The flames did not hurt.
That was the first thing Adeline realized.
They wrapped around her like breath—warm, familiar, intimate—responding not to fear, but to certainty. The chamber shook violently as power surged through the sigils, racing toward her as if she were the center of a long-forgotten constellation.
Lucien shouted her name.
The sound cut through the roaring fire, anchoring her just enough to keep her from slipping fully into whatever was awakening inside her.
"Adeline—look at me."
She did.
His eyes were dark, intense, stripped of command and replaced with something far more dangerous—devotion laced with dread.
"Listen carefully," he said. "Do not let it decide for you."
The Custodian watched from the edge of the circle, unbothered by the chaos. Its many-voiced presence resonated through the chamber like a verdict being prepared.
"She remembers," it said. "The fire knows its heir."
Adeline's breath trembled. "I don't remember anything."
"You do," the Custodian replied. "Not with your mind."
A pulse of heat surged through her chest, and suddenly—
She saw.
Not visions this time. Memories.
A throne carved from obsidian and flame.
A woman standing unbowed before a council of beings like the Custodian—her face Adeline's own, but older, sharper, burning with judgment.
Lucien at her side—kneeling, bloodied, swearing an oath that tasted like ash.
Adeline screamed.
Lucien reached her just as her knees buckled, catching her against his chest. His arms locked around her, grounding her as the flames recoiled sharply, obeying the contact as though it were law.
"That's enough," he growled. "She is not yours."
The Custodian's gaze flicked between them.
"The oath binds," it said. "Protector and judgment. Guardian and flame."
Adeline clutched Lucien's tunic, her voice shaking. "You knelt to me."
Lucien stiffened.
"In another life," he said quietly.
Her heart cracked at the weight in his voice.
"Tell me the truth," she whispered. "All of it."
Lucien closed his eyes for a brief, terrible moment.
"You were not born," he said. "You returned."
The chamber fell deathly still.
"The Living Kindled," the Custodian intoned. "The one who tempers fire with will. Who judges not by rage, but by balance."
Adeline's breathing came fast and shallow. "You're saying I was… some kind of ruler?."
"An executioner," Lucien corrected softly.
"And a savior."
Her gaze snapped back to him. "And you?"
His jaw tightened. "I was sworn to you."
The words landed between them like a blade.
"I was your blade," he continued. "Your shield. And when the council decided you were too dangerous to exist…"
He met her eyes.
"I helped them end you."
Silence shattered.
Adeline pulled away from him as though burned, the fire inside her flaring violently in response to betrayal she had never known—and yet felt completely.
"You killed me," she said.
Lucien did not deny it.
"I believed it was mercy," he said. "I believed the world would be safer."
The flames roared, rising high enough to lick the ceiling.
The Custodian stepped back for the first time.
"The heir awakens fully," it said. "Judgment stirs."
Adeline's voice was steady now—too steady.
"And what happens," she asked, "when judgment decides you were wrong?"
Lucien straightened, meeting her gaze without flinching.
"Then I will kneel again," he said. "Or I will burn."
The fire responded.
It coiled tighter around Adeline, answering not her anger—but her choice.
And for the first time, the Custodian hesitated.