The Firefly’s Burden-Chapter 62: Recognition

The Firefly’s Burden-Chapter 62: Recognition

Roran’s hand twitched, and suddenly the air folded in on itself — smoldering iron and cedar slamming down over my marshmallow warmth, cutting it off before it could reach the Solar. A shield. His shield.
Kael followed instantly, her veil sliding across Cassie’s throat like a heat-haze, erasing the faint mark there. Sight bent, smell bent. Perfect. My guards thought I needed to be sanitized before the Court got a whiff of my actual life.
Subtle,
I sent down the bond, my thoughts rolling sharp toward Cassie.
Her answering spark was citrus-bright:
Better than you setting someone’s hair on fire in the first five minutes.
I bit back a smile. Saints, she wasn’t wrong.
The great doors yawned open. Light punched through first — not soft, not warm. Blinding. The amber-crystal dome fractured the morning sun into knives that slashed across the firestone sunburst floor. Too bright, too sharp, too much. Always too much in this place.
Whispers swarmed immediately, insects gnawing at sugar. Silks rustled, jewels winked, banners flared: phoenix aflame for Firebrand, black mountain split by magma for Ashfall, thorned crown burning green for Thornspire. The smell was worse — incense, resin, sweat under perfume. All of it pressing too heavy.
The herald’s voice cracked like polished steel:
“By decree of Her Majesty Seara Firebrand, High Lady of the Eternal Summer, let the procession of rank commence.”
The Solar held its breath.
“Duke Tharion Firebrand of Ashfall, General of Summer’s Armies, Captain of the Guard.”
Boots thundered. My uncle moved like a mountain that knew exactly where to fall.
“Duchess Zyrella Thornsflame of Thornspire.”
Gliding, perfect, venom in silk. Her citrus-ivy scent spiked immediately, all sugar-coated bitterness.
Try not to trip her on the mosaic,
Cassie murmured in my head.
No promises.
“Duke Maelion Firebrand of Sunspire, with Duchess Serenya Duskryn of alliance.”
His banner shimmered — a golden tower over sapphire waves. The salt stench followed, even here.
“Duke Ashen Thorne of Pyrestone.”
Black steel and volcanic fire. The chamber chilled as if everyone suddenly remembered mercy was optional.
One by one the rest filed in — Veyra of Dawnfire, Dawnspire of Lumenreach, Halewyn of Redvale — each name rolling, each banner igniting above the galleries. The scribes’ tablets glowed with every word, scratching it all down into permanence.
And then—
“Her Highness Princess Selene Firebrand, Duchess of Emberhall, Heir Apparent.”
Selene moved like sunlight disciplined into human form, braids glittering, staff steady as law itself. She mounted the dais without a flicker out of place.
My stomach tightened. I knew my cue was coming.
“Her Highness Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand of Summer, Queen of the Glow Court.”
The words echoed, formal, cold. Princess here. Queen there. Neither court wanting to fully claim me.
Cassie’s fingers brushed mine before she let go, grounding me with the smallest squeeze.
“Her Highness Princess Consort Cassandra Firebrand.”
That was all she got. Her entire existence boiled down to
Consort.
No duchy. No succession. Just me.
The Solar rustled like a dry field catching fire. Whispers darted sharp and greedy.
You look like you want to stab someone,
Cassie sent, her mental tone all lemon and frost.
That’s because I do.
We stepped forward, into knives of light and judgment.
The herald lifted the silver horn. Its shriek made the crystal dome ring.
“By order of Her Majesty Seara Firebrand, High Lady of the Eternal Summer, this Solar convenes in witness. Matters of succession, station, service, and compact shall be entered into record. Let silence hold, for the Crown speaks.”
The chamber bowed as one — a single wave collapsing toward the dais. Banners dipped, silks rustled, the firestone floor itself thrummed with their submission.
And there she was.
My mother. My High Lady. Crown burning like the sun itself. She rose, and the chamber leaned with her.
“Today,” Seara said, her voice molten, rolling to every corner, “we gather not only for the business of Summer, but to bear witness to blood and crown. For my daughter stands before you—Princess of this Court, Queen of another. She comes as child no longer, but as one who must take her place among you.”
Heat prickled under my skin. I locked my mask in place, chin high, back straight. But under it—
Mother,
the thought slipped, raw and unbidden, the word I never said out loud here.
“Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand,” my mother said, voice carrying like sunlight on steel, “step forward.”
The chamber exhaled in unison, like the entire Solar had been waiting to pounce. The firestone sunburst under my boots hummed, every golden vein a wire thrumming with too much light, too much sound. My throat tightened, heat crawling beneath my skin.
Left foot, then right,
Cassie’s voice brushed my mind, crisp lemon-sweet.
Don’t overthink it.
Too late,
I muttered back, my thoughts snapping like kindling.
Still, I moved. Across the mosaic. Into the knives of light. Every stare followed, crawling over me like ants.
At the dais, she rose. My mother. My High Lady. The Solar bent with her, as if gravity itself owed her allegiance. Flame bloomed in her hand, a sigil burning gold and alive.
When she pressed it to my brow, heat sank through my skull, searing down my spine. Not pain. Something worse. A mark that would never wash off. My breath snagged—my body already folding, instinct tugging my head down, knees softening—
“Stop.”
The command cracked like a whip. The Solar froze with me.
Her gaze locked mine, bright and unyielding, cedar and clove biting the air. Not High Lady now. Not ruler. Just… mother.
“You are my daughter second. A princess of this court third. But first—” her voice rang, each word forged to cut into me, “—you are a Queen.”
The word landed like a punch. A Queen. I already was, had been since Frostfire, but saints—hearing her call it now, here, before all of them—
“Queens bow to no one,” she went on. “Not to their mothers. Not to their spouses. Not even to their mates. To bow is to place your crown beneath another. And your people are not less, Mira. They are yours.”
The Solar murmured, scandal flickering like sparks in dry grass. Scribes bent low, their tablets glowing as they carved her words into permanence.
Shame burned under my skin. My knees still ached from that aborted dip, my body buzzing with the instinct I’d almost followed. The mask held—I forced it to—but inside I was unraveling.
Cassie’s thought pressed through like a hand at the small of my back:
Stand tall, Firefly. Let them choke on it.
Her scent threaded through the shield anyway, citrus-bright over my marshmallow heat, grounding me.
I straightened. Chin high. Shoulders locked.
Gasps hissed around the chamber. The scribes repeated her words again, louder this time, the echo biting: “Queens shall not bow in the Solar.”
To them, it was precedent. To me, it was my mother making sure I never, ever bent the Glow beneath Summer by mistake.
And saints, I almost had.
My mother didn’t sit. She stood under Summer’s phoenix like she’d grown out of the dais itself, and the Solar leaned with her.
“By Summer’s law and Summer’s blood,” she said, each word polished until it cut, “I name and seat my daughter, Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand, as Duchess of Starveil—sovereign of the Starveil Demesne, called the Starvault. Let this chamber witness, and let the record endure.”
The floor dropped out of my lungs.
The herald came in on her last syllable, voice booming like a struck bell:
“Be it entered: Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand is Duchess of Starveil, sovereign of the Starveil Demesne, known also as the Starvault.”
Noise detonated in the galleries—silk, steel, breath—all of it too loud. Light fractured into knives and stabbed at my eyes. The firestone under my boots thrummed like a heartbeat I couldn’t sync to.
What the actual—
I didn’t even finish the thought.
Breathe,
Cassie slid in, lemon-cool, vanilla-warm.
In. Out. You can fall apart later—preferably not on the fancy rock.
The herald lifted a hand for silence and kept carving me into the world:
“The Demesne of Starveil includes:
— the lands of Moonwell, presently held by House Sylvaris;
— the lands of Starlight Vale, presently held by House Drennath;
— and Her Grace’s residences at Starveil Manor (Ravensrest Heights) and Silverrow Lake House—each recognized as official seats of audience within the Demesne.”
“Presently held.” Not sworn. Not yet mine by voice and blood. Protocol tugged at the edges of my mind like someone knocking from a far room: holders announced, then fealty taken in the Solar, not scribbled in by assumption. Right. Right.
The banners answered anyway—Moonwell’s silver crescent rippling like a thrown stone across water; Starlight Vale’s crown of stars flaring on midnight silk. Scribes’ tablets burned brighter as they caught every word and branded it to forever.
She didn’t tell me,
I shot at Cassie, static fuzzing the edges of everything.
No warning, no whisper, no “hey, darling, you’re about to own a slice of Summer.”
You hate spoilers,
Cassie said, and the smug smile in her mind made my teeth clench.
Also: congratulations, Your Grace.
Do not call me that while I’m trying not to stim through my sleeve in front of four hundred knives dressed like people.
My fingers ached to tap. To shred a seam. To count the facets in the crystal dome until the roaring turned into numbers I could hold. I kept still. Barely.
Seara’s gaze found mine—sharp, unreadable, the cedar-and-clove edge of her scent trying to be a hand on my spine without touching me. Mother, not High Lady. Which somehow made it worse.
The herald’s cadence shifted again, precise as a guillotine:
“Be it further entered: Holders of Moonwell and Starlight Vale shall present themselves to Her Grace, the Duchess of Starveil, for the giving and receiving of fealty in due order of this session.”
There it was. The knock became a doorway. Not “sworn.” Summoned. Protocol breathing down my neck like a cold draft.
Whispers rippled the galleries—curiosity tasting like blood. Some faces bright with hungry interest, some pinched, some pale. Zyrella’s citrus-ivy sweetness sharpened to something a little poisonous; Ashen didn’t move at all, which somehow felt louder than the rest.
Real power, Firefly,
Cassie said, softer now, a palm pressed against my thoughts.
Not borrowed. Not accidental. Yours.
The firestone floor hummed again, deeper this time, as if it agreed.
I swallowed, made my face the kind of blank that reads as serene from a distance, and locked my chin level. Inside, I was falling through six different floors of shock and cataloging every exit like Kael had drilled into me.
Moonwell. Starlight Vale. Starveil Manor. Silverrow Lake House. Seats. Not metaphors—rooms I could walk into and say
this is mine
and the walls would say
we know
.
Saints.
The herald lowered his hand. The scribes’ glow dimmed a hair, like the storm had passed and left the air buzzing.
It hadn’t. The storm was only moving closer.
The herald’s voice fell silent, and the Solar waited. Too bright, too loud, too much. My pulse beat against the firestone like the floor itself was inside my chest.
Call them,
Cassie urged through the ring, steady citrus and vanilla in my head.
Do I?
My thoughts spun wild.
You can.
I swallowed. My throat burned. Saints, this was real. This was mine.
“Marquis Sylvaris of Moonwell. Step forward.”
From the second tier, Lord Aelric Sylvaris descended. Silver hair, lakewater eyes, armor inlaid with a crescent moon. Familiar. Too familiar. Memory flared — his patient hand correcting my bowstring grip; his voice teaching me how to track ripples in water; his quiet nods when my mother’s expectations had felt like stones on my shoulders.
Moonwell. Where the waters never stilled. Where the lake mirrored the Veil itself. Where my mother had taken me summer after summer for “fresh air.”
Except it hadn’t been random. Saints—no. She’d been walking me through my own lands. My aunt’s lands. Lands she’d kept open, waiting, teaching me piece by piece without ever saying the words.
Aelric knelt, cloak spilling like water across the firestone, and his voice carried unwavering:
“I, Aelric Sylvaris, Marquis of Moonwell, swear fealty to Her Highness Mira Quinveil Firebrand, Duchess of Starveil, sovereign of the Starveil Demesne, and I acknowledge Princess Cassandra Firebrand, Consort, within my vow. My lands for your law; my strength for your peace.”
The vow thrummed into the floor, sinking deep. Scribes echoed it instantly, crystal tablets glowing brighter.
And saints, something twisted inside me. Because I remembered: muddy boots, awkward limbs, a boy my mother had hidden from the world but not from Moonwell. He’d seen me then. He saw me now. And he knelt anyway.
The herald lifted a hand.
“Fealty of Moonwell entered.”
I blinked hard, chin level, though my vision swam. “Marchioness Drennath of Starlight Vale. Step forward.”
Lady Isolde Drennath descended in silver-threaded midnight, constellations woven into her gown. Her eyes — stars, sharp and unblinking — had watched me since childhood. I remembered her severe corrections at long tables, the way she’d never let me slouch, the rare crack of laughter when I’d fallen asleep under the stars and woken with dew in my hair.
Starlight Vale. Fields that glowed even in darkness. Hills that sang with emberlight. Lands my mother had sent me to again and again “for quiet,” as if quiet had ever fit me.
Her gaze found me, and it was like she saw both the hidden prince and the crowned queen standing together.
She knelt, gown pooling like a night sky at my feet. Her voice rang, steady as steel:
“I, Isolde Drennath, Marchioness of Starlight Vale, swear fealty to Her Highness Mira Quinveil Firebrand, Duchess of Starveil, sovereign of the Starveil Demesne, and I acknowledge Princess Cassandra Firebrand, Consort, within my vow. My lands for your law; my strength for your peace.”
The firestone floor hummed again, scribes burning the vow into permanence.
I should’ve been proud. Instead I was shaking. Because every visit, every lesson, every ritual under those stars had been training. My mother’s quiet preparation. Not cruelty. Not indifference. Grooming me for this very moment while I’d thought I was just being shuffled out of sight.
You’re fine,
Cassie whispered, grounding me before the spiral swallowed me whole.
Stand tall. Let them see you can bear it.
Heat prickled behind my eyes, but I locked my spine and lifted my chin.
The herald’s hand rose again.
“Fealty of Starlight Vale entered.”
The Solar stirred with whispers, banners glowing brighter overhead.
Not drifting anymore. Rooting.
Starveil was no longer a word.
It was mine.
The herald’s staff struck the floor, a crack of fire through stone.
“Peers of Summer, of ducal rank, you may now speak. Debate shall be entered into record. When all arguments are heard, recognition shall be voted.”
The Solar shifted, banners stirring as if the air itself leaned in. My stomach knotted. They were about to take me apart like a poem in class—line by line until nothing was left but ink stains.
They’re not dissecting you, Firefly,
Cassie murmured through the bond, tart citrus curling sharp around warm vanilla.
They’re about to choke on you.
I almost snorted, except my lungs were already trying to escape through my throat.
Tharion rose first. My uncle. My trainer. His mantle draped crimson over his scarred shoulders, and when he spoke, it was like the chamber braced under a weight it couldn’t shake off.
“I have trained her,” he said. No softening, no theatrics. “I’ve seen her bleed. I’ve seen her rise again, when even soldiers would have stayed down. And when shadows breached the mortal school at Ravenrest Heights, she fought. She shielded her peers, mortals that could not defend themselves. She stood when others would have fled. That is courage, not rumor. That is strength, not inheritance.”
A low murmur rippled the galleries.
Tharion’s gaze cut across the Solar, hard and unyielding. “She has been chosen by her people, crowned already by the Glow. That was no gift—it was earned. She is not a duchess in name only. She is sovereign by fire and deed.”
My throat burned. Saints, hearing it said aloud like that—like I wasn’t a mistake, like I was something solid.
Careful,
Cassie pressed, warm as a hand on my spine and wicked as a grin.
Your shoulders are doing the smug princess thing.
Selene rose next. The Solar quieted even further, as though it knew the perfect heir would make the perfect speech. Her gown shimmered gold, every thread immaculate. But when she looked at me, her gaze softened—not heir to subject, but sister to sister.
“Since her first breath, my sister has borne scorn she did not earn. Half-blood, whispered. Bastard, muttered. Lesser. Yet never once did she treat herself as less. Even as a child, she carried herself with the dignity of a queen.”
Whispers hissed, but Selene didn’t falter.
“She shielded servants from our mother’s ire. She shared what little power she had with those who had none. When mocked, she learned wit sharp enough to bite through armor. And when the world told her she was not enough, she chose to be more. That is what makes a ruler. Not bloodlines, not titles—but the relentless choice to protect, to rise, to stand.”
Her eyes found mine and lingered, bright as sunlight breaking storm.
“My sister has always been a queen. The rest of you are only just catching up.”
Heat clawed behind my eyes. Saints, don’t cry. Not here. Not with Zyrella already sharpening her knives.
If you cry, I’m crying louder,
Cassie warned, citrus flaring.
Ugly crying. Snot and everything. Don’t test me.
Shut up,
I muttered across the link, but the corner of my mouth almost twitched.
Then Maelion. My uncle. Sapphire mantle glinting like sea-foam, his voice the tide turned cold.
“I do not dispute affection. I do not dispute bravery. But I dispute readiness.” His eyes swept, slow and disdainful. “A duchy is not a prize for sentiment. It is responsibility—armies, levies, borders. She has commanded none. She has held no festivals, overseen no treasuries. She has not been seasoned in rule. And without seasoning, food spoils. Without testing, flame gutters. Shall we risk a duchy on hope alone?”
My chest caved. Spoils. Gutters. Hope. His words rang like hammers inside my skull.
He doesn’t know you,
Cassie sent, lemon-bite sharp.
He’s arguing with a rumor, not you. Let him.
Maybe I’m just… hope. That’s all,
I thought, fingers twisting my sleeve seam until the threads bit skin.
Hope gives men like that hives,
she shot back.
Be a full-body rash.
And then Zyrella stood. Emerald gown ablaze, thorns woven into her crown, her smile sweet enough to rot teeth. Her scent spiked sharp—citrus acrid, jasmine choking.
“My cousin speaks of courage. My princess-sister speaks of sentiment. But courage and sentiment do not make a duchess.” She let the words drip like honey, poison hidden underneath. “We must speak of stability. Of precedent. She is half-human. She would set a mortal consort at her side. What message does that send? That Summer crowns mortals now? That tradition bends to impulse?”
The chamber gasped, whispers racing ivy-fast.
Zyrella’s voice softened, saccharine. “Her mother’s love has given her much. Perhaps too much. A duchy given to one so unseasoned is not mercy—it is recklessness. But I am not unkind.” Her eyes glittered at me, gold-amber cutting. “I propose the Countersign Proviso. For one solar cycle, all decrees of Starveil shall bear Thornspire’s countersign. Not a leash, but guidance. Not chains, but safety. For her people. For us all.”
Her banner flared emerald and fire. Some courtiers nodded, murmuring. Others hissed. My stomach dropped to the floor.
She just called you incompetent with a smile on her face,
I thought, rage curling sharp and brittle.
Cool. File the smile for later,
Cassie hissed, lemon-burn bright.
Right now: breathe, glare, don’t combust.
Before my spirals swallowed me, Ashen Thorne rose. Volcanic presence, obsidian mantle catching sparks in the Solar’s light. His voice rumbled like earth cracking open.
“Guidance?” he said. “Call it what it is: chains. A duchy that bends its writ is no duchy. Starveil stands or falls by its own sovereign hand. To countersign her decrees is to neuter her crown and mock this chamber. And I will not mock the Solar with cowardice.”
The words hit like a hammer. Murmurs surged, then stilled. Even Zyrella’s perfect smile cracked a hair.
Before the herald could call for the vote, Lord Aelric Sylvaris, Marquis of Moonwell, bowed from his tier. His silver hair gleamed like lake-water.
“If it please the Solar,” he said, “I would speak.”
The herald inclined his head.
Aelric descended, cloak rippling. His voice was calm water over stone.
“Duchess or no, this girl has walked Moonwell’s shores since she could walk at all. I taught her to string a bow. I watched her study the glyphs etched in our stones. She knows my people by name, and they know her. We have waited long for this day, and we are proud to serve her. There will be growing pains—yes. But I would rather grow with Mira Firebrand than stagnate under anyone else. Her character is worth more than inexperience weighs against her.”
The Solar hummed. Whispers shifted.
Then Marchioness Isolde Drennath rose, starlight shimmering on her dark gown. Her voice was clear, cool, precise.
“Starlight Vale has known her as child and as youth. I have corrected her manners at my table. I have seen her sleep beneath my stars. I know the fire in her marrow. And I tell you this: she is not unseasoned. She has been seasoned by scorn, by exile, by trial. That seasoning is harsher than any festival or tithe could teach. She will learn. She will lead. And Starlight Vale will gladly serve.”
The floor itself seemed to thrum beneath me. My throat locked, chest burning with something that wasn’t shame this time.
They were waiting for this day,
I whispered across the bond.
This whole time, they knew.
Seems you’ve been collecting loyalists like strays,
Cassie said, softer now.
Try not to feed them after midnight.
The herald raised his staff, crystal tablet glowing.
“Debate is entered. Peers shall now prepare to cast their vote.”
My heart thudded against my ribs, hard and fast, like it was trying to escape the cage of my chest.
They just ripped me apart and sewed me back together in front of everyone,
I thought, dizzy.
And you’re still standing,
Cassie said, a quiet spark under the snark.
Don’t give them the satisfaction of wobbling.
The herald’s staff struck once—lightning jarred into stone.
“Debate is entered. The Solar shall now cast its vote. Peers of ducal rank will answer when called. Their banners will rise. Their words will bind.”
The chamber inhaled. Silk shivered. Steel sighed. Banners along the amber dome quivered like suns about to ignite. My pulse miscounted—too fast, too slow, like my heart couldn’t agree with itself.
Don’t lock your knees,
Cassie slid across the ring, lemon-bite with a curl of warmth.
If you pass out, I’m blaming the hat.
It’s a diadem,
I thought.
It’s a hat, Firefly.
“Duke Tharion Firebrand of Ashfall.”
My uncle rose, a red-crimson standard planted in a battlefield no one else could see. The Ashfall banner—black mountain split by rivers of fire—flared.
“Recognized.”
The word rang like an anvil strike. My lungs remembered air.
One,
Cassie counted, wicked-soft.
Try not to smirk.
“Princess Selene Firebrand, Duchess of Emberhall.”
Selene stood, gold like a sunrise learning how to be a blade. Emberhall’s sun-banner unfurled high.
“Recognized.”
Her eyes found mine. Heat clawed my throat.
Don’t cry. Do not—
If you cry, I’ll start wailing,
Cassie warned.
Ugly. Snotty. Epic.
My mouth almost twitched.
“Duke Maelion Firebrand of Sunspire.”
Sea-blue fire shimmered. My uncle’s voice rolled cold. “Withheld. She is unseasoned.”
The syllables slid under my ribs and lodged there like ice.
Breathe,
Cassie snapped, no prophecy, just grit.
He doesn’t get to be the voice in your head.
I crushed my sleeve seam until stitches bit skin.
“Duchess Zyrella Thornsflame of Thornspire.”
Emerald light climbed like a thorned vine around a pyre. Her smile could have cut glass. “Withheld—unless the Countersign Proviso be entered.”
A hiss simmered through the Solar.
There’s the leash,
I thought, rage brittle and bright.
Smile sharper than hers,
Cassie said.
Then make her regret inventing “guidance.”
“Duke Thorne of Pyrestone.”
Obsidian flame leapt, heat without flicker. His voice came like a hammer: “Recognized. No proviso. No chains.”
Silence tightened—then held. Zyrella’s perfect mouth thinned by a breath.
The herald raised his staff; the crystal at its head flared to white. “By tally of banners and voices, the Solar recognizes Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand as Duchess of Starveil. The Countersign Proviso is denied. Let the record show: Her Grace enters this chamber as peer with voice and vote, sovereign over her Demesne, with vassals duly sworn.”
The galleries exhaled in a storm of whispers. The firestone under my boots thrummed like a living thing, like it had been waiting years to say yes.
Firefly,
Cassie breathed, gentler now.
Stand tall. Let them see you don’t need their air to breathe.
The herald turned to me and bowed. “Your Highness, the Solar invites your acknowledgment.”
Great. A speech. With my brain made of bees.
Smile. Not soft. Not smug. Sovereign.
I stepped forward; the sunburst mosaic gathered under my feet like a held note. “Peers of Summer,” I said, letting the words strike clean, “you honor Starveil—and you bind me. I accept this duchy not as ornament, but as obligation. Moonwell taught me patience when waters won’t still. Starlight Vale taught me to see by emberlight when no torches burn. I won’t promise perfection. I promise vigilance. That our borders will be held, our smallfolk seen, our law serve the living. Where my hand is unseasoned, it will be steady. Where my judgment is untested, it will be just. Starveil will rise—not over you, but with you.”
The sound went thin in the Solar, a drawn-bow silence. Then the scribes’ crystals blazed, catching every word, and the hush broke into low, measured murmurs that didn’t taste like disdain.
On the dais, my mother stood.
High Lady Seara Firebrand—flame-cut crown, sunlight and iron. The Solar leaned with her, as if gravity here had a voice and it was hers.
“Let it be entered,” High Lady Seara intoned, voice like polished bronze. “Starveil restored; Duchess seated; peer affirmed. By the Succession Charter and by the Rights of the Summer, Princess Selene Firebrand of Emberhall and Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand of Starveil stand equal in rank as Potential Heirs, until such time as an Heir Presumptive is named by this High Lady. So recorded.”
The scribes’ crystals flared and ate her words into the record. The sentence landed heavier than any single line had a right to—equal heirs—like someone had upended the world and asked me to step up and not trip on the pieces. Selene’s face was light and small in the way only she could make it: a private smile that said, I am with you, sister.
My brain tried to sort the sound into categories—victory, terror, taxes, levies, a manor, a lake house, wardrobes—and everything came out in a jumble. I wanted to laugh and throw up at once.
Congratulations, Firefly,
Cassie’s voice buzzed through the ring, too sharp and very pleased.
You’re officially no longer background furniture.
Don’t call me furniture,
I thought, which is not the sort of official retort a duchess is supposed to think in the middle of a Solar, but there we were.
Seara lifted her chin and addressed the Solar in the tone a High Lady uses to set law to air. “This court has witnessed a choice of consort made by sovereign will, not by arrangement. Princess Mira Quinveil took a mortal consort by right of her office and by the consent of her people. At first, I called that defiance; I now declare it within her sovereign purview. Princess Cassandra Fairborn has stood beside my daughter and proved herself resolute, clever, and—despite the hardness some of you bear toward mortals—worthy of protection and place within the Firebrand line. For devotion shown, for steadiness lent, and because a queen’s judgment must be honored, I formally adopt Cassandra Fairborn into House Firebrand in perpetuity, without claim to succession.”
The herald’s voice rolled like anvils: “Be it entered: Princess Cassandra Fairborn is hereby adopted into House Firebrand in perpetuity, with no claim to succession. By precedence within this Court, none shall outrank her save the High Lady Seara Firebrand, Princess Selene Firebrand of Emberhall, General Tharion Firebrand, and Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand of Starveil. Let the record show.”
Whispers cracked like dry leaves. Zyrella’s smile thinned; the old poison peeped behind the glamours. Pride and alarm braided across my thoughts—Cassie, my Cassie, formally Firebrand. The word sat heavy and perfect in my mouth.
You do realize,
I sent, fingers sweating at the jewel of my sleeve,
that makes you a princess forever. Even if you run off with some mortal bard and leave me.
Her laugh was a weapon and a comfort.
Please. Last night’s diplomacy plus your face? I’m not going anywhere.
The Solar was still tasting Seara’s words when Zyrella’s voice cut, all syrup and blade. “Words and law are one thing; proof is another. A mortal consort may be sheltered by spectacle, but is she truly joined? I ask for proof of bond, lest this Court be swayed by sentiment over statute.”
The room leaned in. My chest hitched. The guards had wrapped us in modesty the moment we crossed the threshold—Roran’s heat-scent veil and Kael’s sight-smoke to keep prying eyes and hungry courtiers honest. They were shields of professionalism and privacy. I’d asked for them. I’d accepted them. I hadn’t expected they’d be a tool for a political knife.
I looked to Roran. I looked to Kael. They caught my gaze—both: steady, waiting for my call. I stepped forward, voice loud enough for the upper galleries. “Drop them.”
At my command the veils dissolved like morning mist. The chamber inhaled and then choked.
The air filled with scent—Cassie and I braided together into a single note: vanilla folded into citrus and marshmallow, undercut by a heat that tasted like sex and wakefulness. It was the scent of women who had shared a body and a bed within the last dark, not an abstract perfume but the raw signature of arousal and mutual imprint. The Solar’s noble noses were no match; the galleries went slack, mutters snagging on breath.
And there, at Cassie’s throat, the claim-mark showed—white-fanged crescent, a scar of light and wolf-tooth. Sunlight caught it like a herald’s blade. The sign read not of a flirtation but of legal and binding consummation by Summer’s law: the touch of sovereign fire leaving its mark.
The herald’s voice steadied into statute: “By the precedents and Customs of the Eternal Summer, it is declared and entered: that a Queen’s claim-mark is recognized as consummation for the purposes of succession and recognition; only a mating bond shall supersede this claim. Let the record show this proof of bond between Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand and Princess Cassandra Fairborn.” The scribes’ crystals burned as they recorded it.
Gasps fractured the chamber. Zyrella’s face lost the last of its composure in one bright, furious line.
I didn’t look away. My voice came low and feral, less court polish and more animal: “You forget your station,” I said, eyes locked on hers, “but is that proof enough for you, cousin? She is mine, and she now outranks you. Continue to play your petty games—and they will be your demise at my hands one day.”
The words hung—personal and a promise, a thing that tasted like future wars wrapped in the velvet of a court insult. The upper galleries stirred like a field of grass before a storm.
Cassie’s laugh vibrated in my skull, equal parts delight and wicked:
You growl pretty, queen.
Roran’s stance eased a fraction, Kael’s jaw tightened. Seara’s hand tightened at her sleeve—just enough someone near her would notice it was not law but pride that held her fingers there.
The Solar’s tone snapped back to form as the herald intoned the legal entry once more. Seara’s eyes found mine, and for a single breath she was not the High Lady but my mother. Her mouth quirked—pride and warning braided—and I felt something like permission settle into me, heavy as iron and soft as home.
I straightened, crown-light cutting the lines on my face, and did not bow. I did not flare. I held. The record closed, the chambers murmured, and somewhere in the tiered galleries the name Starveil began to echo differently.
The chamber was still adjusting to the shock of Cassie’s new precedence when my mother’s tone shifted, velvet gone sharp.
“A queen crowned and a consort recognized require more than name,” High Lady Seara said, each word polished into law. “They require shield. They require shadow. This Solar will now hear their captains declare the chains of command.”
Heat crawled up my spine. Saints—spectacle. Last night had been instinct in lanternlight; this was about to be carved into record. Half the banners still assumed Roran and Kaelenya belonged to Emberhall.
The herald struck his staff once. “Let those sworn to guard the sovereigns of Starveil declare their allegiance before this Solar.”
Silence drew tight as a bowstring.
Lord Roran Ashvane stepped into the center, crimson mantle catching the fractured sun. Son of Marquis Ashvane of Stormvale—salt, steel, fleets. He did not turn to the dais. He knelt to us.
“I ,” he said, voice ringing iron-true, “to Her Majesty Mira Quinveil Firebrand, Queen of the Glow Court and Duchess of Starveil. And to Her Highness Cassandra Firebrand, her Consort. My shield is theirs. By duty and by oath, I serve as Shield Warden of the Queen, Captain of Her Guard.”
The galleries gasped—the sound of glass hairline-fracturing.
My mother’s scent spiked—burnt orange, clove—and then smoothed, mask unbroken. “Lord Roran Ashvane,” she said silk-slow, “you were sworn to Emberhall. To me.”
His head bowed lower. “I am sworn now to Starveil. To them.”
Every look in the Solar burned between us. My heart thundered hard enough I felt it in my teeth.
My mother’s lips curved, predator-sure. “Then let the Solar see that my daughter claims what she can hold. Let it be sealed.”
You just cut her leash in front of all of them,
Cassie slid through the ring, lemon-smug and warm vanilla underneath.
Try not to faint on your victory.
I didn’t plan this,
I snapped, seam biting my fingertips.
They don’t care. Optics say you did.
Before I could breathe, Lady Kaelenya Veyra left her post—Dawnfire blood, sun-copper hair braided like a weapon. She crossed the floor and knelt—not to my mother, not to me first—but to Cassie.
“I to Her Highness Cassandra Firebrand, Consort of Starveil,” her voice carried, clean steel. “Through her, I to Her Majesty Mira Quinveil Firebrand, Queen of the Glow Court and Duchess of Starveil. My duty is their perimeter and their quiet. By shadow and by silence, I serve as Captain of the Consort’s Guard.”
The hiss that answered was alive—nobles recalculating, some choking on the math of a mortal out-ranking them.
My mother didn’t blink. “Then let the oaths be bound.”
The herald lifted his staff. “By command of the High Lady: the Shield Warden shall bind by blood; the Captain of the Consort’s Guard by Co-Seal Doctrine. Record shall be entered.”
Roran rose enough to draw his dagger, offered hilt-first. My flame shaped to a blade; I cut my palm. Gold-and-silver blood welled bright. He took my wrist, mouth to the wound, and drank.
The whole Solar held its breath. My blood seared through him, the ancient magic under my skin waking like a beast.
Words surged up from marrow—old, harsh, a cadence I’d only ever heard in my mother’s voice. Mine came out jagged but steady:
“Veyth’al dris’ven, syrel mor’ath—shield us, burn for us; never falter, never betray.”
Glyphs flared from the floor, rings of fire and ash rising to coil Roran’s forearm. He answered me with the vow that locked the heat into iron:
“Syran veyth’ala, kael dris’mira.”
My shield is your flame; my life is your law.
The bond snapped into place. I felt him settle inside my orbit—heavy as a wall hammered into my spine. The herald’s crystal blazed.
“Record entered: Lord Roran Ashvane, Shield Warden of the Queen, Captain of Her Guard—bound by blood.”
Whispers crashed and broke across the tiers.
Kaelenya stood ready, jaw set. The herald brought a thin leaf of sunsteel, sigils etched like frost. Cassie extended her hand without shaking—saints, her pulse rattled against mine but she didn’t flinch. Kael drew a neat line across Cassie’s wrist—crimson beading bright.
“Stop,” my mother said, not loud, but the chamber froze.
Her gaze swept the leaf, then us. “The Consort’s blood does not carry binding magic on its own. Princess Mira. Consort Cassandra. Place your cuts together—let the blood fall as one.”
Gasps shivered up the galleries. Consort Cassandra. Not enough magic. Then—like a pebble thrown into deep water, a word that sank straight through me:
“My third-born’s blood will suffice,” my mother added, almost offhand, as if naming a color. The Solar didn’t understand; a few scribes blinked. Selene’s head tilted a fraction. My stomach dropped.
Third…?
I shot at Cassie.
Focus,
she hissed, lemon-white and shaking and fierce.
Later.
We pressed our wrists together. Our mingled blood slid in bright twin drops onto the sunsteel.
Heat roared. The leaf drank it like thirst, sigils igniting. Instinct clawed up again, but this time it wasn’t just my voice—Cassie’s thought braided with mine, and we spoke as one:
“Veyth’anor al’sereth, syrel daem’ven—guard her shadow, guard her light; until death unbinds.”
Kaelenya lowered her cut to the leaf, sealing the triad. Her vow rang clean:
“Kael veyth’anor, syrel daem’ven.”
Shadow binds to shadow; silence binds to flame.
The sunsteel flared white-gold, then vanished, consumed by the binding. Co-Seal Doctrine. Unbreakable.
The herald’s staff struck once, a crack of law through stone. “Record entered: Lady Kaelenya Veyra, Captain of the Consort’s Guard—bound by Co-Seal Doctrine to the Consort Cassandra Firebrand and through her to the Duchess Mira Quinveil Firebrand.”
For a heartbeat, no one breathed. Then the Solar detonated—whispers, rustles, the audible scrape of someone’s chair in shock. Every noble I could see had the same flicker: fear, awe, calculation. Two great houses welded to Starveil—one to my hand, one to my consort’s shadow. Not Emberhall’s. Mine.
I stared at the faint smear of blood on my skin. The glyphs’ afterimage swam in my vision. The tether to Roran sat heavy; the new thread to Kael hummed like a wire. It wasn’t just protection. It was control. My words had set rules their bodies couldn’t break.
We can make them do things,
I thought, nausea and heat warring.
We can make them.
And we won’t abuse it,
Cassie shot back, fierce and low.
But yes. It’s real. It’s ours. It’s terrifying.
A pause, softer.
It’s also how we survive here.
Across the dais, my mother’s smile was small and razor-sure, spun to look like she’d planned every beat. Zyrella’s citrus-ivy went sharp as poison; she had the sense to keep her mouth shut. Selene’s chin lifted—proud, unshaken. Tharion’s scars caught the light; his nod was a blade’s width and meant everything.
The herald spoke the closing line for the record, voice smooth as glass over flame. “Let it be entered: the sovereigns of Starveil are guarded and bound by oath—shield and shadow sworn, command declared.”
I realized my hand was still pressed to Cassie’s. We were both sticky with blood and too hot and shaking just enough that I hoped only she could feel it.
Breathe, Firefly,
she murmured, lemon easing into warm vanilla.
You didn’t just drown. You learned how deep the water is.
I looked out at the sea of banners and blades and beautiful, hungry faces, and for once I didn’t bow. I didn’t blaze. I held.
Chains and wings. Both, at once. And the Solar had watched me choose to wear them.
The Solar hadn’t steadied after the blood oaths. Glyph-light still shimmered on the firestone, faint and searing all at once, my palm sticky with blood I hadn’t managed to wipe clean. My chest rattled with too much heat, too much noise, the scrape of quills, the whisper of banners, every sound too sharp. I wanted five minutes to breathe. I got none.
My mother rose. Crown like a blade, sunlight fracturing across her face.
“A crown carries function,” she said, velvet hammered into steel. “And function demands service. The Solar must now know: will you serve your Court in the capacity of your station?”
The herald’s staff cracked down, a sound that stabbed straight through my ribs.
Every head turned.
Trap, my mind screamed. Blank check. The scribes poised like wolves ready to carve me into law, line by line. If I faltered—weakness. If I said no—insult.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My fingers dug so hard into the seam of my sleeve I felt threads give way.
“I accept service to my Court,” I said. Too steady. Too fake.
The scribes’ tablets flared, binding my words into permanence:
Acceptance of Service—Binding.
The words already owned me before I’d even swallowed them.
Cassie’s thought slid sharp through the bond: You just signed a blank check, Firefly. At least make it look pretty before they cash it.
Shut up, I muttered back, pulse strangling me.
My mother’s smile curved like a knife under silk. “Then let it be entered into record, by consent of the Duchess of Starveil. Obligations shall now be declared.”
The Solar leaned forward. Hungry. Watching me fall into chains I’d just offered myself.
“Clause One: Residences.
“Starveil Manor at Ravenrest Heights and the Silverrow Lake House shall both be maintained under Summer protection as the official seats of Their Highnesses Mira and Cassandra Firebrand. Staffing stipends shall be drawn from Emberhall’s coffers. Personnel shall be selected by Their Highnesses, with all candidates screened and cleared through General Tharion Firebrand’s office, and administered through Lord Roran Ashvane, Shield Warden of the Queen.”
Noise swallowed me. Courtiers whispering—leash and freedom at once.
My
residences, but my mother’s general watching every hand that dared to serve me. Roran’s jaw ticked where he stood behind me; he’d feel every leash too.
My nails dug into my palm hard enough to sting.
Cassie flicked the bond: Guess we’re about to interview a hundred staffers just to fire ninety. Better start practicing your “next!”
I almost snorted. Almost. Instead my chest burned like I’d swallowed smoke.
“Clause Two: Ambassadorships.
“Her Highness Mira Quinveil Firebrand shall serve as Ambassador to Dominveil and Mortal Liaison to the Eternal Summer Court. Her Highness Cassandra Firebrand shall serve as Ambassador of the Glow Court to the Eternal Summer Court.”
Gasps. Hisses. “Mortal” dropped like poison into the chamber. My throat constricted. A liaison, an ambassador, a queen, a duchess. I couldn’t even breathe under the weight of titles.
Half-human, whispered the Solar’s silence. Let her speak for the half-world she belongs to.
Cassie’s thought spiked lemon-sharp: At least they finally admitted you’re perfect for the job. Half human, half fae—who better?
It’s a leash, I hissed back, heart thrumming.
Then yank it when it suits you.
“Clause Three: Education.
“Their Highnesses Mira Quinveil Firebrand and Cassandra Firebrand shall complete their mortal schooling at Ravenrest Heights Academy. Upon high school graduation, they shall pursue higher studies in the mortal realm, such studies to be recognized by this Solar as paramount to their station. Summer obligations shall defer to this pursuit, save in urgent cases of Glow Court necessity, in which precedence may supersede.”
Gasps again. Nobles scribbling furiously. College. Saints, they’d bound
college
into law. I couldn’t even finish breathing one life before they shackled me to the next.
The words blurred. School. Court. Queenship. Ambassador. I couldn’t see where one ended and the other began. My head rang with a thousand bells.
Cassie’s thought slid warm through the haze: Breathe. You’ll get your degree
and
your crown, Firefly. Terrifying, overachieving queen.
Stop calling me that, I snapped, sleeve seam twisted nearly to threads.
Then stop being one.
“Clause Four: Chain of Command.
“Until such time as Their Highnesses establish a permanent guard retinue, the Shield Warden and the Captain of the Consort’s Guard shall operate under direct training and review of General Tharion Firebrand’s office, with Emberhall’s resources extended until their units stand complete.”
A wave of whispers crashed through the Solar. Two noble houses welded to me in blood—and now funnelled back through Emberhall’s oversight. A leash disguised as protection. My skin prickled, tight and wrong, every nerve screaming.
Cassie slid in dry: Translation—you’ve got guards, but your mom’s still the boss of your guards’ homework.
That’s not funny, I bit back, heart spiking.
It’s hilarious. Roran’s going to look murderous grading Kael’s “perimeter quiet” cards.
“Clause Five: Media.
“No press conferences shall be compelled. All mortal and fae media requests shall be routed through the Herald’s Office unless Their Highnesses grant consent.”
The Solar rippled low, approval and disdain tangled. Zyrella’s smirk flared sharp as thorns. She saw it—service painted as privilege, chains disguised as silk.
The herald struck the staff. “By record of the High Lady: obligations declared, service bound, law entered.”
The words hit like shackles closing. My skin crawled under them.
My mother’s gaze held mine across the Solar. Warm. Proud. Sharp enough to cut.
You just signed up to be queen, wife, ambassador, and student all at once, Cassie fired through the bond, lemon-bright and vanilla-warm. Try not to puke on the firestone.
I’m going to puke on you.
That’s not how queens do diplomacy, Firefly.
The Solar whispered and calculated, claws hidden in silk, and all I could do was stand there—sleeve seam torn, lungs burning—knowing my own voice had chained me.
And the worst part? I’d done it with my chin up, like I meant it.
The herald’s staff cracked sharp against the firestone.
“By law and record, the obligations declared are now service bound. Their Highnesses shall give acknowledgment and acceptance before this Solar.”
Every face tilted toward me like knives catching light. My throat closed. Acknowledge. Accept. Saints, it felt like stepping off a cliff.
Smile, Firefly, Cassie sent through the bond, lemon-bright with a curl of vanilla steady beneath. Pretend you planned all this.
I didn’t. My pulse was too loud, my sleeve seam raw under my nails. But I forced my chin up, let the firestone floor’s thrum anchor me.
“My name,” I said, voice steadier than my insides deserved, “is Mira Quinveil Firebrand. Duchess of Starveil. Queen of the Glow Court. Daughter of Summer.”
The chamber stilled—not a cough, not a breath.
“I acknowledge the service bound this day. I accept it—not for myself alone, but for those who look to this Court for light. I will bear the weight laid upon me, because crowns are not ornaments. They are work. They are duty. And I will do that work, in fire and in faith, for Summer and for Dominveil alike.”
The words weren’t polished. Saints, they weren’t even planned. But they rang like something older than me, older than the Solar, and the scribes’ crystals flared almost too bright as they inscribed the record.
Cassie’s thought pressed into mine, fierce and reverent all at once: Saints, Firefly. Do you even hear yourself? That’s not a princess talking. That’s a queen.
Heat clawed behind my eyes, but I didn’t let it break. Not here. Not now.
Cassie stepped forward, her chin lifted with all the stubborn fire I’d fallen for. “I, Cassandra Firebrand, Consort of Starveil, accept the service bound this day. I vow to uphold it in loyalty to my queen, and to honor the bond between the Glow Court and the Eternal Summer.”
The Solar shifted, uneasy at a mortal voice claiming place in its record. But no one spoke against her.
I turned toward the dais. The words caught in my throat—tight, traitorous. “Thank you, Mo—” The slip seared, and I swallowed it down, spine snapping straight. “Thank you, High Lady, for this honor.”
The chamber rustled, whispers darting sharp as needles. My mother’s eyes gleamed like fire caught in amber, her lips curving just enough to betray the steel-soft pride she would never say aloud here.
Cassie brushed my hand, hidden from every watching eye. Through the bond, her voice curled warm, smug, lemon-vanilla wrapped around me: Eleven out of ten, Firefly. Queenship looks good on you.
Shut up, I muttered, but the twitch at my mouth wouldn’t quite die.
The herald’s crystal blazed, binding the moment in fire and stone.
“Let it be entered: Their Highnesses Mira Quinveil Firebrand and Cassandra Firebrand have acknowledged and accepted service, gratitude rendered to the High Lady. Record complete.”
But the chamber didn’t breathe the way it usually did after law was sealed. The Solar hummed with something rawer, heavier. Nobles who’d sneered at me two breaths ago were sitting straighter now, like their spines had remembered something older than spite. A viscountess in Thornspire green touched her chest as though steadying her pulse. Even Zyrella’s perfect smile had frozen, just a fraction, her citrus-ivy scent spiking sharp with discomfort.
Tharion’s scarred jaw shifted — the smallest smile, pride etched like iron. Selene’s amber-gold eyes gleamed, storm-breaking with quiet recognition. And across from them, my mother’s lips curved, too soft for politics, too proud to be anything but maternal — even if she buried it again the next blink.
Cassie’s fingers brushed mine, hidden between folds of flame-colored silk. Her thought slid through the bond like a spark into tinder:
They felt that, Firefly. Every single one of them.
I wanted to argue. Saints, I wanted to deny it. But the Solar’s silence — sharp, breathless, alive — said she was right.
They didn’t want me. They’d never wanted me. But for a single moment, when I’d opened my mouth and let the fire speak, they had leaned forward like subjects before a throne.
Their instincts wanted to follow me, their hatred of my half-breed genetics made that unthinkable and they were struggling with that paradox right now.
The Solar didn’t stop. It never stopped. No breath, no pause.
A new petition was already unrolling in the herald’s hands, his voice ringing with Dawnspire gold. Something about coin. Levies. Saints, numbers were swimming on the inside of my eyelids.
Mask. Smile. Nod.
“Proposal: levy increase across Starveil holdings.”
My throat locked. Saints, I didn’t even—
Sunset clause,
Cassie flicked into my head, citrus-bright, sharp as glass cutting through fog.
Transparency board.
I blinked once, caught the words, spit them back like I’d known them all along. Cassie leaned forward, voice steady, mortal-clean:
“If levies must rise, then let them sunset by season’s end unless this Solar votes renewal. And let a transparency board account for every coin — Starveil will set precedent for open books.”
Whispers stirred. Dawnspire’s golden eyes narrowed, but his nod came sharp. “Carried.”
The scribe’s tablet flared. Law.
Too fast. Too loud. Next.
Marchioness Halewyn’s voice cracked sharp like a gavel:
“Proposal: harsher sentences for mortals who trespass fae lands.”
Heat pricked my skin. My lungs closed. They wanted harsher? They wanted—
“No,” I said, voice rough, sleeve seam burning under my nails. “Mercy buffer. Automatic review before escalation. Mortals first warned, not whipped.”
A snarl of whispers. Zyrella’s smile was too sharp.
Reframe,
Tharion’s voice cut in, steady as a wall. He didn’t even look at me, just rose, bronze eyes hard.
“Tactical de-escalation. Reduce uprisings. Save coin on suppression.”
The chamber hushed. Tactical. Coin. They could stomach those words, even if they choked on mine.
“Referred to committee,” the herald intoned. “Pilot buffer adopted.”
Scribes burned it in.
My stomach turned. My hands shook. Saints, I couldn’t—
But then—Cassie’s hand ghosted mine under the table, hidden. A flare of lemon-vanilla hit my lungs.
One more. This one’s ours.
The herald’s voice cut like crystal: “Proposal entered by Duchess Mira Quinveil Firebrand of Starveil.”
My name. My title. My chest hollowed, fire licking.
I forced my chin up. Words tripped but didn’t fall:
“I sponsor recognition of a Glow Quarter within my Demesne.”
The Solar erupted — gasps, laughter, disbelief. Zyrella’s citrus-ivy spiked bitter.
Cassie rose before the storm could crush me, her mortal voice sharp as a bell.
“The Glow seek civil self-governance within Starveil, under Summer sovereignty. Their matters judged by their own board, their laws kept beneath your law. Not rebellion — stewardship.”
The Solar hissed alive.
Terms layered fast, too fast:
— Civil cases handled by a Glow board.
— Jurisdiction ladder to Starveil court for disputes.
— Ward audits under General Tharion.
— Glyph checks overseen by House Veyra.
— Licensed markets, revenue share Dawnspire-controlled.
— Patrol protocols tied to Roran and Kael.
The words blurred, a storm of rules and clauses. I was drowning in them—
Then Duke Thorne’s volcanic voice cracked through:
“Fireline Clause. In any failure, wards fall to Summer High Command. This ensures no quarter becomes a crack in our wall.”
Murmurs. Nods.
The herald’s staff struck once, firestone ringing. “Vote called.”
My chest stuttered.
“Carried.”
The scribes’ crystals blazed, brighter than all the rest.
“Let it be entered: Glow Quarter Charter established within Starveil Demesne. Fireline Clause appended.”
The Solar roared alive — whispers, fury, awe. I could barely hear it over the rush in my own head.
You just gave the Glow a home, Cassie whispered, lemon-burn sweet in my mind. Her thought wrapped me like a shield.
They’ll write this one down, Firefly. Forever.
I held my mask. I didn’t breathe. Inside, every seam in me was splitting. But outside? I stayed.
Queen.
The Solar adjourned with the herald’s final strike of staff. The sound cracked through my bones, and for the first time since dawn, silence poured in like water. Banners sagged, nobles filed out, scribes clutched their glowing tablets like they were relics.
I stayed still. If I moved, I was going to shake apart.
Cassie’s hand brushed mine under the table, lemon-vanilla warm and steady.
Mask is still up,
she whispered through the bond.
They’re gone, Firefly. You can breathe now.
I wasn’t sure I could.
And then—my mother rose.
High Lady Seara Firebrand, crown blazing like a second sun. She walked down the dais steps slow, every line of her body still court-perfect. I braced—because she was the High Lady, always the High Lady.
But when her eyes caught mine, something shifted. The crown was still there. The fire, the law. But beneath it—Mom.
Not High Lady. Not ruler. Not leash. Just her.
She stopped before us, her gaze sweeping me and Cassie both. For the chamber’s last witnesses, she was still fire-forged perfection. But her voice dropped softer than I’d ever heard in a Solar.
“You stepped into traps,” she murmured, golden-amber eyes steady. “But you set others of your own. Learn with me, and you’ll be unmatched.”
My throat closed. Saints, it wasn’t a warning—it was an invitation.
Cassie straightened beside me. She was braver than me, always braver. “Thank you,” she said, and for once her voice wavered. She blinked fast, then smiled sharp. “For calling me daughter. That meant more than I thought it would.”
My mother’s gaze softened further. A small, dangerous thing, because it wasn’t for show. “By blood or not,” she said, “you are mine. And you make her better. That is enough to make you beloved.”
Beloved.
My sleeve seam twisted hard under my fingers, grounding me. For eight months, I’d thought she hated Cassie—hated me for choosing her. And here she was, calling her daughter.
The Solar was emptying fast, but I couldn’t stop staring. Because for the first time I could
see it
—the line between High Lady and mother. Two faces, one crown. I had always thought they were the same.
They weren’t.
She turned then, her cloak flaring like a second sunset. No bow demanded, no bow given. Just her scent lingering—sun-cedar and clove—and a single nod that said more than any decree.
Cassie’s hand squeezed mine, warm and fierce.
She’s proud of you,
she sent.
“She’s proud of us,” I whispered back, and my voice cracked like glass.
Cassie tilted her head until our temples touched, just barely, her thought raw in the quiet space only we shared.
Firefly… you do know, don’t you? You’re not just their queen. You’re mine. And I’m never leaving—not because of crowns, not because of courts. Because it’s you.
Something in me broke open then—like every seam I’d stitched tight against hope finally gave way.
My mother’s voice carried back once more, quiet but cutting across the chamber as though she’d heard. “Stand tall, daughters of Firebrand. Both of you.”
Daughters.
Saints, it was too much. I didn’t bow, didn’t burn, didn’t break. I just held Cassie’s hand tighter, let the word settle into bone, and let myself believe it.

Chapter 62: Recognition