Dawn had not yet risen over Ignaria, but the streets were already glowing—partly from the molten rivers that ran between black-glass walkways, and partly from Yvonne Storm's shoulders, which were currently on fire.
Literal fire.
Soft. Warm. Annoying.
He wasn't particularly bothered by the flames; he was bothered by the fact that they refused to dim no matter how many deep breaths he took.
"Relax," he muttered to himself. "Calm. Quiet. Cool—no, not cool, that's a water word. Just... chill? No, that's worse..."
He groaned into the smoky morning air, rubbing one hand over his face. His skin shimmered with ember-like undertones, as if he were forged from fire rather than flesh. His hair curled tightly and glowed faintly at the tips—an annoying side effect of stress.
And Yvonne was deeply stressed.
Because he held a letter.
A letter sealed in obsidian wax.
A royal summons.
For him.
A twenty-three-year-old fire wielder who barely managed to stay out of trouble and occasionally woke up with scorch marks on his sheets.
"Perfect," he sighed. "Absolutely perfect."
A cart rumbled past—pulled by flame-buffalo, steam erupting from their nostrils. The vendor on the back of the cart waved at him.
"Mornin', Storm! Yer on fire again!"
"I know, Murdo," Yvonne called back. "I'm going through something."
"Aren't we all," Murdo replied, then cracked his reins and rolled away.
⸻
Ignaria was waking slowly—its towers of obsidian and magma chimneys glowing with early heat. Sparks floated in the air like lazy fireflies. The sky was streaked with red and orange, permanent colors thanks to the volcanic horizon.
Yvonne's boots clicked on black-glass stone as he walked toward the palace.
Each step left faint, smoky footprints.
Hephaestia's capital was dangerous, chaotic, and relentlessly beautiful. He had grown up running these streets, dodging lava geysers, racing through the smoke tunnels, fighting with kids who threw flaming marbles at each other for fun.
But today, he didn't feel like a fire child of Hephaestia.
Today, he felt like someone walking toward trouble.
He held the letter up again, staring at the harsh handwriting.
Yvonne Storm,
Your presence is required.
By order of Princess Sola Ignis.
Immediately.
He tried to remember anything he might have done wrong recently.
He came up with at least twelve possibilities.
"That's... not comforting," he said aloud.
⸻
The palace loomed ahead, carved directly out of a mountain of cooled volcanic stone. Lava cascaded from the upper levels in controlled waterfalls, creating a curtain of glowing heat around the entrance.
Two guards stood before the door—both tall, both armed, both looking like they'd swallowed hot coal for breakfast.
"State your name," one commanded.
"Yvonne Storm. Summoned by Princess Sola. Against my will."
The guards exchanged a look.
"You're Storm?" the other asked.
Yvonne's flickering eyes narrowed. "Why do people always say it like that?"
"Well..." the first guard began.
