Chapter 4 Bound by Fire

The fire had bowed to her.

Nyra couldn't unsee it.

Even now, hours after Prince Thorne left her bound in her chamber, she sat motionless on the bed, the flames in the hearth crackling in an unnatural rhythm. They swayed not with the wind-but with her breath. They listened.

They knew her.

The silver cords around her wrists still glowed faintly, etched with runes meant to suppress her magic. But her power whispered beneath them, restless, coiled like a serpent in slumber.

She was beginning to feel it more clearly now-not just as something inside her, but as something old. Something not born in her, but remembered.

The door opened.

A new figure stepped inside.

She was tall, dressed in forest green robes embroidered with ancient glyphs. Her black braids were coiled into a crown atop her head, and her dark eyes shone with intelligence sharpened by survival.

"I am Magister Elira," the woman said calmly, closing the door behind her. "Head of the Imperial School of the Arcane. And as of this morning, your official magical warden."

Nyra raised a brow. "Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"No," Elira replied. "But it should warn you."

The magister walked toward the fireplace, watching the flames with a furrowed brow.

"When Thorne reported what happened in the Night Hall, I was summoned. Not to punish you," she added, turning toward Nyra, "but to make sense of you."

Nyra studied her warily. "So I'm a subject now?"

"You've always been one. Now, you're just a dangerous one."

The cords around Nyra's wrists shimmered as Elira stepped closer. With a flick of her fingers, the runes dimmed, and the bindings unraveled, falling to the floor like lifeless snakes.

Nyra gasped softly and pulled her arms back, as if expecting to be scorched. But nothing happened.

No magic lashed out.

No flames roared.

Just silence... and waiting.

"I'm not your enemy," Elira said. "But I won't lie to you either. You are a threat, Nyra. Not because you're evil, or cursed, or unworthy-but because you were never supposed to exist."

Nyra stood slowly. "Then why do I?"

Elira smiled faintly. "That is the question the empire now fears the most."

Thorne was not in the mood for diplomacy.

The war council chamber stank of paranoia-sandalwood, sweat, and the faint musk of old men desperate to hold onto power. He stood at the end of the obsidian table, arms crossed as his generals, scholars, and mother plotted his next breath.

"She's not stable," General Kael said, pounding a fist on the table. "A single surge like that in battle could level the palace."

"She won't be in battle," the Dowager Empress said coldly. "She will remain under supervision until her powers are tamed."

"Tamed?" Thorne scoffed. "You don't tame a volcano. You watch it from a distance and pray it doesn't notice you."

"Then perhaps we should strike first," Kael offered. "Poison. Blade. The empire can mourn an empress just as easily as it crowned one."

"No," Thorne snapped.

All heads turned.

"Why not?" Kael pressed.

Thorne's gaze was steel. "Because if she survives another assassination attempt, we'll have more than a cursed empress. We'll have a goddess with a vendetta."

Silence.

The Dowager leaned forward, her voice low. "You believe she's a threat."

"I know she is."

"And yet you protect her."

Thorne said nothing.

He couldn't explain it-not even to himself. When he had lifted her veil and seen the fear hidden beneath her pride, something inside him had hesitated.

It wasn't pity. Thorne didn't pity anyone.

It was recognition.

A blade knew a blade.

He had been forged in war, polished by grief, sharpened by betrayal.

She was all those things-and something else.

Something he hadn't yet named.

Nyra's days blurred.

Under Elira's watch, she trained-not with swords or politics, but with herself.

"Magic is not a weapon," Elira would say. "It is a conversation. If you shout at it, it will shout back."

So Nyra listened.

To the flicker of candles.

To the hum of stones beneath her feet.

To the wind that curled through the windows and the way her blood sang when the moon rose.

She discovered that her magic responded not just to danger-but to emotion. Fear made it crackle. Anger made it burn. But will-true, focused will-made it bend.

She could call flame now.

She could summon light from the air.

She could turn whispers into winds.

But she still could not explain why the gods had chosen her.

One evening, after hours of meditation, she turned to Elira.

"What happens if I lose control?"

Elira met her eyes. "You won't."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I can give," she said. "Because if you do lose control, Nyra, no one in this palace-not even Thorne-will survive what you become."

On the third night, Thorne came to her chamber.

Unannounced. Uninvited.

Nyra had just finished dressing for supper, a simple gown of deep red and gold, her hair loose around her shoulders. When she opened the door, she nearly collided with him.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Are you here to threaten me again?" she asked quietly.

"No," he said. "I'm here to walk you to dinner."

She blinked. "Like a... husband?"

His jaw tightened. "Like a man under scrutiny. The nobles are watching. The servants whisper. If we do not appear united, they will assume we are divided."

"Which we are."

"Yes," he said, eyes glittering. "But we'll let them figure that out after dessert."

They walked in silence through the palace corridors. The guards bowed. The servants bowed lower.

When they entered the banquet hall, every eye turned.

The Empress and the Prince.

The girl who should have died.

The man who wished she had.

Nyra sat beside him at the high table. The food was lavish, but she barely touched it.

Neither did he.

Instead, they listened-to the whispers, the cautious toasts, the sideways glances.

"You don't trust anyone, do you?" she asked under her breath.

Thorne didn't look at her. "No."

"Not even me?"

His hand curled around the goblet. "Especially not you."

She smiled. "Good. We're in agreement."

But under the table, her fingers grazed the edge of his sleeve. Not intentional. Not seductive.

Just real.

His hand didn't move away.

That night, Nyra couldn't sleep.

The palace was too quiet.

The fire refused to speak.

And the moon was full again.

She wandered out onto the balcony, barefoot, breathing in the cold night air.

The stars above shimmered like scattered diamonds.

Below, the gardens were empty-except for one figure.

Thorne.

Standing alone by the fountain, sword strapped to his back, staring up at the same moon.

Nyra hesitated.

Then, she turned and left her chamber.

She found him moments later.

He didn't turn as she approached.

"The moon's brighter than usual," he said.

"Or maybe the shadows are just deeper."

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

"You should be asleep."

"So should you."

Silence.

Then he asked, "Do you hate me?"

The question caught her off guard.

She didn't answer right away.

"I hated you," she said softly. "When they dragged me to the altar. When they said I had to marry a man who didn't even see me as human."

"And now?"

"Now..." She looked at the water. "I'm too tired to hate."

He didn't speak.

She stepped closer.

"I don't trust you. I don't believe you care what happens to me. But I think... maybe... you understand what it means to be used."

His jaw flexed.

"That," she whispered, "is why I haven't burned this palace down yet."

He looked at her fully then.

Not like a weapon.

Not like a bride.

Like a mirror.

"Good," he said quietly. "Because I might need your help to burn it down one day."

She laughed.

It surprised them both.

And for the first time, something unspoken passed between them.

Not peace.

But possibility.

They returned to the palace side by side.

And neither noticed the figure watching from the shadows.

A cloaked man, face hidden, whispering into a silver mirror that pulsed with red light.

"She's awakening," the man hissed.

From the mirror came a voice older than death.

"Then the time has come. The seal is broken."

"What of the prince?"

A pause.

"Kill him."

The mirror cracked.

And the assassin vanished into the night.