The SUVs purr to a stop in Emberhall’s courtyard, engines cutting in eerie unison. Guards are already moving, formation crisp as clockwork—doors opened, heads bowed, voices low. No gawkers. No buzzing phones. Just the steady murmur of ritual.

“Your Highnesses.”

The words ripple through the air, reverent and precise, never lingering. Not staring. Not grasping. Just… acknowledging.

My shoes crunch on the gravel, and I swear the sound echoes too loud after a day of tile floors and human chatter. I tug the seam of my sleeve until the threads bite skin. “I feel like I’ve spent all day in a zoo exhibit,” I mutter, ribs pulling with the words.

Cassie slips out beside me, her laugh merciless and citrus-bright. “That’s because you were the main attraction, Firefly. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice the marshmallow fan club.”

Heat flares hot under my skin, and for one reckless heartbeat I almost push the marshmallow sweetness brighter, flood the courtyard with it just to spite her. But then the Emberhall doors swing wide.

The wards hum awake as we cross the threshold—threads of Summer-gold and Night-silver braiding overhead, sealing tight behind us. Private. Safe.

And the second they lock, I let go.

I shift.

It floods me like breath after drowning—skin prickling, bones lengthening, fire kindling in my hair. My rounded human ears sharpen to points, teeth lengthening into fangs. Starlit eyes flare gold and silver, catching the sconces. Magic surges, ribs knitting faster now that I’m not caged.

Every sense sharpens: lavender polish clinging to waxed marble, old stone humming with ward-heat, the faint pulse of magic threading through the air like a second heartbeat. For the first time since dawn, I’m not compressed into a human shell. For the first time all day, I’m myself.

Roran and Kael flank us through the grand hall, boots echoing against stone. Guards stationed along the walls incline their heads, voices steady as liturgy. “Your Highnesses.” Their loyalty is a rhythm, not a demand.

And at the far end of the hall—where I’ve braced all my life for theater, for spectacle—Mom waits.

Not sweeping in. Not flanked by courtiers.

Already there.

Her cloak lies unfastened, slipping from one shoulder. No crown. No entourage. For the first time in saints-know-how-long, she doesn’t look like the High Lady of the Summer Court. She looks… present.

When she rises, it isn’t staged. No slow, dramatic reveal. Just a fluid motion, immediate and alive. Her smile cuts sharp as ever, but—gods—it’s genuine.

“Welcome home,” she says. Her voice is warmer than I’m ready for. “Tell me, how was your first day back?”

I freeze.

Every instinct screams trap. This is where the interrogation begins—grades, optics, posture, whether I wasted smiles or sharpened them. My three-beat tap starts up against my thigh, too fast, frantic.

Cassie’s hand finds my back, steady as an anchor.

But Mom’s words aren’t about politics.

She didn’t ask what I did. She asked how it was.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

The silence drags, one beat too long. My ribs grind with each inhale, sharp and mean, like they’re reminding me they’re still cracked even if my magic is already knitting them faster now that I’m shifted. Every breath tastes of lavender oil burned in the sconces, beeswax polish on the floor, the faint metallic tang of the wards humming overhead. My sleeve seam is twisted so tight between my fingers I could shred it if I pull harder. Tap-tap-tap in my head, against bone, against thought.

Cassie’s hand presses steady between my shoulder blades, warm through the fabric. A tether. A dare.

“Fine,” I say finally. My voice comes out too sharp, too brittle. I shrug one shoulder, try to bury the wobble. “Day was… fine.”

It’s weak. Empty. Every teenager’s dodge to every parent’s too-big question.

And to my utter shock—Mom laughs.

Not the razor laugh she uses in council chambers. Not the cutting scoff I’ve been braced for since I walked in. A laugh that’s low and rich, curling warm through the hall like the stone itself is remembering how to hold heat. Her molten eyes soften, the edge of their usual blaze banked.

“After all the years of tutors, drills, lessons in poise…” She tilts her head, cloak slipping further off one shoulder. “I ask you a question, and you answer me like any other mortal girl. Just… ‘fine.’”

My throat goes dry. My fingers twitch once, twice against my cuff. “Well,” I mutter, “I am seventeen.”

Cassie smothers her grin behind her hand, but her citrus-bright scent betrays her—snapping sharp and victorious. Saints, she’s loving this.

Mom’s smile sharpens but doesn’t fade. She steps forward—not gliding like theater, just… stepping. For once her presence doesn’t crash into the room like a sword drawn. It simply fills it. Like a mother’s shadow should.

“And what, exactly, was so fine about it?”

My pulse skips. My three-beat tap picks up against my thigh. Tap—tap—tap. I twist my cuff tighter, the fabric biting into my fingertips. “Classes. Teachers. Lunch. Locker. Same as anyone else.” My voice tilts defensive, barbed at the edges. “Nothing worth reporting.”

Her gaze lingers. Molten. Heavy. I brace for the crack of interrogation, the ledger of every smile or stumble I’ve made since stepping into Ravenrest. Instead, she chuckles. A softer one, almost private.

“You really are a teenage daughter.”

Heat prickles across my cheeks, hot enough I wish I could hide behind glamour again. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Cassie loses it. Her snort ricochets off the marble. “She’s got you there.”

For a heartbeat—just one—it feels… normal. Like something fragile is trying to take root in the cracks between us.

Then the weight shifts.

Mom’s eyes harden, gold molten again, cutting across the space like a drawn blade. They don’t land on me this time. They land on my shadows.

“Report,” she says, voice sheathed in command.

Roran doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks to me first. Steady. Waiting. A question without words: your call. My heart jolts hard enough to jar my ribs. He’s loyal. Loyal to me.

I nod, just once, the tiniest tilt of my chin. Permission.

Roran bows his head a fraction, his voice measured. “The day was orderly. Teachers curious but respectful. Students… enthusiastic.” The diplomatic kind of word that means chaos but not danger. He doesn’t mention the History class. Doesn’t mention the flare of fire under my skin when control slipped.

Then Mom’s eyes slide to Kael.

Kael hesitates. A fraction. But I feel it.

Her stance is rigid, her tone careful when it comes. “There was attention, of course. Some disruption in the hallways. A few… spirited exchanges.” Her eyes flick once, deliberately, to me. Then back to Seara. “But nothing that compromised their safety.”

Not a lie. Not the whole truth, either. Balanced. Precise.

I feel the hair rise on my arms, every sense sharper in Fae skin. My chest pulls tight, not from pain this time.

This isn’t my test.

It’s theirs.

Every flicker of their eyes, every deliberate omission slots into place like runes on a page only I can read. The map is right there, glowing.

Cassie’s fingers slip against mine, hidden by the folds of my skirt. A squeeze. Quiet. Her blue eyes catch mine, steady, telling me she sees it too. That she knows.

And saints, I don’t know whether to breathe easier… or to burn hotter.

The silence after Kael’s words stretches, taut as a bowstring. My pulse drums hard against cracked ribs. Every instinct braces for the lecture, the sharp-edged critique, the ledger of failures my mother keeps tucked between her smiles.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead—she steps forward.

Not with ceremony, not with the slow glide meant to dominate a room. Just… forward.

And before I can flinch, before I can square my shoulders or find a mask, she pulls me into her arms.

The air leaves me in a startled rush. My ribs shriek under the pressure, pain lancing sharp and bright. But beneath it, something else breaks open—something I didn’t know was still caged. Her cloak smells of sun-warmed stone and smoke, familiar and terrifying all at once. The thrum of the wards vibrates through my skin; her heartbeat pounds steady against mine. I can’t remember the last time she held me like this. Maybe never.

“Six o’clock sharp,” she murmurs into my hair. Her voice is lower than I remember, almost gentle. “Family dinner. Every night. Court business can wait. You come first.”

My sleeve seam twists between my fingers, frantic and desperate, but the sound doesn’t leave my throat. Because saints, I don’t know what to do with this. With her. With the part of me that still aches to believe it.

She pulls back just enough to look at me, molten gaze still softened. “Before then, healers. Let them set you right faster. And if you can, get your homework finished.” Her mouth tilts, half-amused, half-command. “I’d prefer you not stumble into dinner half-distracted.”

The words don’t sting. They land almost… normal. Mundane. Like she’s asking me to set the table instead of juggle the court.

Cassie’s hand hovers at my elbow, steady but tense. Protective. But when she sees the crack in my chest—because she always sees—her sharpness softens. Just a little.

I can’t speak. Not properly. My ribs ache, my throat aches worse, but I nod. It’s all I can give.

And then it’s gone.

She releases me, cloak swinging back into place, shoulders squaring. With one last nod, she turns and sweeps down the corridor, already cloaked again in queenly purpose, molten presence trailing behind her like firelight.

The guards bow and disperse to their posts. The hall quiets, just Cassie and me left in the echo. My ears ring with it. My starlit eyes pick out every detail—the gleam of wax on the floor, the faint lavender oil clinging to the sconces—but none of it grounds me the way her hand does, curling through mine.

“She’s trying,” I mutter, voice rougher than I mean it to be.

Cassie leans in, her warmth bleeding into me until the ache eases, just enough. “So are you.”

My sleeve seam is frayed, threads caught under my nails. “…Six o’clock. Don’t let me be late.”

She kisses my temple, gentle as a vow. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The wards hum overhead. My ribs still throb, my head is spinning, but for the first time in years, Emberhall feels less like a cage.

More like home.