Emery moved quietly the manor grounds, through the towering plants, her sandals barely brushing the manicured grass. She avoided the lantern-lit paths, keeping close to the shadows along the stone walls. Her heart still raced—not from fear of discovery, but from the lingering heat of Zekar's presence clinging to her skin.
She reached the servants' entrance behind the kitchen, easing open the heavy wooden door with practiced care. The kitchen lay mostly dark, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth.
"You smell of smoke," a voice drawled from the darkness.
Emery spun, clutching the rough charcoal pencil Zekar had pressed into her palm before they parted. It was small and crude, yet it felt heavier than it should have.
Riven and Lyren sat at the long prep table, watching her with sharp blue eyes. They weren't working or eating—only waiting. Riven leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a mocking smirk on his face.
"And wild beasts," Lyren added coolly. "Though, I suppose those things go hand-in-hand when one spends their nights playing with Druvkaur strays."
Emery masked her reaction, schooling her expression into calm indifference. She slipped the charcoal pencil into a hidden fold of her dress.
"I was at the stream," Emery said. "The air is damp there. I likely picked up the scent of the evening mist."
Riven laughed and stood, clearly enjoying the moment. "The mist doesn't smell like charred cedar and unwashed skin, sister. We saw you. We saw the two shadows at the gatehouse last night. Moxy is a fool to let them in, and you are a bigger fool for thinking we wouldn't notice."
"What I do is no concern of yours," Emery replied, stepping away from the door. "Unless you wish to explain to Father why you were lurking in the kitchens in the middle of the night instead of attending to your studies."
Lyren rose as well, her expression sharp. "Father won't care about our studies when he hears his precious daughter is consorting with fire-dwellers. They are dangerous, Emery. They are animals who couldn't even master the magic of their ancestors. They are failures."
The words struck deeper than Emery expected. She thought of Zekar's controlled flame, the steady strength beneath his silence.
"Go to bed, both of you," Emery said quietly. "Before I decide that my seniority in this house is worth a few bruises on your faces."
Riven hesitated, surprise flickering across his face. Then he scoffed and waved Lyren toward the stairs.
"Let her go," Riven muttered. "Let her play with her fire. When she gets burned, we'll be the ones to tell mother."
They brushed past her deliberately. Emery waited until their footsteps faded before releasing a shaky breath. Her hands trembled as she made her way to the third floor, the charcoal pencil pressing against her thigh like a brand.
By morning, the manor wore a mask of peace. The scent of lavender and fresh bread filled the halls. Sunlight flooded the white-and-gold dining hall, though the room felt cold despite it.
Emery sat across from the twins, who exchanged quiet, knowing looks. At the head of the table sat her father, Lord Alaric, and beside him, the Madam—her stepmother and the twins' mother—sat sharp-eyed and immaculately composed.
"The reports from the capital are troubling, Alaric," the Madam said. "The Emperor's tithes have doubled in the western provinces. There are rumors that his bloodlust is no longer satisfied by gold alone. He wants steel. He wants men."
Lord Alaric sighed. "The Emperor is a man of grand ambitions, my dear. But Eldharûn is far from here. Velanthri is the jewel of the Empire. Our songs, our glass, our streams—these are what keep us safe. We provide the beauty the Empire lacks. He would not risk destroying the very thing that gives his reign its luster."
Emery barely touched her food.
"But Father," Emery said. "If the Emperor truly seeks power, does beauty matter to him? A song cannot stop a sword."
The Madam's gaze snapped to her. "A child's perspective. You spend too much time in the gardens, Emery. You do not understand the intricacies of diplomacy. Velanthri is protected by its history, not by its walls."
"The girl has a point," Riven said smoothly. "Perhaps we should start training like the savages in the mountains. I hear the Druvkaur spend their days hunting instead of reading. Maybe that's what we need."
He kicked Emery under the table. She didn't react.
"The Druvkaur are a dying breed," Lord Alaric said. "They are remnants of an age of monsters and myths. They have no place in a civilized world. Their power is nothing but a guttering candle compared to the light of progress."
A hollow feeling settled in Emery's chest. She glanced around the table—polished faces, delicate porcelain, easy confidence—and wondered how any of it would stand against a real threat. The manor suddenly felt fragile, like glass waiting to shatter.
Once breakfast ended, Emery returned to her chamber and locked the door behind her. The quiet pressed in as she leaned against it, the echoes of the conversation replaying in her mind.
She crossed to her writing desk and drew out a sheet of parchment. Instead of her quill, she reached for the charcoal pencil.
The charcoal stained her fingers as she began to write. At first, only shapes—rough, imperfect attempts at the Drk alphabet Zekar had shown her. She wrote the word Heart. Then Fire.
Finally, she wrote his name.
Zekar.
Again and again, until the parchment was marked and smudged. The name looked foreign among her delicate things, bold and dark.
She stopped, breath unsteady, as if he might answer her. She could almost hear his voice saying her name in return.
Emery crossed to the tall mirror and studied her reflection—the silver hair he had touched, the eyes he had called luminous. Her fingers traced her jaw, then paused at her lips.
She remembered his gaze lingering there, the darkness of his mouth, the flash of his fangs when he smiled. A shiver ran through her, sharp and unwanted. She imagined him here, filling the room with heat and wildness, disrupting the careful order of her world.
Her fingers brushed her lips as the thought took shape—fire meeting silk, heat against cool.
"Zekar," she whispered to the empty room.