The servant quarters lay beneath the western wing of the palace, pressed like an afterthought into the obsidian foundation of Velstrae itself. It was always too hot or too cold and always smelled faintly of ash and forgotten things. Here, the flame did not sing—it groaned.
Liora's days began with blistered fingers and ended with aching shoulders. There was no glory in scrubbing soot from noble boots or preparing flame-berries for the Queen's midday indulgence. But she did it—quietly, quickly—earning the grudging approval of the older servants who had long since mastered the art of invisibility.
But Liora never quite disappeared.
She moved like smoke—there, then gone. Not by design, but because she couldn't help watching everything, absorbing it. Fire was the soul of Velstrae, and she was a soul without flame. That made her either dangerous or expendable.
Brisa, balancing a basket on one hip and her sarcasm on the other, trailed behind her as they navigated the bustling market streets.
"You keep staring at those training scrolls like you're going to marry one," Brisa said, arching a brow.
"Knowledge is dependable. Less likely to insult my lineage."
"More likely to bore you to death. But sure. Be romantic about scrolls."
Liora ducked into a spice vendor's stall, plucking a strip of willow bark with the elegance of someone who'd been doing this since infancy.
"Stealing again?" Kael's voice came from behind, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of flame-steamed bread. "You're going to end up with your fingers in a jar."
"It's not stealing," Liora said, accepting a bite of the bread he offered. "It's... borrowing with flair."
"Ah. Of course. Forgive me, Lady Flair."
Kael had a grin that made noble daughters giggle and a loyalty that could get a man killed. His hair was always slightly tousled, a mess of chestnut waves that fell over eyes gold-flecked from a flame-marking he earned in a fight he never talks about. He wasn't tall, but he stood like someone who believed he could win against anyone.
"Brisa, you're glowing today," he added.
"That's sweat, idiot."
Together, the three of them were a small rebellion against the quiet oppression of palace life. Servants weren't meant to smile. Or flirt. Or dream.
But Liora dreamed.
The outer courts of the Academia Ignis rose in carved spirals, ivory and volcanic blackstone twined together in impossible patterns that shimmered with embedded runes. Though it was an institution that burned into legends, the academy bore the cold efficiency of a war machine. Elegance, yes—but behind the curtain, this place bred flame-bearers to be soldiers, and the fire they wielded would be the only line between glory and a pyre.
But it did not welcome Nulls
Except during the Trials.
Once a cycle, the Flame's Will opened. Rarely, it chose someone unmarked. An outlier. Only with a blood ritual—one that marked the soul's resonance—could a candidate be acknowledged. Nulls never were.
Liora didn't believe she'd be chosen. Not really. But when her fingertips brushed the academy's stone on a delivery run, something deep within pulsed. Her breath caught. Her skin prickled. Something saw her.
A guard jumped.
"Did you feel that?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Maybe the wind."
But it had felt like the world inhaling.
It was during a rare delivery to the Inner Sanctum that she first saw Riven.
The Queen's right hand. War-forged. Cloaked in whispers.
He moved through the corridor like flame through dry fields. No entourage. No footsteps. Just presence.
Liora froze. Everyone did. But he didn't spare a glance.
He was the kind of beautiful that didn't comfort—it threatened. Tall, statuesque, and forged in the brutal fires of the Ember Wars, Riven was a specter wrapped in obsidian and shadow. His eyes—storm-dark with flickers of molten gold—seemed carved from the flame itself, not born from it. They burned without warmth, a contradiction Velstrae whispered about but never questioned aloud.
Riven's armor was unlike the standard flame-forged steel worn by elite guards. It was sleek, raven-black with veins of emberlight pulsing beneath the surface—rumored to be bonded to him, alive in a way steel should never be. His mantle, dyed in a red so deep it bordered on black, bore no crest. He needed none.
They said he could command fire with a breath, incinerate armies with a thought. That he'd stared down the Mad Pyre of the Eastern Wastes and didn't flinch. That his flame had once burned blue—holy, rare, and terrifying.
But what made Riven truly unsettling was his silence.
He didn't speak unless necessary, and when he did, his voice was low and iron-edged, capable of slicing through tension like a blade. Servants went still when he passed. Nobles lowered their gazes. Even the Queen's flame-hounds whimpered when he entered the war chamber.
He was the Queen's wrath incarnate. Her shadow general. Her flame without mercy.
And he had no past.
Or if he did, it was buried in ash.
Liora dared to steal a glance and, but by the time she had gathered enough courage he was gone, only the sound of crackling indication that he had been there.