They thought they knew her.
The court of Nevareth had watched Lady Eris Igniva for weeks now... observed her politeness, her restraint, the careful way she navigated their frozen halls with the grace of someone who understood the game.
They'd begun to believe, perhaps, that the stories were exaggerated. That the Fire Witch of Solmire was a myth, a cautionary tale mothers told to frighten children into obedience.
They saw her help rebuild their city. Saw her address protesters with measured compassion. Saw her walk their streets without setting them ablaze.
They thought the monster was a lie.
They were wrong.
The dungeons beneath the palace were old stone and iron, places where light came reluctantly and warmth not at all. Isolde Ravencrest sat in one such cell, her fine clothes dirt-stained but her chin still lifted in defiance, when the temperature began to shift.
Not cold. The opposite.
Heat, creeping through the corridor like something alive and hunting.
