No one slept.
The brazier burned low, painting the walls in shifting bronze. Outside, the Hollow's bells tolled once for every ranger carried to the crevices: twenty-three slow, hollow notes that drifted through the stone like ghosts.
Inside the little chamber the three of them sat in a loose triangle on the wider of the two cots, close enough that knees brushed, shoulders touched, breath mingled.
They had washed the blood off hours ago. Someone had brought clean clothes: soft grey wool for Lira, black linen for Kazeal, deep violet for Seraphin. The fabric smelled of cedar and hot springs. It felt like borrowed skin.
Lira's voice, when it finally came, was raw.
"I keep thinking about the boy with the missing leg. He couldn't have been more than sixteen."
Seraphin's fingers tightened around her own knee. "He was nineteen. Name was Laerion. Liked terrible poetry and sweet cakes. I owe him a drink in whatever hall he's in now."
Kazeal said nothing. His gaze was fixed on the dying coals as if answers might crawl out of them.
Silence stretched again, thick and aching.
Eventually Seraphin stood, restless. She paced the small space twice, then stopped in front of Lira. "Dance with me," she said suddenly.
Lira blinked. "There's no music."
"There's always music if you listen." Seraphin held out both hands. "Come on. Your body's still shaking from the fire. Let it move instead of burn."
Lira hesitated, then let herself be pulled to her feet. Seraphin settled one hand at the small of her back, the other clasping Lira's fingers. Kazeal watched from the cot, expression unreadable.
Seraphin began to hum: low, minor, an old elven mourning song that somehow still managed to sway. They moved in a slow circle, barely more than shifting weight. Seraphin's body was warm and sure against hers; the scent of night-blooming flowers clung to her hair.
Halfway through the second turn, Seraphin's cheek brushed Lira's temple. The humming stopped.
"Better?" she whispered.
Lira's answer was to lean in until their foreheads touched. She felt Seraphin's breath catch.
Behind them, Kazeal rose. He didn't speak, only stepped close until Lira was bracketed between them: Seraphin at her front, Kazeal at her back. His hands settled lightly on her hips; Seraphin's arms slid around her waist.
No one kissed. They simply held her, two pillars keeping the sky from falling.
Time lost meaning. Minutes or hours: the brazier hissed, the bells outside finally fell silent, and still they stood wrapped together, breathing each heartbeat saying stay, stay, stay.
Eventually Seraphin's lips found the shell of Lira's ear.
"If tomorrow asks for one of us," she murmured, "let it be me. I've had my centuries. You haven't had nearly enough days."
Kazeal's arms tightened, a silent, fierce denial.
Lira turned in the circle of them until she faced Kazeal. She reached up and touched the hollow beneath his eye where exhaustion had painted faint bruises.
"No one is paying that price tomorrow," she said. The words tasted like iron, but she forced them out anyway. "We're going to cheat. All three of us."
A shaky laugh escaped Seraphin. "Bold words, little ember."
"I mean it." Lira looked from one to the other. "I'm not losing either of you. Not to prophecy, not to Malthor, not to my own stupid fire."
Kazeal's hand rose to cup her cheek. His thumb traced her lower lip, slow, wondering, as if memorising the shape of it.
"Then we burn the prophecy instead," he said quietly.
Seraphin's arms tightened around Lira's waist from behind. "Together," she echoed, the word a vow this time.
The air shifted, charged, inevitable.
Lira felt the moment tilt. She rose on her toes and brushed her mouth against Kazeal's: barely a kiss, more a question. He answered by closing the distance, soft, careful, tasting of smoke and salt. When they parted, Seraphin turned Lira's face gently with two fingers under her chin and kissed her too: slower, teasing, a promise of teeth.
Neither kiss went further. Not yet. But the room felt suddenly too small for three heartbeats racing in unison.
They sank back onto the cot together, a tangle of limbs and shared blankets. No one undressed beyond kicking off boots. Clothes stayed on like fragile armour against tomorrow.
Kazeal lay on his back. Lira curled against his side, head on his chest. Seraphin spooned behind her, one arm draped over Lira's waist, fingers laced with Kazeal's across Lira's ribs.
Outside, the Hollow slept uneasily.
Inside, three bodies shared warmth and breath and the fierce, wordless agreement that dawn could come and try to take them: it would have a fight on its hands.
Lira listened to Kazeal's heartbeat under her ear and Seraphin's softer one against her spine, and for the first time since Emberhollow she did not dream of fire.
She dreamed of silver trees and violet eyes and a future none of the prophecies had foreseen.