The Ember Academy was a towering monument of flame and fear.
Built into the jagged rise of the Ashen Mountains, its blackstone halls shimmered with heat. Lava flows lit the underwalks, casting an eerie, molten glow that gave every corridor the feeling of a forge. The walls pulsed with embedded runes, flickering with spells older than most living bloodlines.
Liora stood alone at the threshold of the main hall, her new student sigil still faintly searing into the collar of her uniform. She looked like the others: high-collared tunic, boots dusted in ash, belt etched with her name and sigil. But the illusion stopped there.
Four desks surrounded hers—front, behind, to both sides—and not one of them was occupied.
Students whispered. They looked at her as if she might combust at any moment. Eyes filled with fear. Or reverence. Or hate. She couldn't tell anymore.
Kael had still not spoken to her since the fight.
They passed in the corridors sometimes. He never looked at her. His expression was hard, distant.
Worse than hate. It was silence.
And so she stood alone, trying to drown in lessons about elemental manipulation and flame attunement, while everyone around her spoke in hushed circles. They knew what the scrolls said. They'd read the rewritten histories: that the Ashborn was destruction incarnate. The Queen's ancestors had made sure of that.
Every tome bore the same tale—Ashborn, should they ever return, would herald war. Would unmake order. A harbinger of ruin.
But the rebellion had preserved the truth.
Ashborn had once been the balance. A bridge between kingdoms. A wielder of all flame, neither governed by royalty nor driven by hunger. Their flame had connected the elements. Their death had shattered the world into fragments—ruled now by greedy, flame-hungry bloodlines.
The Queen, though thousands of years old, had never forgotten what Ashborn meant. Her descendants had destroyed the truth. Burned the records. Rewritten fate.
She had turned peace into hierarchy.
Opponents who resisted were stripped of their flame using ancient dark magic—condemned to nullhood. The powerless became servants. The powerful became fed.
And now Ashborn was back.
And she wore Liora's face.
"She's here," the Queen said, smiling faintly. "And not even the rebellion can reach her now."
The court chamber was half-light and polished marble. The Queen leaned back in her flame-woven chair, eyes flickering with something smug.
"To think—Ashborn caught before the rebels could turn her into a symbol. I might finally enjoy this war."
A courtier hesitated. "If I may, Your Majesty, you still believe she can be controlled?"
The Queen chuckled. "She is controlled. Bound to my weapon. Watched. Studied. Surrounded by fear. Let the world think she's a monster—it will keep her tame."
She lifted her glass of molten wine. "Long live the Ashborn. And her leash."
The dining hall of the Academy was vast, split into House sections, glowing chandeliers hung with crystal flame baubles. Liora entered alone, her tray heavy with food she wasn't sure she could eat.
She walked to the edge of House Solari's tables and sat down.
People stood.
Four chairs scraped backward.
She looked down at her tray. Counted a slow breath.
Then someone slid into the seat across from her.
She looked up.
A girl. Bronze-skinned, curly hair pulled into a high braid, eyes like polished amber. She grinned. Unbothered.
"Your hair's too nice for a tyrant."
Liora blinked. "Excuse me?"
The girl shrugged. "They act like you breathe fire out your nostrils. But you just look tired."
"I am tired."
"Then I'll sit here. Keep the firestorms at bay. I'm Renna."
"Liora."
"I know." Renna popped a grape into her mouth. "Everyone knows. I just figured you should hear someone say your name without whispering it like a curse."
Liora smiled. And it was real.
A week passed.
She trained. Studied. Laughed once with Renna.
Kael remained distant. Brisa sent messages. Riven remained absent.
Until he wasn't.
It was late. The moon cast silver threads through the windows. The estate was quiet, still, half-asleep.
Liora stirred from her bed, heart fluttering strangely.
The bond.
She rose, barefoot, a robe wrapped tight around her. Followed the pull.
He was in the atrium. Sitting on the wide bench before the panoramic window. The kingdom sprawled in lights below. The sky glowed soft with stars.
Riven slumped forward, elbow on his knee, chin in hand. Exhausted. Still in armor. Still carrying the war in his spine.
She hesitated.
"Didn't know you knew how to sit still," she said quietly.
No answer.
She stepped closer. "Is this where you come to pretend you're not the Queen's rabid hound?"
Still silence.
She moved beside him. "I could get used to the quiet, honestly. Peaceful. Unnatural for you."
When he didn't respond again, she sighed. "Riven. What are you—"
He moved.
Fast.
One arm shot around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. She landed straddling him, her robe parting slightly, her core pressed against the hard line of his thigh.
She gasped, fingers curling into his coat. "Riven—"
"Stay," he murmured. No compulsion. Just voice. Just him.
Her body stilled. Heat flushed across her skin.
They sat like that. His head resting against her chest. Their breathing syncing. Her pulse thudding against his temple.
She didn't know whose heartbeat was whose.
Didn't care.
He raised his head slowly. Looked up at her.
Their eyes met. Held.
She closed the distance.
Their lips touched.
Soft. Searching. A slow ache blooming in her belly.
Then hungrier.
Her tongue danced with his, tasting fire and smoke and something achingly human. She moaned, unable to stop it, grinding once against his thigh.
Heat pooled between her legs, slick and wanting.
He kissed down her neck, sucked gently at her skin.
Her fingers tangled in his hair.
Then—he stopped.
Pulled away. Breathing hard. Staring at her like he didn't recognize himself.
And walked away.
Leaving her gasping. Trembling.
Alone.