-Rori-

The snow outside doesn’t fall—it drifts, slow and soundless, like even the weather knows to stay quiet.

Starveil Manor feels the same.

Every corridor hums under the strain of too much magic and not enough control. The walls hold it, but barely. The chandeliers rattle in their fixtures whenever the air shifts wrong.

Kael’s suite smells of smoke and blood and antiseptic. She lies in the bed nearest the window, half-swallowed by blankets, her chest rising shallowly. Althaea’s work, quick and clean, but even her hands couldn’t fix everything.

Kess leans against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Naomi’s perched at the foot of the bed, claws half-shifted, eyes locked on the rhythm of Kael’s breathing. Althaea and Aevryn whisper by the dresser, low and tense—words like elders, healing council, containment.

I stand near the door, pretending to guard it. In truth, I’m listening. Not to them—to her.

The house is alive with Mira’s magic. It’s everywhere, bleeding through the wards, brushing against every surface like a restless animal testing the bars of its cage.

I can feel it—heat without flame, the scent of ozone in the air.

She hasn’t said a word since we carried Kael in.

She just sits on the floor outside the suite, back against the wall, head tilted like she’s listening to something far away. Her hair sticks to her cheeks, damp with sweat, and her Consort ring glows faintly—pulse for pulse with something that isn’t heart rate.

Every so often, the lights dim and surge again, and I know it’s her.

The others keep whispering about what to do, who to call, whether to bring the Firebrand elders into this. Naomi wants to. Kess doesn’t. Aevryn’s worried the Court will see this as weakness. Althaea wants to focus on Kael.

But all I can think is: the fire’s thinking for her now.

The air itself feels like it’s waiting for her next thought.

And I’ve seen what happens when Mira stops holding it back.

The silence shatters with a sound halfway between a gasp and a scream.

Every head turns at once.

Kael’s eyes are open—wild, unfocused, sweat slicking her hair to her temples.

Naomi is already there, pressing a hand to her shoulder; I’m beside her before I can think. The heat rolling off her skin could sear paper.

“Easy,” I murmur, bracing her back as she tries to sit. “You’re safe. You’re in Starveil.”

She doesn’t hear me. Her gaze skates past, pupils blown wide.

“Bree…” Her voice is raw, shredded. “Trap… bookstore…”

Each word costs her breath.

“Shroud… everywhere…”

A cough shakes her—blood at the edge of her teeth.

“Cassie—gone.”

The room goes still.

Even the manor’s wards stop humming, as if listening.

Naomi’s hand finds mine; her claws dig just enough to ground herself.

Kess swears under her breath. Aevryn closes her eyes, whispering something that sounds like a prayer or a curse.

And Mira—

Mira doesn’t move.

She’s still on the floor in the hallway, knees drawn up, eyes glass-clear.

For one heartbeat she’s a statue.

Then she blinks, slow, deliberate.

The faint glow of the Consort ring flares from ember to white.

I feel the change before I see it.

Temperature rising.

Air thinning.

Every candle in the corridor gutters sideways.

Naomi inhales sharply. “Rori—”

“I’ve got her,” I lie.

Because nobody does.

The floorboards vibrate under our feet, heat crawling up through the grain. The smell of ozone thickens, sharp and metallic. The air ripples—like the world itself is holding its breath.

Kael slumps back, unconscious again.

And in the doorway, Mira finally stands.

I crouch beside her, close enough to feel the heat bleeding through her clothes.

She’s shaking—but not from cold.

“Mira.” My voice comes out low, the way you’d speak to a wild thing. “We’ll find her. Just breathe.”

Her eyes flick toward me, unfocused. “I am breathing.”

The words ghost out on a curl of steam.

The temperature climbs again. Floorboards creak under us; tiny motes of light spark along the seams. The air tastes like metal and rain.

If she keeps this up, the whole manor’s going to ignite.

I reach out before I can think better of it and grab her wrist.

Pain hits first—sharp, searing. The glamour peels away beneath my fingers like paper catching flame.

Golden runes flare up her veins, sliding beneath the skin, pulsing with each heartbeat.

Light trapped in flesh. Divine light.

She looks at me then—really looks—and the calm in her face is worse than any rage I’ve ever seen.

“She’s already halfway to the Cinder...” I don't even finish that thought, heart hammering, “and she doesn’t even know it.”

“Where is Bree Halden?” she asks.

Not yells. Asks.

Each syllable too even, too precise.

I open my mouth—some reflex, some half-formed plea to slow down—but the sound that leaves her next isn’t speech.

It’s the Veil itself, exhaling through her lungs.

Every door in the corridor slams open at once. Curtains snap. Lamps burst with a soft pop, scattering sparks across the walls.

A wave of cold air rushes through, chasing the heat like a tide.

By the time I blink, she’s gone.

Only the echo of her power lingers—ozone and wildfire—and the faint scorch of her handprint seared into my skin.

~~~~~~~Mira~~~~~~~~~~~

The tires scream as they hit the ice.

I don’t slow down.

The city blurs by in streaks of white and red—snow falling sideways in the updraft of my speed. Streetlamps hiss when I pass, glass trembling in their casings.

Bare hands on the wheel. No gloves. The leather is hot enough to smoke.

The air inside the car smells like ozone and burnt sugar.

Every exhale fogs the windshield, every blink scatters light. The hum of the engine syncs to my pulse until it’s hard to tell which one is driving which.

The ring on my finger burns.

It thrums in time with a heartbeat that isn’t mine.

I should have brought my coat. I should have called the Court.

I should have done a thousand reasonable things.

But she’s gone.

And I can’t think past that.

The glamour keeps slipping—weakening every time I blink. The mirrors in passing shopfronts don’t show green eyes anymore. They show starlit brown, shot through with silver flame. Every reflection burns brighter than the last.

Pedestrians turn their heads too late to see me. The world pulls aside for me now, like even reality knows better than to stand in my way.

She took my world.

The thought comes quiet, clean, absolute.

I’ll take hers.

A stoplight ahead turns red. The glass bursts before I reach it.

Somewhere beneath the fury, my fire murmurs approval—soft, eager.

Snowflakes hit the hood of the car and vanish instantly, vaporized in the heat bleeding through the metal.

I tighten my grip on the wheel, the leather hissing under my palms.

Almost there.

Bree Halden’s townhouse sits three blocks ahead, lights still on, curtains drawn. The world narrows to that point of focus and the pulse of flame in my chest that’s no longer entirely mine.

The gate gives with a soft, unhappy groan—metal protesting, not collapsing. Snow whistles through the bars and hisses away when it meets the heat that clings to me like a second skin.

Bree opens the door before I knock. Her face is paper-thin, lips the color of old milk. She’s felt the heat before the knock; everyone does, now, or they learn the hard way.

She sways on the threshold, hands white around the doorframe. “Mira—” Her voice stutters and scrapes. The glamour’s gone; so is her composure.

I step inside without asking. The foyer smells like disinfectant and citrus oil, like people who practice civility for a living. The temperature climbs the instant my boots cross the mat. Frost shivers on the floorboards and flares off my shadow.

Bree tries to back away and her heel slips on the warming wood. Fear makes her small.

“You only rose this high because I let you,” I say, soft enough that the words might be mistaken for counsel if you didn’t know the way a thing can cut. My voice is the voice you say last things in.

She swallows. “I—I didn’t—”

“You climbed on the bones of others,” I continue, calm and cold. “You took what other girls had and wore it like a prize. I’m watching now.”

Her breath fogs in front of me, oddly visible in the heat, like a little plume of white begging to be stamped out. I lean in. Close enough to see the way her pupils try to shrink to nothing. Close enough to see the faint tremor in her hands that isn’t from cold.

“You’ll tell me how you contact the Shroud,” I say, and I keep my tone level, the way you’d read a list of names to the executioner. “You’ll tell me where they took my wife. And then you’ll pray to whatever god will listen.”

She splutters. “Why—why should I believe—”

“Because they may be the only ones who can save you from me.” The words land like a verdict.

For a second she looks almost human with the relief of it—thinking she has a way out, some god who might answer. I almost pity her for the hope. Then the shape of her face crumples; the voice she gives me is all jagged, all edges.

“They—there’s a contact. Name’s Garro. Warehouse—north industrial, docks three, a back entrance, code—”

She pours it out, breath and fear and the sound of someone trying to manage how much of themselves they sell.

When she finishes, the heat that’s been a steady pressure under my skin eases a fraction. I step back. The light over my hand gutters and then steadies; the glow from my ring pulses once, slow and deliberate.

“You better hope I find her alive and well,” I tell her. My voice is the quiet before a storm, the kind that makes dogs howl. “Otherwise I’ll burn down Dominveil—and you first.”

She gags on a sound that might be a prayer or a sob. The foyer looks suddenly very small to her. The snow at the threshold smolders and dies away where my footprints have been, a thin ring of steam rising like a promise.

I turn without giving her the relief of watching me go. The world narrows back to the road, to a pulse beneath my ribs that is equal parts hunger and command. I breathe once, long and measured—counting down like a fuse.

Outside, the night is patient. Inside, something that used to be me is very close to answering in kind.

The cold hits harder once I’m outside.

Snow doesn’t fall here—it evaporates. Steam curls off the ground where my boots land, fading into the air like smoke too tired to rise.

I reach the car, hand closing around the door handle, but headlights flare across the street before I can climb in.

Rori’s SUV.

She doesn’t even bother to park properly—tires grind against the curb, engine still running.

The doors open almost at once. Rori, Kess, Naomi, Kael—bandaged but upright—Althaea, Aevryn. All of them. My people. My family.

Naomi’s eyes meet mine first, her breath fogging in the air. “You really thought you were going without us?”

Rori steps closer, still rubbing the faint burn my touch left on her wrist. “You find her, we find her. That’s the rule.”

Kael leans against the SUV door for balance, face pale but jaw set. “I’m not sitting out the fight I started.”

The heat building inside me shifts—less wildfire, more focus. For the first time since Kael gasped Cassie—gone, I can breathe without burning.

I nod once. No speeches. No orders. Just motion.

“We move now,” I say. “Every second she’s down there, they take more.”

Kess grins, a flash of teeth. “Then let’s go steal her back.”

We move like a single heartbeat—doors slamming, engines turning, the sound of fate catching up.

Snow turns to vapor in the wake of our wheels.

Streetlights flare brighter, one by one, bowing to the storm we’re becoming.

If the Shroud wanted a message, they have one now.

We’re coming.