The banquet had ended, but the fire it sparked refused to die.
Elara stood alone on the balcony, the wind tugging at her braid as the city twinkled below like a reflection of the stars. Behind her, the palace murmured with leftover music, laughter, and suspicion.
Ana's poisoning had changed everything.
Servants whispered. Guards tightened patrols. Nobles sent flowers wrapped in guilt. The court buzzed with theories, none daring to call names aloud.
But Elara hadn't left Ana's side all night.
Now, the girl lay pale and sweating in her chamber, her breathing was shallow.
The poison hadn't killed her.
But it had done something worse, it had been meant for Elara.
M stood in the doorway, arms folded, a torn scrap of cloth in his hand. "From the goblet," he said. "We tested it. The same toxin used by the assassins from the northern isles."
Elara's gaze didn't waver. "Who brought the wine?"
"House Vorelle's servant," M replied. "And that house answers to the Empress."
There was silence.
Then Elara spoke. "I want proof."
"You'll have it. But Elara."
She turned. "They tried to take my life. They hurt Ana."
"And they'll hurt more if you let anger drive you into the fire."
M's voice softened. "Your power isn't for revenge. It's for something greater. Don't waste it on their games."
Elara didn't answer.
That night, the fire came.
Elara dreamed.
She stood in a strange field where starlight touched the ground like frost. The wind smelled of lavender and old magic.
A woman stood across from her barefooted, radiant, her long dark hair flowing like liquid flame. Her eyes… they were Elara's.
"Elara," the woman whispered, voice like wind over coals. "You were born of fire, not fear. The world will bend to burn you. But you must learn not to burn it back."
Elara stepped forward, trembling. "Who are you?"
The woman reached out, brushing a hand across Elara's cheek. "You already know. You've always known."
A golden pendant pulsed on the woman's chest, the same symbol M had given her.
"Elara," she whispered, "You are the Flame Sovereign."
Elara gasped awake, the name still on her lips.
Her room blazed with fire.
But nothing burned.
The curtains danced in heatless flame. Her bed glowed with golden veins of light. Her pendant hovered inches above her chest, pulsing like a second heart.
M burst into the room, blade drawn. "Elara!"
She turned to him, breathless but composed. "It's not fire. It's memory."
He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the pendant. "You saw her?"
Elara nodded. "She called me the Flame Sovereign."
M's expression darkened with awe. "Then it's begun."
On the floor, in a perfect circle of soot, lay a note written in blackened script:
"You were born to survive fire. But now, you must rule it."
Morning came like a warning.
The Empress held court, draped in silver, her voice cold as winter.
Elara stood before her, back straight, jaw set.
"The poison was traced," Elara said. "To House Vorelle. Loyal to you."
The Empress barely blinked. "Accusations are dangerous."
"So are truths."
Gasps rippled through the nobles packed into the audience hall. Even some of the guards stiffened, watching for a signal.
The King, ever still, sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
The Empress rose slowly. "If you seek justice, then let it be decided in the Heir Trial."
A hush fell over the court.
"The Flamebearer wishes to rule?" she continued, voice smooth. "Let the flame test her again. As it will test my daughter."
The King stirred.
"For the record," his voice boomed, low and resolute, "I never approved Isla's participation in the Heir Trial."
The Empress's eyes narrowed, her mask of serenity cracking.
"You've always said the trial was tradition," she said.
"It is," the King replied. "But never before have we used it to prove the wrong narrative."
Isla rose, her voice sharp. "So you'll deny me my right to prove myself?"
The King looked from Isla to Elara. "No. But I will not see this trial twisted into a stage for tussle."
The Empress's lips curled. "Then let the flame judge fairly, for once."
Isla, still standing, lifted her chin.
"Then let's burn," she said.
The court erupted.
But Elara's gaze was locked on the Empress.
Not in fear.
In readiness.
Later, in the quiet of her chambers, Elara stood before the tall mirror.
She traced the edge of the crest M had given her, and now hidden inside her sleeve.
"Flame Sovereign," she whispered.
M stood behind her in the mirror's reflection, arms crossed. "If you accept this title, you can't just wear it. You must become it."
Outside, the bells tolled for the Heir Trial.
And the game turned to war.