Chapter 36: The Night After the Blessing

When the final flames dimmed and the crowds began to scatter, the Emperor of Nevareth returned to his borrowed chambers high within the west wing of the palace. The halls were still humming with laughter, guards half-drunk on fire-wine, torches swaying like living hearts.

Yet Soren felt none of it.

He dismissed his attendants with a wave and stepped onto the balcony. Below, Solmire glittered… rivers of torchlight winding through the rings, the air trembling with song. Beautiful. Unreal.

He drew a long breath, expecting the heat to comfort him, but it only bit at his throat. The memory still clung, chains, frost, the sound of boots in the dark. He gripped the marble rail until his knuckles blanched.

Why tonight? Why now?

It had been years since he’d allowed himself to remember that cell. Years since the cold had crept inside his dreams and whispered that he was still that small, starving boy. Yet seeing the Queen, her fire bending to her will with such ease, it had cracked something open. He had wanted that kind of warmth his whole life, the sort that didn’t come with pain.

And perhaps, he thought bitterly, that was why he feared her most of all.

The West Wing, Later That Night

Elsewhere in the palace, the world had quieted.

In Caelen’s wing, a single candle still burned beside a silken bed where Rael slept, curled against the pillow, his lashes pale against his cheeks. Ophelia stood by the bedside, fingers tracing the boy’s hair, a faint smile softening her face.

“He looks so much like her,” she murmured without meaning to. “Even when he dreams.”

From across the room, Caelen, half hidden in the shadows, already loosening the fastenings of his ceremonial cloak, looked up. His voice was low, steady, the sort of tone that could silence a council in one breath.

“He won’t become like her.”

Ophelia turned, the candlelight catching the gold threads of her gown. “You say that as though it were a curse.”

“It is,” Caelen said simply. “And I’ll see it broken.”

She studied him for a long moment. “That’s why you keep him away from her, isn’t it? Because you’re afraid he might carry her fire.”

The air tightened. Caelen said nothing.

After a while, Ophelia sighed, smoothing the sheets around Rael’s small frame. “He misses her, you know. Even if he won’t admit it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” she said softly, but she didn’t press further.

When they reached their own chambers, the hush between them changed shape. The attendants had already prepared the marble bath, steam rising from perfumed water, rose oil and amber thick in the air.

Ophelia loosened the clasps of her gown, but Caelen came behind her, fingers steady, undoing the rest. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, a kiss that felt more like habit than hunger.

“Do you love me, Caelen?”

The question stopped him mid-motion.

And then, without a second thought. He spoke.

“You ask as though you doubt it.”

“I don’t know,” Ophelia admitted, turning to face him. “Lately I’ve been having these… thoughts I can’t explain.”

He lifted her without effort, earning a startled laugh from her, and carried her toward the waiting bath. “Then stop thinking.”

Warm water lapped around them. He brushed her wet hair aside, murmuring, “The only reason I stay in this palace is because of you and him. If I had to choose otherwise, I would choose death.”

She gave a small, crooked smile. “That’s a dreadful thing to say. Why death? Why not simply…”

He froze, just slightly. His grip tightened just slightly around her waist.

And before he could answer, Ophelia tilted her head, voice calm but sharp as glass.

“You used to be in love with Eris… weren’t you?”

The ripples between them stilled. Somewhere beyond the marble walls, fireworks were still fading, the city still burning bright. But here, in the heart of the palace, the only heat came from the question that would not cool.

The silence that followed Ophelia’s question could have drowned a kingdom.

Caelen’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said, too fast. “I was never in love with her.”

“Caelen,” she whispered, “you don’t have to deny it.”

Something in him snapped. The sound was quiet, only the slap of water as he rose from the bath but it carried all the weight of an unspoken storm.

He reached for the linen cloth and wrapped it roughly around his waist, his movements sharp enough to slice the air. “I said I never loved her.”

Ophelia froze, the water rippling around her knees. “Caelen, I didn’t mean—”

But he was already moving toward the edge of the room, his back turned, the muscles in his shoulders tight with anger or fear.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “Don’t make me remember things better left dead.”

“Caelen—”

He stopped, half-shadowed by the lamplight, his voice lower now, rawer. “I never felt love for Eris. Only fear… and admiration. The kind that turns to hatred when you finally see the darkness you mistook for light.”

That, at least, was the truth he could live with.

Behind him, Ophelia rose from the bath, water streaming down her skin, her hair clinging to her shoulders like wet silk. She crossed the room barefoot, unashamed of her nakedness, her expression softer now. When she reached him, she touched his arm gently.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to open old wounds.”

He exhaled shakily, and the fight in him seemed to dissolve. “You didn’t open them,” he said. “They were never closed.”

Their foreheads met, damp skin against skin. She kissed him once, a quiet apology, he kissed her back, desperately and when they finally made their way to bed, the candlelight swayed and died, leaving only the faint scent of rose oil in the air.

But sleep, dear reader, did not come to either of them easily.

Ophelia lay beside him, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She hadn’t spoken the question to provoke him, it had been born of truth. She had seen the way he looked at Eris once, long ago. That quiet, betraying tenderness that no soldier’s mask could hide. Especially not from her who always had a keen eye for moments like that. It was gone now, or perhaps buried, but sometimes, in rare moments when he thought no one was watching, it returned, just a flicker, gone as quickly as it came.

And lately… she had seen it again. Not in Caelen’s eyes this time, but in Soren’s. The same quiet fascination. The same impossible pull toward the woman the world called ruin.

Ophelia turned on her side, pressing closer to Caelen. He breathed evenly beside her, eyes closed, but his mind was far from sleep.

In the darkness of his own thoughts, Caelen saw fire.

He saw her.

Eris, before the crown. Before the inner wars. Before the flame turned cruel.

She had been a princess then, and he, an orphaned thief. Nothing but a shadow darting through the slums, living off the gold he stole and the luck that hadn’t yet run out.

That day, he’d aimed too high. The royal carriage, gilded and slow-moving through the lower quarter, had been a temptation too sweet to resist. He’d slipped between the crowd, a knife ready to cut the pouch of the noblewoman riding within.

But she was faster.

He remembered the ground trembling first, a low hiss, then a roar. The cobblestones split beneath his feet, glowing red, molten, alive. He fell, the heat biting through his bare feet as he scrambled back, terrified.

Then a tiny voice followed…. clear, young, and coldly amused.

“Stealing from me? You must have a death wish.”

When he looked up, he saw her.

Eris.

Little like he was.

Not yet the Fire Queen, but already something unearthly. Her hair shimmered like captured sunlight; her eyes—those impossible bright gold eyes—held a light he couldn’t name. She was beautiful the way lightning is beautiful: breathtaking, untouchable, and meant to destroy.

He’d heard stories of her temper, of how she burned her tutor’s sleeve once for correcting her. He believed them all. But in that moment, lying on cracked earth, his wrists burning, he also saw something else, a glint of curiosity behind her rising cruelty, a spark of life that was not yet hollowed out by power.

She stepped closer. The heat radiating from her made it hard to breathe. Her gloved hand caught his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“What’s your name, thief?”

He didn’t answer.

Her lips curved, half smile, half warning. “You’re trembling. Should I take that as fear or defiance?”

He wanted to look away. He couldn’t.

And though pain licked up his skin where the molten ground still glowed, he found himself staring back… angry, stubborn, alive. Nothing to lose.

“Both,” he rasped.

Her smile deepened.

“Good,” she said softly. “I like both.”

And when she took him back to the palace, he didn’t realize he’d already been marked.

Not by fire.

But by her.

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