The Circle of Embers had not been walked in a generation.
The courtyard chosen for the trial was ancient, older than Kael's reign, older even than the Flame Court itself. Its stones bore scars from centuries of fire rituals, grooves carved deep where ash had been scattered, where lives had ended. Torches ringed the circle now, their flames hungrily licking at the night air. Every noble who mattered stood gathered behind the light, their faces hidden half in flame, half in shadow.
And at the center of it all — stood Lyra.
Her bare feet pressed against cold stone. Her heart thundered in her chest, loud enough she swore they could all hear it. She had dressed in nothing but a plain shift of white linen, the fabric chosen not for modesty but for truth — if corruption marked her body, the fire would expose it.
The whispers began before the firekeeper spoke.
"She won't last the first step."
"The bond has already tainted her."
