Ash still drifted through the courtyards by the time Holt reached the council wing.
It clung to the banners, the guards’ cloaks, the very breath of the palace, thin, gray reminders of what devotion had burned. The kitchens had been scrubbed clean, but soot never stayed gone in Eirden. It found the cracks, the seams, the hearts.

The Queen’s bell had rung once already, calling her council to order. He should have gone inside. Instead, he waited in the colonnade where light bled through smoke, knowing the prince would come late. Thane always came late to his own reckoning.

And when he appeared, gold hair dimmed by ash, uniform unbuttoned, eyes fever-bright, Holt almost didn’t recognize him.

“Where is she?” Thane’s voice cracked the quiet, low but edged like a drawn blade. “You’ve seen her?”

Holt folded his arms. “In the infirmary. Alive. Tired. Which is more than I can say for the servants who dragged your fire out of the walls.”

Thane’s jaw tightened. “That blaze was an attack. You saw it, the spiral, the residue. Corven’s shadow touched her first. I only.”

“Lit half the kitchens on fire to prove you could outshine it?” Holt cut in. “Saints, Thane. You can’t burn your way out of every fear.”

The prince’s eyes flared, light kindling faintly beneath his skin, the telltale shimmer of Lightbinding barely restrained. “You think I wanted this? You think I’d risk her life?”

“I think you already did,” Holt said. “And now the court’s calling it love.”

Thane stepped closer, shadows trembling at his heels though they should have fled from him. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t love, it was protection. The light reacts when she’s near, when she’s hurt. I felt it. I had to..”

“Bind it tighter?” Holt’s tone stayed level, though his pulse thudded. “You’re clinging so hard, you can’t see the cage you’ve built.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Thane’s voice dropped, dangerously soft. “If I don’t protect her, no one will. Not the Queen. Not the court. Not your sword.”

“And if protecting her means losing her?” Holt asked.

Thane blinked, as if the question didn’t fit inside his world. Light flickered over his knuckles, faint heat searing the air. Holt smelled singed linen, the scent of devotion turning destructive.

He lowered his voice. “She needs space to breathe, Thane. You’re not her shield anymore, you’re her storm.”

A distant bell struck again, summoning them.

Thane turned toward the council doors, jaw set, golden fire burning steady now which is bright, unyielding, and far too close to ruin.

Holt watched him go, the air behind him still shimmering faintly with heat.

The crown’s burden, he thought. Or the crown’s curse.

Either way, it was about to break.

The council chamber smelled of rose oil and cold iron. Every noble in Eirden had crowded in, their perfumes warring with the faint reek of smoke that had crept in from the kitchens. The marble floor still bore streaks of gray where servants had tracked ash. Even the light through the high windows seemed bruised.

The Queen sat at the far end of the table, motionless. Her crown caught only a thin edge of sun, like a blade half-drawn. No greeting, no warmth,  only silence sharp enough to make the room flinch.

Thane bowed but did not kneel. The gesture was deliberate. “Your Majesty,” he began, “the explosion was not sabotage. It was my fault.”

A ripple passed through the chamber: disbelief, then hunger. Nobles fed on confession like wolves.

“You mean to claim you set the fire yourself?” Lord Aedric’s voice slithered through the hush. “What gallant reasoning excuses treason now?”

Thane’s light flickered across his hands, golden threads dancing over his veins. “The blaze was a reaction. My Lightbinding responded when Mistress Vale was attacked by shadow remnants. I contained it before it reached the council wing.”

Contained it? Holt thought. He’d seen the melted stone, the burns on Myrren’s wrist. Containment had nearly killed her.

Queen Aelira’s voice was a whisper, but it filled every corner. “And this… reaction endangered half my kitchens. Explain to me, my son, why devotion should be measured in ash.”

Holt watched Thane struggle to breathe beneath her gaze. Yet the prince’s conviction only hardened. “Because love demands it. She carries a mark, both the  light and shadow. If we do nothing, the shadow wins.”

Murmurs rose. Mark? Shadow? Holt could almost smell the shift of  perfumes curdling with fear, courtiers inching away from invisible contagion.

Seliora’s voice, smooth and venomous, broke the noise. “Or perhaps the light is the greater danger. Fire consumes what it means to save.”

Thane turned on her, eyes fever-bright. “You know nothing of it. She was dying. I felt it through the bond.”

“There is no bond,” the Queen said, still calm. “Only magic unrestrained.”

Holt could bear it no longer. “Majesty, if I may..”

A glance from her silenced him, but Thane spoke over both. “I will protect her. From the court, from Corven, from anyone who touches her again.”

The words hit the chamber like sparks. Holt caught the echo ,  I will protect you. He’d heard it before, whispered in a firelight, in every loop that ended in ruin.

He took a step forward. “Thane, listen to yourself. You said those exact words before the blast.”

Thane’s head snapped toward him. “Because they’re true.”

“Or because you can’t stop repeating them,” Holt said quietly. “You’re chasing the same vow until it burns you both alive.”

For a moment, Thane wavered. Then the light flared brighter,  beautiful, terrible, unstoppable.

“Only I can protect her,” he said again, voice steady now, as if repeating a prayer.

The Queen’s expression did not change, but Holt saw it, a flicker of satisfaction, quick as breath. The crown had found its weapon.

The council doors closed behind them with a sound like stone sealing a tomb.
The nobles dispersed in murmurs; the Queen did not rise. Only Thane remained at the center of the chamber, shoulders rigid, light still trembling faintly around him as if it refused to leave his skin.

Holt stayed back until the hall emptied. Then he spoke, voice rough. “You gave them what they wanted.”

Thane turned, eyes hollowed by exhaustion and pride. “I gave them the truth.”

“No,” Holt said. “You gave them a reason to call her cursed.”

Thane’s jaw tightened. “She’s not cursed. She’s marked. And if the mark spreads..”

“You’ll burn her trying to save her.” Holt took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t see it, do you? The light listens to what you feel, not what you mean. And you feel fear.”

“Love,” Thane said, sharp as a blade. “I feel love.”

“Devotion,” Holt corrected. “And devotion can rot faster than poison.”

Thane’s breath hitched; his light dimmed. “You sound like the Queen.”

“I sound like a man who’s buried too many people in the name of loyalty.” Holt turned away before the silence could answer him. “If you truly want to save her, start by stepping back.”

He left Thane in the hollow chamber, the air behind him still warm with fading light.

Outside, the corridors were quieter now. The ashfall had returned, soft as snow, drifting through open windows. Myrren stood by one, her wrist unwrapped, the faint shimmer of light and shadow pulsing like two opposing hearts.

When Holt approached, she didn’t turn. “He defended me again, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Holt said. “Loudly.”

Her smile was small, brittle. “And the Queen?”

“Didn’t need to say a word.”

She looked down at her wrist. “It’s spreading.”

He saw it then, the shimmer coiling into a faint spiral, as if the bruise itself remembered. Gently, he caught her hand before she could hide it.

“Then listen to me, Myrren,” he murmured, low enough for only her.
“Devotion can be poison too.”

The mark flared, a pulse of light and shadow spiraling beneath her skin, alive, warning, waiting.

And somewhere beyond the ashfall, the spiral began to turn again.