Thalen's POV
I spun on my heels, my breath caught in my throat. For years, I had prayed to hear her voice again, and now—now she was calling for me. My feet moved before my mind could catch up, carrying me back to her door in three desperate strides.
"Frost?" I asked, my voice shaking. My hand hovered over the door, afraid that if I touched it, the sound of her would vanish like a dream.
There was silence for a moment, and then, muffled but steady, came her reply.
"Can you… stay for a while?"
My chest tightened. The world outside could have crumbled to ash, and I would not have cared. For the first time in four years, my daughter wanted me near.
Ardor's Pov
Eighteen. My brothers wore their titles like armor, each of them entrusted with Emberon's honor, while I had none. No duties. No recognition. Nothing but my father's loathing and my brothers' fists.
They mocked me for the heat that never left my body, the way the air shimmered around me as though I carried a furnace beneath my skin. To them, it wasn't power. It was a curse. A reminder that I would never belong.
I had grown used to the sting of their words, the bruises left on my arms, the cold way my father's eyes slid past me as though I weren't his son at all. I was the mistake he wished he could erase.
And yet, sometimes—though I didn't know why—the memory of a girl surfaced. A pale face framed by the shimmer of snow, watching me from the forest years ago. A stranger who vanished as quickly as she appeared.
I never learned her name, and perhaps she had been nothing more than a dream, a trick of a boy's imagination. But on nights when the fire inside me burned too hot, when loneliness clawed too deep, I found myself remembering her.
Only to let the thought fade again.
Because memories, like snow in Emberon, never lasted long.
The memory slipped from me like ash on the wind, and I returned to the present.
A knock echoed against my door—light, almost trembling. Whoever it was did not dare press harder. I could hear the pause, the breath held on the other side, as though even standing near me was dangerous.
They were right to be afraid. The air in my chamber was thick, warped with heat that never relented. The wooden door had long since darkened from my presence, scorched faintly at the edges.
"Enter," I said at last, my voice low, though I already knew no one would unless pressed. Fear had become my companion as much as fire.
The door eased open, and a young man stepped inside, his shoulders stiff, his gaze fixed on the floor. Beads of sweat already formed at his brow, though he had barely crossed the threshold.
"My prince," he said, voice tight with nerves. In his hand was a parchment sealed with crimson wax, the crest of Emberon pressed deep into it. He held it out with both hands, bowing low. "A letter. From… His Majesty."
The words struck harder than I expected. My father never addressed me in writing—only in punishments, in glares, in dismissals. Orders for duties were always given to my brothers, never to me. And yet here, in my hands, was proof that—for the first time in years—he had written my name.
I took the letter, the parchment curling faintly at my heat, and stared at the seal. My chest tightened. Was this summons… or judgment?
I broke the seal, the wax crumbling beneath my thumb, and unfolded the parchment. The script was sharp, deliberate, every stroke of the quill bearing the weight of command.
> "To Ardor Valoric, sixth son of Emberon.
You are hereby summoned to attend the Convocation of Flames, where the bloodline of Valoric shall be honored before the nobles of Emberon. All sons of my house will be present for recognition."
The words burned hotter than the fire in my veins. Recognition? My lips twisted bitterly. For years, I had been treated as less than a son, a shadow trailing behind the blaze of my brothers. And now, suddenly, I was to stand among them?
The letter continued, written without warmth, without even the illusion of affection:
> "Attendance is not optional. Fail, and you will shame the throne and your name."
My fists tightened around the parchment, and it singed at the edges, curling black beneath my grip.
Recognition. The word mocked me.
The days crept by with an unnatural weight, each one pressing against me as though the castle itself conspired to remind me of what lay ahead. Servants whispered in the corridors, scurrying about with preparations for the Convocation. Banners dyed in the colors of Emberon's flame were unfurled, the golden-red sigil of the phoenix stitched into every tapestry.
I kept to my quarters, away from the prying eyes of my brothers. Still, their laughter echoed down the marble halls, a sound sharp enough to cut. They relished events like this—occasions where they could boast, smirk, and remind me I was the outcast son.
At night, the fire in my chest stirred restlessly, hotter than usual, threatening to scorch the sheets. I clenched my fists to contain it, staring at the ceiling until dawn broke. Somewhere in the silence, I thought of her—the little girl of frost, the only soul who hadn't looked at me with contempt. Her memory was faint now, but it lingered in my mind like a hidden ember refusing to die.
And then, at last, the morning came. The castle bells tolled, their solemn clang carrying across the kingdom. Servants arrived with robes lined in gold thread, pressed to perfection for the king's sons. When they entered my chamber, they dared not meet my eyes, their hands trembling as they held out the attire.
The day of the Convocation of Flames had arrived...