The Solar breathes heat and sandalwood, just as it always has before a reckoning.

Gold veins web through the marble at my feet, pulsing faintly with the hall’s wards. The banners of Summer sway in the thermal drift, their silks whispering flame in a language only I still remember. The nobles ring the chamber like a half-bloomed crown—too perfumed, too loud, waiting for blood.

Rumor has already done half my work: they know about Moonwell, about prophecy, about my daughter. And as always, they’re pretending not to care while craning their jeweled necks to listen harder.

I rest my fingers against the flameglass of my staff. The Veillight hums through it, low and steady, matching the thrum beneath my ribs. She’s late, of course. My little lightning bug was born a few minutes behind the dawn and never once caught up to it.

The Seneschal leans toward me, voice trembling under protocol. “Your Radiance, they—”

“—will arrive,” I say, without looking at him, “at the exact moment they mean to.”

He blinks, uncertain whether I’m comforted or threatening him. I don’t clarify.

The air changes before the doors open—heat bending, expectation thickening. Then the great obsidian hinges groan, and the Seneschal, poor creature, straightens his spine like a man facing execution.

His voice booms, ceremonial and too slow for the inevitable scandal:

“Her Majesty Mira Quinveil Firebrand, Queen of the Small Folk; Her Highness Princess of the Eternal Summer Court; Duchess of Starveil.

Her Highness Princess Cassandra Firebrand, Consort of the Summer Court.”

The names hit the air like thunderclaps—beautiful, impossible—and then the whispers begin.

They walk through the open doors not as supplicants but as the storm that follows one.

Mira first, all molten hair and impossible calm, her Ravenrest uniform tailored to insult the court without breaking a single rule. Cassie beside her, poised and cool, the human girl who learned how to wear a title like armor.

Ah, I think, so that’s how you’ve chosen to make your entrance.

The nobles gasp as one. Human fabric, someone hisses. Mortal garb in the Solar!

They forget that scandal burns brightest when you hand it oxygen. I press two fingers against my mouth to hide the curl of a smile. The child learned from me, after all. If they speak your name in outrage, they’re already saying it too often.

Mira’s gait betrays nothing, but I see it—the micro-precision in her steps, the way her fingers twitch once before she folds them behind her back. Counting, always counting. She’s grounding herself against the glare, the sound, the hundred eyes that see too much. My poor, brilliant lightning bug, all flame and calculation in a world that insists she be both.

And Cassie—Cassandra now, by title and bond—moves closer without even seeming to. Her hand grazes Mira’s wrist, no more than a heartbeat of contact. But the spark between them steadies. Mira’s breath evens. Her shoulders loosen by the smallest margin.

The court sees nothing.

I see everything.

That is why I will always tolerate the mortal girl. No—cherish her, if I’m being honest. She catches things even I miss sometimes.

“Her Majesty of Starveil,” I say, letting warmth gild the reprimand, “arrives late to her first official session of the Solar.”

Mira halts halfway up the dais—posture perfect, defiance polished into grace—and bows just enough to acknowledge my station without surrendering her own.

“Apologies, Your Radiance,” she says, voice clear and even, every word crafted to pass a truth-spell. “I was fulfilling my court-appointed duties—attending instruction as required by the education decree. The Solar decreed completion of my mortal schooling, and I obeyed. I may have… underestimated the time it takes to transition between realms.”

Cassandra, standing half a breath behind her, adds with the same devastating sweetness that makes nobles twitch,

“We thought it wiser to come as we were than arrive later changing.”

Technically true. Painfully, brilliantly true.

A ripple passes through the chamber—half outrage, half reluctant admiration. Even Selene hides a smirk behind her hand. My own mouth wants to betray me, but I keep the smile small and sharp.

My daughter will never master diplomacy, I think, but she has learned the art of truth that wounds softer than lies.

I rise fully now, the hem of my gown whispering across the marble. The flameglass of my staff touches stone; the sound rings like a chime through water.

“Let the Solar come to order,” I declare. The words are commandment. Veillight climbs the pillars and steadies into disciplined gold.

The Seneschal, pale and dutiful, begins the invocation.

“By the Flame of Summer and the Oath of Truth, let this Solar convene on the Fourteenth of Infernalight 20232 Veil Era.”

The chamber stands as one. Even those who were mid-whisper bow their heads as the wards flare briefly across the ceiling—a thousand threads of heat knitting into harmony.

I incline my head toward the two young royals before me. “Her Majesty of Starveil, Her Highness of Eternal Summer—take your seats.”

They glance about, perhaps expecting seats among the dukes, but the Seneschal gestures upward. Their places are here, on the dais itself—Mira to my left, Selene to my right, and Cassie seated between them, all three positioned slightly below and before me. Mira and Selene stand as equals in rank until I name an heir—equal in blood, in burden, and in the fire that binds us. Cassie is mine by decree, though not by blood-right, and holds no claim to the throne.

Mira hesitates only a heartbeat before ascending. Cassie follows, every inch the poised mortal who has learned to walk among gods. When they settle, the chamber breathes again, the heat smoothing to calm.

I let my gaze linger on them both—my flame and her anchor—and feel the old ache of pride beneath the armor of command.

Let them see the fire they made, I think, and strike my staff once more to seal the session.

The invocation concludes, the Veillight sinking back into a steady golden glow. For a heartbeat, the chamber is utterly still—an entire kingdom waiting to be told what comes next.

I rise—not abruptly, but with the inevitability of sunrise. The rustle of silk and metal across marble is enough to still the last stray murmur.

“My daughter,” I begin, and the words alone are a strike of thunder. Not the Duchess, not the Queen of the Small Folk—my daughter.

I let the echo fade before continuing. “Was attacked while visiting her own duchy.”

The air sharpens; a few nobles glance toward Mira, but I do not. My gaze stays forward, on the horizon of power that keeps them all in orbit.

“Let me be plain,” I say, voice even but edged in flame. “Any assault upon a royal of this court, any whisper of internal collusion, will be treated as treason. Should I learn that any seated here aided or concealed the hand behind this, your titles will burn before your names.”

The last word falls like a blade.

Heat flares in the glass veins beneath the floor—reflexive, answering me. I don’t need to raise my magic; it rises of its own accord, threading the air with faint gold shimmer.

No one breathes. Even the wardlights dim, the hall painted in molten shadow.

I taste iron and citrus on the air—Mira’s scent, barely restrained. Cassie’s hand rests on the table beside her, fingertips grazing Mira’s sleeve, a silent tether. The girl’s pulse is steady, unflinching. She anchors my flame as surely as she anchors hers.

Good. Let them see that too. Let them see that my bloodline breeds strength in more than one form.

Selene’s eyes catch mine across the dais—steel and sunlight, her approval quiet but unmistakable. Well done, they seem to say. Now they remember who rules this court.

I lower my staff. The light steadies. The tension cools but does not vanish; it lingers in the air like the aftertaste of lightning.

“Now,” I say, allowing warmth to seep back into the words, “we proceed to business.”

The Seneschal exhales—audibly—and fumbles his ledger open, grateful to retreat into procedure.

At my nod, he raises his staff. “Summon the Shield Warden.”

His words carry through the chamber like the toll of a bell, striking against marble and memory both.

“Captain and Lord Roran Ashvane,” he continues, voice ringing with the practiced cadence of ritual, “Shield Warden to Her Majesty the Queen of the Small Folk, reporting on the Moonwell Incident.”

The great doors part once more.

Roran enters in full field attire—his armor still bearing faint scorch marks, the blue of Starveil dulled by battle and travel. The nobles shift, some curious, some wary. He moves with the calm of a man who has seen more storms than he’s spoken of, and survived all of them.

Each step lands deliberate, echoing like a verdict. He stops at the center of the circle and bows with perfect precision—deference, not subservience.

“Your Radiance,” he says, voice low but clear, “Your Majesties.”

Mira straightens at the acknowledgment. Cassie’s knee nudges lightly against hers beneath the table—a grounding gesture I doubt most noticed. But I do. Of course I do.

That small, human tether steadies her faster than any spell. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t beg to be seen, only to be believed.

I file the moment away with a flicker of warmth I refuse to show. Cassie Firebrand might never hold royal blood, but she understands royal hearts better than most born to it.

“Proceed, Lord Ashvane,” I tell him, my voice cutting through the golden quiet. “Tell the Solar what transpired in Moonwell.”

He inclines his head once, shifting his weight as the court’s scribe readies quill and sigil-ink.

And then he begins.

Roran’s voice carried the tempered cadence of the battlefield, shaped into ceremony.

“At dawn,” he began, “Her Majesty’s convoy reached Moonwell for inspection.”

Every noble leaned forward, drawn to the precision in his tone.

“Ambush initiated by Veil-corrupted clergy within the sanctum perimeter. Primary field coordination: Lady Althaea Drennath, acting in defense of Their Majesties; Captains Kael Veyra and myself commanding the guard; Lord Aevryn Sylvaris assisting with glyph reinforcement. Her Majesty maintained field command integrity and prevented civilian loss. Enemy forces exhibited Veil corruption consistent with prior Shroud manifestations.”

A cough from the far benches dared to interrupt.

I raised a single hand. The sound withered before it reached air.

“Continue,” I said.

Roran inclined his head. “Upon contact, hostiles demonstrated synchronized movement beyond mortal capacity. Defensive wards collapsed at thirty-percent integrity before counter-runic stabilization. Lady Drennath coordinated the civilian withdrawal; Captain Veyra advanced to intercept; Lord Sylvaris enacted containment lattice.”

He drew one breath, his gaze flicking briefly toward Mira—not for permission, but recognition.

“Her Majesty engaged directly. Fire control remained precise. She neutralized multiple combatants with minimal collateral damage and preserved the sanctum’s relic integrity.”

The scribe’s rune-quills flared, tracing gold script across the record tablets. Magic in the air thickened—awed, unsettled.

“Consort Princess Cassandra Firebrand performed immediate triage for wounded clergy and maintained protection at the rear line,” Roran continued. “Coordination between Their Majesties ensured no civilian casualties and stabilized the formation.”

He paused long enough for the quills to finish their glow. “Post-engagement, six enemies were captured alive. All exhibited irreversible Veil corruption and self-terminated via capsule. Each spoke the same epithet before death—‘Cinderborn.’”

The word moved through the Solar like the breath before a storm.

“Casualties among the Crown’s forces: none. Structural damage limited to minor stained-glass fracture and sigil fatigue. Moonwell’s sanctum remains intact.”

He saluted, crisp and final. “That concludes my report, Your Radiance.”

I inclined my head, letting the silence settle over polished marble.

She wielded divine fire in a sanctum and left it standing.

Gods preserve us—she’s stronger than I ever was at eighteen.

Heat shifted through the chamber, reverence and fear braided together. For once, the Solar had nothing to add.

A voice broke the hush—sharp, brittle with self-importance.

“Your Radiance,” drawled Marquis Veloran of Ambercrest, his jeweled fingers tightening around a fan meant for cooler tempers, “are we to condone such desecration? Divine fire in a holy site—surely even royal blood does not excuse sacrilege.”

The word desecration hung too long in the air. Mira went still beside Cassie, her shoulders tightening—not in guilt, but in insult.

Roran did not wait for my signal. His tone cut through the room like the edge of tempered steel.

“We condone survival, my lord. Without that flame, the temple and all within it would have fallen.”

A current of murmurs swelled and died in the same heartbeat.

I turned my gaze upon the Marquis—razor-sharp, deliberate. The faintest tilt of my chin and the wards above us flared gold, catching in his eyes.

“Objection recorded,” I said, voice quiet enough to slice. “Sit down.”

The noble folded like scorched parchment, sinking into his seat with the dignity of a man who had just remembered the temperature of the court he sat in.

I let the silence breathe after, the kind that reminds them all who holds the flame here.

Desecration, indeed. My daughter carries the blood of gods—if her fire seeks a temple, perhaps it is only because the divine recognizes its own reflection.

The thought burned too warmly to show.

Selene leaned forward slightly, lips curving in the faintest, fiercest smile. Across the dais, Cassie’s hand drifted toward Mira’s again, a wordless reassurance that steadied the light trembling at the girl’s wrist.

They both thought I didn’t notice.

Of course I did.

Roran cleared his throat, sensing the chamber’s breathless hush. “That concludes my report, Your Radiance.”

He bowed, precise as ever, and stepped back into the pool of light at the center of the Solar.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was pressure—hot, waiting, full of the questions no one dared to speak aloud.

I let it stretch. Let them all sit in it. The nobles shifted like restless leaves, their silks whispering, their jewels heavy with sweat. Even Selene stayed still, knowing the weight of this pause was deliberate.

When I finally rose, the gold veins in the marble flared to life beneath my feet. “The record will stand as given,” I said. “The matter of prophecy will be held in closed review. Until that time, none here will utter the word again beyond these walls.”

A dozen heads bowed. Fear—useful, respectful—settled over them like incense.

My gaze returned to my daughter. She met it, steady as sunrise, Cassie’s fingers still resting against her sleeve. Neither flinched from the weight of the hall.

Good. Let them see what kind of flame they tried to cage.

I turned back to the assembly. “The Solar acknowledges the Shield Warden’s service and concludes testimony. We proceed to deliberation.”

The Seneschal’s staff struck marble once. The sound rolled outward like thunder finding home.

Inside, I thought—

They can whisper prophecy all they like. She will decide what it means.