The journey from the Ashlands was a blur of grey landscapes and grim, silent travel. Valerius pushed them relentlessly, his urgency a palpable thing that hung in the air between them. They rode on strong, black horses that seemed as tireless as their master, their hooves muffled by the thick layer of soot that covered the world. Kael and the other soldier, a man named Jorran, rode as silent sentinels, their hostility toward Violet a constant, prickling presence at her back.

Violet had never been on a horse before her flight from Dusthaven. Her body ached with the unfamiliar motion, but she didn’t complain. She watched the world transform around them, the endless grey slowly, almost imperceptibly, giving way to muted greens and browns. The air grew cleaner, losing its acrid, smoky bite and taking on the scent of damp earth and living things. For the first time in her life, she saw a tree that wasn’t a blackened, skeletal husk. It was a revelation, a miracle of vibrant green that made her heart ache with a strange and unfamiliar longing.

Valerius spoke little during the day, his dark eyes constantly scanning the horizon, his posture tense and alert. But at night, when they made camp in hidden, defensible hollows, he would sit with her by the fire—a fire he insisted she start.

The first time he commanded it, her whole body went rigid with fear. “I can’t,” she whispered, staring at the small pile of kindling.

“You can,” he countered, his voice implacable. “You did it in the tavern. You just didn’t mean to. Now, mean to.”

He guided her, his instructions clipped and precise. He told her to close her eyes, to find the heat that coiled within her, to not fight it, but to coax it, to draw it out. It was the most terrifying thing she had ever done. The fire felt like a wild beast straining against a leash, and to give it even an inch of freedom felt like madness. But Valerius’s presence was a steadying force. He was not afraid of her power, and his confidence was a strange and potent balm to her fear.

She focused, her brow furrowed in concentration. She reached inward, toward the familiar, smoldering core of her being. She remembered the surge of power in the tavern, the feel of the flame erupting from her hand. Tentatively, she nudged it, urging it forward. A spark flickered in the darkness behind her eyelids. She pushed harder, and with a soft whoosh, the kindling burst into bright, cheerful flame.

Violet’s eyes snapped open. She stared at the fire, her fire, with a mixture of awe and terror. She had done it. She had controlled it.

“Good,” Valerius said, a rare note of approval in his voice. “Again tomorrow. And the day after. You will learn to make it an extension of your will, as natural as breathing.”

During these nightly lessons, he began to speak of the past, of the Ember War and the throne she was supposedly heir to. He spoke of the Aethelian dynasty, rulers who had carried the fire in their blood, who could command flames and walk through infernos unscathed. They had ruled for a thousand years, their power absolute, until the last queen, Lyra, was assassinated, her infant daughter lost in the chaos. The throne had been seized by a council of powerful lords, who had systematically purged any record of the Aethelian’s magic, branding it as a curse and rewriting history to erase the dynasty’s legacy.

“They called it the Scouring,” Valerius explained, his face illuminated by the flickering firelight. “They feared the power they could not control. They taught the people to fear it, too. But they never found the child. They believed she had perished in the fires that consumed the palace.”

“My mother,” Violet whispered, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. It was too much to comprehend. A queen. A lost heir. It sounded like a child’s fairy tale.

“Lyra,” Valerius confirmed. “You have her hair. And you have her fire.”

“Why are you helping me?” she asked, the question that had been burning in her mind for days. “What is this to House Vorlag?”

A shadow passed over his features. “The council that seized power has grown corrupt and weak. They squabble over land and titles while the kingdom rots from within. The Shadow Clans stir in the North, and our defenses are a pale imitation of what they once were. The kingdom needs a true ruler. It needs the fire of the Aethelians to forge it anew.”

“It needs a weapon,” Violet said, her voice flat.

Valerius met her gaze, his own dark and unreadable. “Yes,” he admitted without shame. “It needs a weapon. And a symbol. A lost queen, returned to claim her birthright, is a powerful symbol indeed. Many will flock to your banner.”

His honesty was both chilling and, in a strange way, respectable. He wasn’t hiding his motives behind false kindness. He was a political player, moving his pieces on a board she was only just beginning to understand. And she was his queen.

After a week of travel, they arrived at the capital, Sunstone. The city was a shock to her senses. It was a sprawling metropolis of white stone and golden spires, nestled in a valley carved by a wide, glittering river. It was vibrant, loud, and overwhelmingly alive. Compared to Dusthaven, it was like stepping into another world, one of color and light and sound.

But as they drew closer, she saw the cracks in the beautiful facade. The outer districts were crowded and dirty, the faces of the common folk etched with poverty and discontent. The guards on the walls were lax, their armor tarnished, their eyes dull. The rot Valerius had spoken of was visible, even to her untrained eyes.

They did not enter through the main gates. Valerius led them along a winding, overgrown path to a small, unassuming postern gate set into the city wall. He produced a key, and the gate swung open into a dark, narrow tunnel.

“Where are we?” Violet asked, her horse shifting nervously in the enclosed space.

“The Raven’s Nest,” Valerius replied, his voice echoing off the damp stone. “The ancestral home of my house. You will be safe here. For now.”

The tunnel opened into a vast, subterranean stable. Grooms rushed forward to take their horses, their movements silent and efficient. They all wore the raven crest of House Vorlag. Valerius led her up a winding stone staircase that emerged into a dark, paneled hallway. The air was cool and still, a stark contrast to the bustling city outside. This place felt ancient, steeped in secrets.

He showed her to a suite of rooms that were more luxurious than anything she could have imagined. There was a soft bed with velvet hangings, a wardrobe filled with clothes made of fine wool and silk, and a bathing chamber with a large copper tub. It was a gilded cage, indeed.

“Rest,” he told her, his hand on the door. “Tomorrow, your real training begins. The court is a battlefield, Violet. More dangerous than any alley in Dusthaven. Your fire can protect you from a sword, but it cannot protect you from a poisoned word or a dagger in the back. You must learn to navigate its currents, to smile while hiding a blade. You must learn to be a queen.”

He left, the heavy wooden door closing with a soft click, leaving her alone in the opulent silence. Violet walked over to a tall, arched window and looked out. It overlooked a manicured garden, a riot of color and life. Beyond it, she could see the spires of the royal palace, a gleaming white needle against the sky. Her supposed birthright.

It all felt like a dream, a fragile illusion that could shatter at any moment. She was Violet from Dusthaven, a girl with embers in her veins. How could she ever be a queen? A wave of fear and inadequacy washed over her. But then, she felt the familiar heat coiling in her gut. The fire. It was the one real, solid thing in this new, bewildering world. It was her legacy. It was her power.

And as she stared at the distant palace, a new feeling began to smolder alongside the fear. A feeling of defiance. A feeling of anger at what had been stolen from her, from her mother. Valerius thought he could wield her. The court thought it could break her. They were all about to learn that a fire, once unleashed, is not so easily controlled.