The sky outside was still ink-dark when I stirred, warmth humming low in my ribs like an ember that refused to gutter after last night. Cassie slept on—tangled in the sheets we’d stolen from dawn, mouth soft, lashes throwing small shadows across her cheek. Once upon a hallway glare I counted the ways I could cut her; now I count the ways to keep that mouth soft. There’s no tidy language for that pivot. It tastes like lightning on the back of the tongue.

I eased out of her arms with the kind of stealth only a Firebrand gets born knowing. She sighed, burrowed deeper. My ring brushed her knuckles; the tether gave a private little hum and settled. One of my shirts slouched over the chair; I dragged it on, cotton cool against bare skin, and padded for the door.

A soft stir behind me. Nails clicked—too light to be anything but small paws. I turned in time to catch a white blur scrambling off the rug, ears too big for his head, paws still deciding who’s in charge.

“Stay,” I whispered, finger to lips.

Glacier-blue eyes blinked up at me. One determined wag.

Of course you won’t. Huskies negotiate with rules; they don’t obey them.

He fell in at my heel, silent on warm stone, a slip of winter moving like shadow through Summer heat. The pocket of the world that is Emberhall held its own hush—old wards purring low, air warmed from the bones outward, silence like velvet that remembered every footstep and decided which ones to keep.

I crouched to ruffle velvet-soft ears. “Fine,” I murmured. “You can come… Ghost.” The name fit: a hush of frost in a house that glows. He yipped once—victory kept politely small—and matched my pace as we slid into the hall.

Lanterns were banked low; their ember-hearts watched from cage-dark sconces. Leaded panes held only moon-ink and the faint shimmer of the wards beyond, as if distant heat lightning lived behind the glass. Along the gallery, gilt frames watched—ancestors oil-bright and blade-calm—heads turned a fraction as we passed. People call this place opulent; they don’t hear the iron in the timbers or the oath in the stone. Emberhall loves its own and tests the rest.

I kept my steps quiet and my thoughts quieter. If I think too hard, I remember debate stages and bared teeth and the way I once catalogued Cassandra Fairborn’s weaknesses like a study guide. I lost interest in winning when she offered me truth. I lost interest in hating the minute she slid a ring onto my hand and every court with an opinion held its breath. I don’t know how to be the girl who wanted to ruin her and the woman who wants to make her breakfast.

So: don’t think. Do. Proof in butter and heat.

By the time Ghost and I nosed into the kitchens, morning hadn’t found the high windows. A handful of night-staff clattered softly, steam lifting in sleepy banners.

“Out,” I said, leaning in the doorway with a grin more princess than decree. “I’ve got this. Go steal an hour before the light remembers us.”

Protests, obviously. I shooed them anyway—soft palms, softer voice. “Truly. Scold me later. Consider it a royal kindness.” A wink; sealed. They yielded like tide pulling from shore, one of them setting a thimble and saucer by the vent for the Small Folk before vanishing down the back stair.

And then the kitchen breathed and became mine.

“Place,” I told Ghost, tapping the woven mat by the hearth. He sat, then sphinxed with grave importance, one paw planted on the edge like he’d arrest a runaway pastry if duty called. Tail-tip swept slow approval. “Guard the hearth,” I added. He puffed a tiny sound that meant understood.

I tied my hair back with a ribbon abandoned on the counter. In here, Emberhall is kinder to me. Drawers slide a heartbeat before my fingers reach; copper settles where I set it, like it’s been waiting for this exact constellation since the house learned to stand. The oven’s mouth sighs hotter when I hum. Witchlight filaments under the shelves thrum once and hold, old magic threaded through modern convenience, and for once the mansion that intimidates donors and devours rumors lets me be small and human and sure.

I roll my sleeves. Flour. Heat. Honey. I don’t have clean words yet for a world where the girl who used to cut me with her smile wears my ring and sleeps in my bed. But I can give her six kinds of warm. I can pour love into a pan until it browns at the edges and makes this dark house smell like home.

Eggs cracked into bowls, whisked until they went sunset-gold. Vegetables roasted until their edges charred sweet. Honeyed pastries puffed and browned, the ovens perfuming the air with sugar and spice. A pot of porridge kept a soft heartbeat on the back flame. I crushed fruit into gloss-bright compotes. Thick-cut bread hit the griddle, butter sighing into it until the hearth answered with its own contented hum.

I moved without thinking—flowing pan to pan, the tune under my breath catching now and then on a lyric when the joy of it overran my ribs. The kitchen became a stage and I danced it clean: reach, stir, turn, plate. Emberhall’s old witchlights glowed warmer where I went; drawers slid open a breath before I reached them; flame rose, obliging, when I leaned close. Here, the house did not test me. It kept time.

The pup sprawled by the hearth, all snow and seriousness, that patient devotion only pups and fools possess. Now and then he nosed a runaway potato or the corner of a tray; I nudged him back with my foot and his tail thumped once, chastened-but-pleased. “Stand your post, Ghost,” I murmured, and he settled, chin on paws, watching like a tiny, frost-colored sentry.

Butter, cinnamon, a thread of roasting meat—love written in heat. In here I was not heir or pawn or High Lady’s disappointment. In here I was just Mira; my fire, at last, banking low and steady.

The world narrowed to the hiss of butter, the sweet-sharp curl of cinnamon in steam, the clean rhythm of my knife. Everything else fell away. Hyperfocus: the good kind, the kind that feels like prayer. A curl slipped free to brush my jaw; flour ghosted my cheek; my shirt hung crooked at one shoulder and I didn’t notice. All I knew was the cadence in my hands and the way the room moved with me like we’d practiced for years.

Ghost huffed, tail giving a lazy, approving sweep. I flicked him a toast-crumb without looking and spun back to the pans.

I didn’t see the faint shimmer warming the air around me, my magic humming low even as I kept it leashed. Didn’t notice how my scent brightened—ember-sweet, honeyed with quiet—how a laugh slipped out between verses like it had nothing to prove.

I didn’t see what it did to her, standing in the doorway.

But Cassie did. She saw all of it—and looked at me like I was something untouchable and tender at once.

Steam and color took every inch of counter: roasted vegetables glossed in herbs; eggs still whispering in their pans; porridge jeweled with sugared berries; honey-glazed pastries catching the first pale light; loaves torn open so butter could melt into gold. Six stars on a five-star scale, if I’m the one doing the rating.

I balanced a tray of plates, humming as I turned—

—and froze.

She was there. Cassie. Leaning in the threshold like a dare wrapped in moonlight, hair sleep-mussed, drowning in one of my shirts. A smile tugged at her mouth—sharp and soft all at once—and her ice-blue eyes held me the way a hand can, careful and claiming. The girl I once catalogued to ruin, looking at me like I was rare.

Heat licked up my neck before I could catch it. Gods. How long had she been there, watching me hum and turn like this kitchen knew my name?

“Cass—” The word slipped out, half breath, half plea.

And then I saw the rest.

Shadows gathered behind her.

My mother, spine a blade. Selene, composed, unreadable. And—hells—Uncle Tharion, broad shoulders filling the doorway like the hall bent to him. All three stood silent. Watching.

The tray nearly tipped. Mortification crashed hot through me. Cooking for Cassie was one thing. For my mother, my sister, my general?

I swallowed the wobble, set the tray down, reached for plates, bowls, a carving knife—anything to keep the rhythm that had been mine alone a breath ago. If they were going to stare, fine. I’d feed them all.

One by one, I plated. Steady hands, steady breath. I let the hiss of butter, the thrum of the hearth, the scrape of serving spoons speak in the language I trust: This is how I love you. This is how I belong.

In that hush—gods—in that hush, embarrassment thinned to something warmer. Not a court. A home I’ve been trying my whole life to find.

On the prep table, near the low vent, someone had already left the house-custom: a porcelain thimble and a doll’s saucer with a curl of cream. Good. Seen. Not enough. I slipped a fingertip into the honey pot, let a single drop pool on the saucer, added a sliver of warm pastry and three crystals of salt for luck and long roads. Ghost’s ears pricked; he stayed sphinx-still when I touched two knuckles to the grille and breathed, soft as smoke, “For my people.” Behind the mesh, a butter-yellow lantern winked once—acknowledged.

“Take the platters through,” Mother said, voice level but… softer at the edges. At her flick and Tharion’s flex, dishes rose on gentle Summer currents and drifted out in procession. Selene didn’t lift a hand; she never needs to. Her gaze alone kept everything level.

I followed with what I could carry. Ghost padded at my heel. Cassie trailed close enough that her shoulder brushed mine; heat curled lazy and bright in my chest.

By the time steam curled like incense into the rafters, the dining room felt altered—lighter, as if the house itself had angled its mirrors to catch us kinder.

Selene took the first chair, brows winging at the pastry towers. “Overachieving again, little sister?”

I stuck my tongue out before ladling porridge into her bowl. “Don’t pretend you’re not eating three.”

Her smirk was victory enough.

Mother settled at the head, composed as ever—but her hand lingered a fraction too long on a platter’s rim, jaw tight against the smile trying to escape. Tharion actually chuckled when Ghost thumped his boots and nearly upset a plate. “Already trained him to be a menace,” he rumbled, the rare warmth in it making me grin like an idiot.

It was Cassie I couldn’t stop watching.

Her plate became a small act of worship without my meaning it to—every color balanced, every flavor nested, the best cut of pastry slid to the easy reach of her fork. She caught me fussing, saw straight through me, and that look—sharp and soft, mine—tripped my pulse.

I set her plate and, before I could lose the nerve, lifted my chin toward my mother. “There’s a house matter,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Our wing—mine and Cassie’s. I want a room added. Small. Warded. A place to receive the Small Folk properly and tend their petitions without making a hallway a throne.”

Selene’s mouth ticked like she’d expected it. Tharion’s attention sharpened—security first, always. Mother studied me for a heartbeat, weighing court against kindness, optics against duty.

“At the bend by your conservatory,” I added, already seeing it—the low hearth, the vent-paths widened, shelves at hand-height for thimble cups and lantern oil, a bell string woven through the moulding so they can ring without climbing. “I’ll handle offerings and traffic. I’d rather set an honest door than have them risking the kitchen flues.”

A breath. Then Mother inclined her head, the smallest nod that moves mountains in Emberhall. “Draw what you need. Tamsin will meet you at noon. Wards, bell-lines, and staff protocol will be in place by week’s end.” Her gaze slid to Cassie, then back to me. “You’ll keep it discreet. But you’ll keep it.”

“Thank you,” I said—no court polish, just relief. Near the baseboard, a threadlike shadow quickened and vanished. Word travels fast when it’s welcome.

Tharion’s lip curled in something like approval. “Good. Fewer surprises in the service runs.”

Selene stole the flakiest pastry. “Two surprises,” she corrected mildly, eyes dancing between our rings. “And both of them invited.”

Ghost chose that moment to sigh theatrically and bump Cassie’s knee with his snout, fishing for tribute. Cassie hid a smile and broke him a corner of toast; he obeyed the floor like it had told the best joke he’d ever heard.

“Firefly,” she murmured, low enough for me alone. Secret name. Secret heat.

The flush crawling my throat had nothing to do with the hearth. “Eat, Firebreak,” I whispered back, sliding her plate nearer before I combusted entirely.

The chatter rose, the meal stretched long, and for once I wasn’t trying to earn my place in this house. For once, the Firebrands felt less like a court and more like a family. If my chest glowed too bright at the sight of it—at the fact that I’d made it happen—well, let it. With Cassie at my side and laughter threading the length of the table, I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Slowly, plates thinned and voices softened to the lazy clink of silver on porcelain. Even Emberhall settled, a low pleased hum under the hearth’s crackle.

Then Tharion set down his fork.

The sound was no louder than a sigh, but it cleaved the room clean. The uncle vanished; the war hero sat in his place. His gaze cut from me to Cassie and held like a command.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice like a drawn blade. “Five a.m. Both of you. Training. No excuses.”

I blinked over the rim of my tea. “Training?”

His mouth tipped—half smirk, half warning. “You think steel sharpens itself?”

My heart leapt. Heat, not embarrassment this time—anticipation, sweet and steady. I have always loved the honest language of sweat and form, the burn that quiets a noisy mind. Time with Tharion? I couldn’t help the grin. “Done,” I said. “I’ll bring breakfast. And coffee.”

Cassie groaned, forehead to palms in theatrical despair. “Five a.m.? Do you know how early that is, Firefly?”

“Not early enough,” I murmured, nudging her knee under the table until her mock-glare cracked.

She lifted her head, resigned and shining all at once. “Fine. I’ll be there. But only because someone has to keep you from burning the place down.”

“Try,” I said, and Tharion’s approving grunt made it law.

Warmth lingered, but it narrowed now—drawn to an edge waiting on the far side of dawn.

For a beat it was only candlewash on polished wood, the soft braid of voices, the contented shift of a house that—for once—wasn’t bracing for war. Selene flicked her gaze to the flour on my cheek; I scrubbed it off, laughing. Ghost sprawled at our feet, one paw on Cassie’s boot like he’d deputized her.

Seara reached for a pastry, then paused and, instead, reached for me—her thumb brushing the flour I’d missed at my jaw. Not High Lady; just my mother, the one who used to steady my headband before pageants and kiss the air beside my temple so she wouldn’t smudge my gloss.

“You cooked like this when you were little,” she murmured, barely for me. “Stool dragged to the counter. Burned sugar everywhere.” A ghost of a smile, warm and unguarded. “I missed it.”

I swallowed past the sudden ache and slid a honeyed knot onto her plate—the best one, of course. “Then have the first.”

Her fingers squeezed mine—quick, real—before she let the mask breathe back on. It was enough. More than enough.

And Cassie—my Firebreak—sat close enough that her knee pressed mine, her fingers finding me under the table like she’d tether me here if the walls remembered they were a fortress.

Peace. That was the word. Rare, impossible, golden as honey on a warm plate. For once I wasn’t Mira the heir or the half-blood mistake or the weapon my mother sometimes saw when she was tired of being a mother. I was just Mira. Daughter. Sister. Niece. Wife.

Emberhall breathed with me. Shadows eased. The walls glowed a shade warmer, as if the house—old, watchful, so often a mask—approved.

And gods, I believed—for a heartbeat—that this could last. That this could be my forever.