legs. Morning light spilled through the arched windows, gilding the room in gold, and she stretched like a cat, savoring the warmth.
A soft knock. **"Mistress?"**
Elira didn't bother opening her eyes. **"Come in, Lira."**
The door whispered open, and footsteps—light, practiced—crossed the marble floor. Lira, her handmaiden since childhood, carried a tray of spiced tea, steam curling lazily above the porcelain cup. **"You slept late,"** she chided gently, setting the tray on the bedside table. **"Lord Dain was asking for you at breakfast."**
Elira sighed, rolling onto her side. **"Tell him I had a headache."**
Lira's lips twitched. **"Again?"**
**"He'll believe it."** She reached for the tea, the heat of the cup a comfort against her fingertips. **"Besides, he only wants to fuss over me. Again."**
And **fuss** he would. Lord Dain, her guardian, treated her as if she were made of spun glass—precious, fragile. Ever since she'd been brought to his estate as a child, she had wanted for nothing: the finest gowns, the rarest books, tutors to educate her in history and music and, when he thought she wasn't listening, **the art of being a noble lady**.
But never **fire**.
Never the thing that simmered beneath her skin.
A sharp **crack** echoed from the courtyard below. Elira tensed, her grip tightening on the teacup.
Lira frowned. **"The soldiers are back."**
Elira was already moving, her bare feet hitting the cool floor. She crossed to the window, pushing aside the gauzy curtains. Below, a contingent of black-armored men—**the Obsidian King's Shadow Inquisitors**—stood in the courtyard, their leader speaking with Lord Dain. Even from this distance, she could see the tension in her guardian's shoulders.
**"What do they want?"** Lira whispered.
Elira's pulse thrummed. **"Me."**
The word hung in the air, heavy as the truth it carried. The Obsidian King had spent years hunting the last remnants of magic. And now, somehow, he knew **she** was here.
A spark flickered in her palm, unbidden. The teacup trembled, the liquid inside bubbling—**boiling**.
Lira gasped. **"Mistress—!"**
Elira clenched her fist, snuffing out the flame. But it was too late.
Down in the courtyard, the lead Inquisitor's head snapped up.
**Straight toward her window.**
---
### **Next Chapter Teaser:**
- **A Forced Escape** – Elira flees the only home she's ever known.