(POV: The Ember Prince)
Fire had always been honest with me.
It did not pretend to be gentle. It did not apologize for what it was. It burned, consumed, destroyed—and in its wake, it made room for something new. That was the bargain. That was the truth the other courts liked to forget.
The moment the Frost Regent lifted his hand, that truth tore loose inside my chest.
I had been raised in fire.
Forged in it.
The Ember Court did not coddle its heirs. We were thrown into heat and chaos early—into war councils before we learned restraint, into battle before we learned mercy. My father used to say fire only respected one thing: conviction. Hesitation got you burned alive.
And I had hesitated once before.
Never again.
Ice magic coiled through the air—beautiful, lethal, surgical. The Regent intended to end it cleanly. One strike. One body. One problem erased before it could spread.
Before she could spread.
"No," I said.
The word wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Fire doesn't shout—it advances.
I moved without thought, without permission, my boots skidding across glass-slick stone as heat roared up my spine. Flames burst from my veins, not summoned but released, answering a command older than my name.
Protect.
The collision was violent enough to crack the world.
Ice met fire in a shriek of steam and force, the impact shattering columns, rune-stones exploding outward like shrapnel. I braced, teeth bared, magic straining against magic as frost screamed in protest beneath my heat.
Behind me, she cried out.
That sound—sharp, frightened, real—hit harder than any spell.
Mine.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, undeniable.
I had sworn never to bind.
Not after watching my mother burn herself hollow trying to love a man who could not survive her flame. Not after learning what bonds did to Ember fae—how they magnified everything we felt until devotion became destruction.
I had told myself I was better without it.
Then she touched me.
It wasn't deliberate. Just fingers clutching at the back of my coat as the hall shook. Mortal reflex. Seeking balance.
Fire exploded through my veins.
The bond ignited like dry kindling, white-hot and merciless, and suddenly I wasn't just feeling my magic—I was feeling her.
Fear. Raw and ragged.
Confusion, spiraling so fast it made my head ache.
And beneath it all—gods, beneath it—a fierce, stubborn spark of resolve that refused to go out.
She wasn't weak.
She was drowning.
And they were standing around debating the tide.
I snarled, shoving more heat into the clash, forcing the Regent back half a step. Ice cracked beneath him, hairline fractures spiderwebbing across the floor.
"Move," he said calmly, as if we were discussing weather. "You are letting instinct rule you."
I barked out a laugh, sharp and breathless.
"Instinct is the only thing that's ever kept me alive."
The Verdant Lord was moving now, vines ripping through stone, reinforcing the hall before it collapsed entirely. He looked furious in a quiet way that unsettled even me.
The Shadow King said nothing.
That was worse.
He was watching. Calculating. Deciding which pieces were already lost.
I turned my head just enough to look at her.
She was on her knees, silver hair tangled, magic crawling across her skin like it didn't know where to settle. Her eyes—those impossible eyes—locked onto mine.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't fight for me. They'll kill you."
For a heartbeat, I saw my mother's face in hers. Saw the way love had hollowed her out, burned her to ash from the inside.
And then I saw something else.
Choice.
"I've died before," I said quietly. "This would be worth it."
Her breath hitched.
The Frost Regent exhaled, slow and controlled. "You will doom the courts."
"No," I shot back. "You already doomed them when you decided survival mattered more than justice."
That was when the sigil overhead flared again.
The Weaver's Mark burned brighter, threads of shadow, flame, frost, and life weaving themselves into a pattern the world had not seen since the old age. My fire reacted violently—recognized it.
I understood then.
This wasn't corruption.
This was correction.
The Frost Regent raised his hand again.
"Last warning."
I didn't wait.
I hurled my fire—not at him, not fully—but into the sigil itself.
The Mark screamed.
Magic tore free, wild and furious, heat blasting outward in a shockwave that flung us all back. Pain lanced through my skull as the bond snapped taut, fire ripping through me so hard I tasted blood.
For one terrible moment, I thought I'd destroyed her.
Then the flames curved.
Bent.
Wrapped around her like a living thing, shielding instead of burning.
She gasped as light erupted from her chest, silver blazing so bright it hurt to look at. The bonds slammed into place all at once, four forces locking together with a sound like the world taking its first breath.
The Frost Regent stumbled back.
The Shadow King swore under his breath.
The Verdant Lord whispered a prayer I didn't recognize.
And she stood.
Magic poured through her—not tearing her apart, not overwhelming her—but answering her, as if it had been waiting centuries for permission.
She looked at me.
Not afraid.
Trusting.
Something in my chest gave way entirely.
I laughed—half-hysterical, half-exultant—as the hall finally began to collapse, ancient stone groaning under the weight of a rewritten truth.
"Well," I said, fire roaring higher as the Weaver's Mark blazed above us, "this just got interesting."
Deep beneath the courts, something old and furious stirred awake.
And I knew—without doubt—that I would burn every kingdom to the ground before I let them take her from us.