The room reeked of old parchment and forgotten spells.
Lyra hated this tower.
It clung to her skin like a fevered whisper—damp stone walls, shelves sagging beneath the weight of tomes no one dared open anymore, and the scent of crushed herbs that stung her throat. A thousand secrets had been sealed into these walls with wax, blood, and bone. Every breath felt like inhaling someone else's memory.
"Don't touch anything," Elias murmured, not looking up.
He stood in the center of the room, fingers drifting over a silver bowl etched with glyphs that pulsed faintly under his touch. Magic. Real magic—not the parlor tricks nobles paraded around at court. This was ancient. Feral.
Dangerous.
Lyra crossed her arms, eyeing him with quiet suspicion. "You dragged me out of bed at dawn for this?"
"For answers," Elias said, his voice low. Sharp as broken glass. "And because there's something wrong with you."
She arched a brow. "Charming."
He turned then, and in the pale violet light of the tower's high windows, Lyra saw what most missed. Elias wasn't like the rest of the court. His magic had carved out something inside him. Left a hunger in his gaze that never quite softened. A man who played with power so volatile it had once cracked open the Southern Sea.
And now he was looking at her like she was another volatile spell.
"I saw it in the ballroom," he said. "When Evelyne touched you. The air shimmered."
"That was your imagination," Lyra lied.
"No." He stepped closer. "That was a burst of raw, uncontrolled magic—your magic."
The room tilted.
Lyra took a breath that didn't quite make it to her lungs. "You're mistaken."
"I never am."
She clenched her jaw. She remembered the moment. Evelyne's fingers digging into her arm, her cruel smile—and the flicker of heat in her bones, like fire stretching inside her ribcage. She'd thought it was rage.
But now...
"You want to test it," she said.
Elias smiled. It was not a kind smile. "I already have."
He stepped aside, revealing a mirror.
At least, it looked like one—until she realized it didn't reflect anything.
Not her. Not him.
Just shadow.
"Look into it," he said. "And bleed."
"Excuse me?"
He held out a dagger. Slim. Beautiful. Wicked.
"Blood amplifies what's buried. If it's true—if you're what I think—we'll see it."
She stared at the blade. Her hands curled into fists.
"You've bled enough for them," Elias said, voice softer now. "Bleed once for yourself."
She hated him for saying it.
Hated that it worked.
She took the dagger.
It bit into her palm with a hiss, blood welling up, scarlet and shimmering. She stepped forward, raised her hand toward the mirror—and as the first drop touched the surface, the world cracked.
The mirror howled.
Wind exploded outward. Books flew from shelves. Candles sputtered. The room groaned like it was alive and in pain.
Elias didn't move.
But Lyra—Lyra stood frozen.
The mirror now reflected not her face, but fire. Endless, roaring fire, licking at her silhouette like a crown.
Then—eyes.
A second reflection.
Not hers.
Not human.
They stared back from the flames. Bright gold slashed with silver, ancient and furious and knowing.
Lyra stumbled back, gasping. The mirror went dark. The fire vanished.
Silence fell like a blade.
Elias let out a long breath. "Well."
She pressed a shaking hand to her chest. Her blood still burned. Her heart still beat. But everything inside her felt altered. Tilted.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"You're not just a noble's daughter, Lyra Vellorin," Elias said, almost reverent now. "You are something older. Rarer."
Her throat went dry. "Say it."
"You are flame-touched," he said. "Descendant of the Fireborn. Your blood remembers. And something wants you awake."
The tower seemed to breathe with that revelation.
Her pulse thundered.
She had power.
Real power.
And someone had gone to great lengths to keep it locked away.
Elias stepped toward her, his hand brushing the back of hers—tender in a way that startled her.
"Have you told Thorne?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"You should."
She looked up, eyes flinty. "Should I?"
He hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. "He's not your enemy."
"I don't have enemies," she said coldly. "Only targets."
Elias smiled. But it didn't reach his eyes. "You may have fire in your blood, Princess—but don't forget, fire consumes."
She stepped back. "And it purifies."
Then she left him—surrounded by ash and books and ghosts.
The halls of the palace whispered as she passed.
Everyone looked now.
The girl they once ignored—now cloaked in a new name, a new crown, and something dangerous simmering beneath her skin.
She didn't walk.
She strode.
Even the walls seemed to part for her.
But when she reached her chambers—Thorne was waiting.
Leaning against the window. Arms crossed. Watching the city like he meant to raze it.
"You've been gone for hours," he said.
"I didn't realize I had a curfew."
His eyes flicked to her hand. Still bandaged. Still faintly glowing.
"Elias tested you."
She said nothing.
He stepped forward. "And?"
"And what?"
His fingers brushed her wrist. Just enough to make her breath catch.
"You're shaking."
"No, I'm not."
"You're lying."
He pulled her closer—slow, deliberate—until she was close enough to feel the heat of him.
"You're not alone in this," he murmured. "Whatever you are. Whatever they did to you. I'll stand with you."
She laughed. Bitter. "You're just saying that because you want to sleep with me."
"No." His voice was rough. "That's why I'll wait."
She froze.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing her temple. "I won't cage you. But if you need a weapon—use me."
Her breath caught.
She didn't trust him.
She might never.
But for the first time in years, someone wasn't trying to extinguish her fire.
They were asking if they could burn beside her.
And that terrified her more than any prophecy ever could.
Later that night, she slipped into the gardens barefoot, the cold stones grounding her, her skin still humming with magic. The stars above were sharp. The moon bloated and red.
The fountain didn't work anymore.
But it remembered.
"Show me," she whispered, dragging her palm across the rim. A shallow cut. Blood bloomed.
The air shifted.
Magic answered.
The stone shimmered—not with water, but with light.
And in its surface, she didn't see herself.
She saw her mother.
Dark hair. Pale skin. Eyes like dusk and fire.
Standing in this same garden, years ago, holding flame in her hand. Whispering names.
Lyra gasped.
The image vanished.
But the truth remained.
This power hadn't been stolen.
It had been inherited.
She touched her chest.
Her magic didn't belong to the court. Or to her father. Or to the throne that had tried to silence it.
It was hers.
And it was awake.