Chapter 4 Week of Fire

Raven

If Kael was winter, Aemrys was wildfire.

From the moment I crossed into the east wing, the air changed. Everything pulsed hotter, louder, wilder. The walls were crimson and charcoal, veins of gold etched like flames licking through shadow. It didn't feel like a house. It felt like a forge. Or a mouth right before it bites.

Aemrys didn't greet me like Kael did. He didn't offer silence or instructions.

He tossed me a towel, shirtless and slick with sweat from his personal gym, the ink across his chest gleaming like war paint. His knuckles were wrapped. His expression unreadable.

"Strip," he said.

My jaw tensed. "Excuse me?"

His smirk deepened. "You're not sleeping in Kael's silk. You'll stink of ice. Lose the armor, Firefly."

"Don't call me that."

"Then earn another name."

I didn't flinch. I didn't move.

We stared each other down for a long beat.

Then I turned and walked into the shower without a word.

His wing was a temple of discipline and chaos.

Weapons lined the hallway. Knives, machetes, firearms. The walls were covered in framed combat blueprints, ancient war strategy scrolls, and charred boxing gloves signed by ghosts.

But what unnerved me most was the punching bag in the center of the training room-it was shaped like a man. Human. Eyes painted shut. Red stains at the base.

"You kill people in here?" I asked.

Aemrys threw me a bottle of water. "Not usually. But you learn fast when you bleed."

Day one, he made me fight him.

Not in the symbolic way Kael did. No blades. Just gloves. Rage. And rules I didn't understand.

I hit him in the ribs. He laughed.

He hit me in the gut. I crumpled.

"You hate being weak," he said.

"No shit."

"You hate being vulnerable more."

He threw me across the mat. I gasped as my shoulder hit the floor.

"Good," he growled. "Pain teaches."

"Pain destroys," I spat.

"Only if you let it."

He pinned me.

Our bodies locked. His breath against my cheek.

"Your father died because he thought legacy was stronger than reality."

"And you think reality is fists and blood?"

He leaned closer. "I think it's survival. And you won't survive if you keep pretending you're not built for war."

His lips almost touched mine.

Then he stood up and walked away.

The nights were hotter in his wing.

I lay awake, sweat pooling at the small of my back. Aemrys paced the halls like a caged animal, his footsteps thunder, his shadow a storm. I heard him whisper to someone on the phone.

Names. Coordinates. Threats.

At 3 a.m., I found him in the courtyard.

Shirtless again. Staring at the stars. Smoke from a cigarette curling between his fingers.

"You don't sleep?" I asked.

He didn't turn. "I'm afraid of what I'll dream about."

That silenced me.

He finally looked over. "Want a scar?"

"What?"

He flicked open a blade. Tossed it. It landed at my feet.

"Every heir wears one from the first woman we were forced to protect. Or failed to."

I picked up the blade. "And you think giving me a scar will do what?"

"Bind you to the fire. Or remind you not to trust it."

I placed the blade against my thigh.

Then pressed down.

His eyes widened-not with lust, but something rawer. Regret? Or something darker?

"You didn't flinch," he said.

"I stopped flinching the day I buried my mother."

He walked toward me. Took the blade. Tossed it again.

"Lesson learned."

Mid-week, it happened.

The moment we stopped pretending.

He dragged me into the sparring room after I cursed him in front of the guards.

"You think you're untouchable," he growled.

"No. I just know you want to touch me."

He shoved me against the wall. His hand at my throat, not squeezing-just holding. Testing. Challenging.

I gasped.

He didn't kiss me.

But the way his eyes dipped to my mouth made my knees weaken.

"Say it," he said.

"Say what?"

"That you want this."

"I want control."

He chuckled. Dark. Broken.

"You're in the wrong wing, Firefly."

"Maybe. But I'm in the right war."

He released me.

We didn't speak for two hours.

But that night, he brought a mattress into the hall and slept outside my door. No reason. No comment.

And for the first time, I felt safe.

The secret came on day six.

I was looking for a towel in his closet and found a door I wasn't meant to open.

Inside: a locked cabinet.

I picked it. Easy.

Inside: photos. Dozens. Burnt. Singed. All of women. One face repeated.

The woman from the council.

Madam Reina.

The only female crime boss to sit at the table.

The one who never looked at Aemrys.

In some photos, they were together. Smiling. Young.

Lovers.

I didn't hear him come in.

But the door slammed behind me.

He didn't shout.

He didn't explain.

He just looked at me like I'd shattered the last thing he'd buried.

"You have no right-"

"I wasn't looking for secrets," I said. "I was looking for truth."

"Then here's one," he snapped. "She's the reason I bleed. She made me what I am. She broke me before I even knew I was whole."

I stepped toward him.

"I'm not her."

"No," he said. "But you might be worse. Because I already care if you die."

That silenced us both.

He left. Slamming the door.

And I sat on the floor of his secrets, wondering what the hell I'd just started.

The final night.

We didn't touch. We didn't talk.

He just lay beside me.

Breathing.

At dawn, he whispered, "You'll survive me, Raven. But I won't survive you."

Then he kissed my shoulder.

And I knew-next week, I'd miss the fire.