It began like any other day—peacefully. Which, in the Valemire household, usually meant something was about to catch fire.
Seraphina Valemire was upside down on the chaise lounge in her father's greenhouse, flipping through a book about royal etiquette while levitating a flame above her fingertip. It was small, like a flickering candle, harmless really… until it sneezed and turned one of the orchids into smoke.
"Oops."
"Sera!" her younger brother gasped from behind a tree. Thane—barely twelve and already a better mage than most adults—hurried over to rescue the charred remains of the plant. "That's the third one this week."
"It coughed," Seraphina muttered innocently, turning the page. "Besides, Lady Plumleaf said I need to practice delicate control. What's more delicate than flirting with combustion?"
"You are not normal," Thane said with a smile, sitting beside her. His hair was the same soft auburn as hers, and his eyes held none of the venom their sisters' did.
Speaking of—
"Seraphinaaaaaa," came the sugar-dipped voice of Odessa, the eldest Valemire daughter. "Father wants you."
That usually meant one of two things: she'd either done something incredibly right, or incredibly wrong. Judging by Odessa's face—pinned lips, narrowed eyes, and a smile too sharp to be genuine—it was the first. Again.
Seraphina stood, dusted soot from her sleeves, and followed the voice down the marble halls of Valemire Estate. The corridors shimmered faintly with runes—family sigils carved in ancient fire language, pulsing orange beneath the walls. Each noble house in the kingdom of Evaria bore their own signature magic, and House Valemire's was unmistakable.
Fire. Wild, passionate, unpredictable fire.
Just like Seraphina.
At the end of the hall stood her father, Duke Aldren Valemire, arms folded, lips quirked. Between him stood his three daughters.
Odessa: Perfect posture, silver eyes like frost. Always composed.
Calista: The middle sister, soft-spoken and sharp, with that dangerous quiet kind of jealousy.
And then… Seraphina. Rumpled curls. Ink-stained fingertips. Slightly singed sleeve.
"My girl," Duke Aldren said with warmth, ignoring the other two entirely as he held up an envelope sealed in gold and blue. "A royal invitation."
The sisters froze.
"To the palace?" Calista asked, eyes narrowing.
"To the Seasonal Crown Ball," their father confirmed. "All noble families are summoned to court."
Seraphina blinked. The Crown Ball? That only happened once every few years—usually when the Crown Prince returned from war, or the royal family had something important to announce. Like marriage. Or death. Or… succession.
Odessa cleared her throat, ever the graceful predator. "Naturally, we'll all be attending."
"Of course," their father said, handing the invitation directly to Seraphina. "But do try not to light anything on fire this time."
✦
The week leading up to the ball was a flurry of fabric, fittings, and feigned civility.
"I'll wear midnight blue," Odessa said coolly. "It flatters my figure."
Calista nodded. "Lavender. Soft, noble, forgettable."
"Mother says pastels make you look ill," Seraphina muttered under her breath, scribbling in her notebook. She wasn't even sure she wanted to go to this ball. She hated stiff collars and proper bows, and she especially hated the pressure of representing their House in front of judgmental nobles with iced-over hearts.
"Seraphina," her mother called from across the parlor, "you are not wearing red."
She looked up, caught. "Why not?"
Her mother sighed. "Because red, white, and gold are royal colors. Only the palace wears them. It's treasonous for a noble to dress like a monarch."
"Good thing I have no plans of being one," Seraphina said dryly, sketching a design anyway.
One with a neckline that would make every old nobleman choke on his wine.
✦
The night of the ball, the Valemire family arrived in an obsidian carriage engraved with glowing flame runes. Magic buzzed in the air. Palace guards bowed low as they stepped out one by one, bathed in the light of a dozen enchanted lanterns.
Odessa shimmered in blue.
Calista glowed in violet.
And then—Seraphina.
She stepped out last.
She wore red.
Not just red. A scandalous, shimmering red and gold gown embroidered with twisting flame patterns across a snowy white underskirt. The sleeves puffed at the shoulder—leg of mutton style—elegant and powerful. Her auburn hair was braided with firelight gems, and atop her head sat a thin, jagged tiara that definitely wasn't palace-approved.
The gasps were immediate.
She could hear the whispers ripple across the ballroom as they entered.
"She's wearing red?"
"That's forbidden—"
"Isn't she the Valemire girl? The fire witch?"
Seraphina ignored them all, chin high, heels clacking against marble like music. Her tiara gleamed faintly—embers pulsing at its base.
Then, the royal family arrived.
They descended the grand staircase like ice sculpted into human form. The King and Queen, regal in every sense. And between them—
Prince Cassian Albrecht.
Crowned in light. Draped in midnight navy, with silver trim across his shoulders like a war map. Black hair. Gray eyes. And a face carved from stone.
Their eyes met.
And the world went still.
Not just metaphorically. Literally.
The chandelier above flickered. Magic twisted in the air like smoke. The Veilfire Crown—locked away in the palace vaults for decades—stirred. Somewhere deep beneath their feet, an ancient relic whispered awake.
Seraphina's breath caught in her throat.
Cassian's jaw clenched ever so slightly.
✦
Seraphina was only trying to be polite.
That's the worst part, really. She hadn't set out to ruin the most important ball of the decade. She had no schemes, no tricks, no plans to torch any part of the royal gardens this time—not like the last incident with the exploding hydrangeas.
No, this time, she was on her best behavior. Or at least… her version of it.
She curtsied. She smiled. She even resisted the urge to steal pastries from the dessert table.
Everything was going surprisingly well.
Until Lord Ferrow of House Gladerose decided to comment on her dress.
"I see the Valemires no longer fear execution," he drawled, swirling wine in his glass. "Or perhaps you've simply given up trying to appear respectable."
Seraphina's smile was all teeth. "No, we just decided to stop pretending we care what moldy roses think of us."
Gasps echoed around them. A few nobles snorted behind gloved hands.
The Gladeroses, known for their illusion magic and unholy love of gossip, were not enemies one should poke so publicly. But Seraphina was already halfway through a glass of starlight wine, and the music was too loud for her to think clearly. Or maybe she just hated him.
Lord Ferrow narrowed his eyes. "Still using that fire magic to set your betrothals ablaze, I hear?"
Ah. That did it.
A spark flared in her palm—unbidden. Tiny, like a flicker of annoyance brought to life. But fire was never fond of subtlety, and unfortunately for everyone nearby, the spark leapt from her fingers, danced up the edge of a tablecloth, and—within a blink—
FOOM.
One of the banquet tables burst into flame.
Shrieks rang out. Nobles scattered. Champagne sprayed. Someone fainted into a cheesecake.
Seraphina froze, her eyes wide.
"Oh," she said blankly, "Not again."
Her brother Thane was already halfway across the ballroom, trying to cast a dampening spell from the far wall. "Sera!"
She turned in a panic and bumped straight into someone.
Someone solid.
Someone cold.
The ballroom seemed to exhale all at once.
Prince Cassian Albrecht stood in front of her, a towering wall of calm fury. His pale skin glowed like moonlight against his navy coat, and his gray eyes—sharp, unreadable—were fixed on the fire still flickering beside them.
For a moment, neither of them said a word.
Then, with a flick of his gloved fingers, Cassian summoned a gust of icy wind that doused the flames instantly.
Silence.
All eyes were on them now.
She could feel every breath, every pulse, every judgmental whisper pulsing through the marble floor. Her heart thundered.
She opened her mouth.
"I swear," she said softly, "it sneezed."
Cassian blinked.
Somewhere, deep beneath the ballroom floor, something stirred.
At first, it was just a shift in the air—a pressure, like a storm brewing below the soles of her feet. Then came the heat. Rising. Climbing. Twisting into her bones.
The chandeliers above flickered.
Magic pulled taut in the air, like the string of a bow.
Then—
BOOM.
A burst of golden light shot down from the ceiling, illuminating the ballroom like a sunrise trapped inside a cathedral. The ground trembled. Music stopped. Nobles cried out.
And then—through the golden mist descending from above—floated a single object.
A crown.
Delicate. Ancient. Glowing red and gold, rimmed with flame-shaped etchings and dripping with fire opals. The Veilfire Crown. The relic that had been sleeping for decades in the sacred vault beneath the palace.
It hovered above them, pulsing with light, scanning the room like a heartbeat.
Whispers rose. "The relic… it's awakened."
"But it hasn't chosen anyone in—"
"Oh gods… it's moving."
And it was.
Floating slowly, deliberately, the crown drifted through the air—past rows of nobles, past the royal family, past every highborn daughter groomed for the throne—and came to a stop...
...above Seraphina Valemire.
The air vanished.
Cassian inhaled sharply.
Seraphina blinked up at the crown glowing above her head.
"I—" she began.
The crown dropped.
It landed gently on her head, and flared to life.
The ballroom erupted.
Screaming. Stomping. Magic flared like lightning.
"Blasphemy!" someone shouted.
"She's not worthy for the throne!"
"She can't—not her—she's fire—"
"She's a disgrace!"
Prince Cassian didn't move. He stared at her—stone-still—as the relic crowned her in flame and light.
And Seraphina, too stunned to speak, could only say the first thought that entered her fire-singed mind:
"Mother's going to kill me."