The first time I met the Summer Queen, she was wearing a crown of living fire and smiling like she already owned me.
It was three nights after the Blood Pit uprising, when the air still reeked of ash and old blood, when the city trembled between rebellion and ruin. I’d gone to the eastern tunnels—ruins of the old Fae enclave, where the veil between worlds was thinnest—to search for records on hybrid executions. I wasn’t expecting company. Especially not *her*.
One moment, I was alone, my fingers brushing the cracked stone, tracing sigils that pulsed with forgotten magic.
The next—
Fire bloomed in the dark.
Not mine.
Theirs.
A ring of flame erupted around me, sealing the tunnel, the heat so intense it made my skin prickle, my breath catch. And from the center of it, she stepped—tall, radiant, her skin like molten gold, her hair a cascade of embers, her eyes twin suns that burned with ancient amusement.
“Zara Ember,” she said, her voice like silk over flame. “Daughter of Lysara. Heir to nothing. Destroyer of lies. How *delightful* you’ve come to me.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t draw my blade. Just met her gaze, my storm-gray eyes steady. “I didn’t come for you. I came for the truth.”
She laughed—low, rich, dangerous. “Oh, darling. The truth is a *bargain*. And every bargain has a price.”
I didn’t answer.
Just walked through the fire.
It didn’t burn me.
Because I wasn’t afraid.
And she *hated* that.
Now, weeks later, I stand in the heart of her court—*the Grove of Living Flame*—where trees burn without ash, where the air hums with magic older than the Council, where Fae dance in rings of fire, their bodies shifting between form and flame. The ground beneath my boots is warm stone, veined with gold, pulsing like a heartbeat. Above, the sky is an illusion—painted with stars that aren’t there, clouds that never move. It’s beautiful.
And it’s a lie.
The Summer Queen sits on her throne—a living tree of fire, its branches twisting into a crown, its roots buried in black earth. She wears no crown tonight. Doesn’t need one. Her power is in her skin, in her voice, in the way the fire bends to her will. She watches me approach, her sun-bright eyes unblinking, a slow smile curling her lips.
“You came,” she says, not a question. A *claim*.
“You summoned me,” I say, stopping just outside the ring of fire that marks the boundary of her throne. “I don’t kneel. I don’t bow. But I do keep my word. So here I am.”
She tilts her head. “And what word did you keep, I wonder? That you’d never bargain with Fae? That you’d never trade truth for power? That you’d never stand in my court and *ask* for anything?”
“I didn’t come to ask,” I say. “I came to *hear*. You said you had a favor to call in. So speak it. Before I lose patience.”
Her smile widens. “Such fire. Such *pride*. No wonder he chose you.”
“Don’t speak of him,” I say, my voice low. “This is between you and me.”
“Oh, but it’s not,” she purrs. “Everything is connected, little Ember. The bond. The blood. The fire. The *future*. And I see it all.”
She rises.
The fire around her throne surges, spiraling upward, forming a column of flame that twists into a shape—a vision.
Me.
Standing in the Hollow Maw, my hand raised, fire spiraling from my fingers.
But not alone.
A child.
Half-wolf, half-witch, eyes storm-gray and gold, hair streaked with fire. My child.
And beside me—
Kaelen.
His hand on my back, his fangs bared, his eyes alive with something I’ve only seen once before—*pride*.
And then—
The vision shifts.
War.
Fire in the streets. Wolves howling. Witches burning. Humans screaming. And at the center—me, on my knees, my throat slit, my fire gone, my child’s cry cut short.
“That,” she says, her voice soft, “is what happens if you refuse me.”
I don’t flinch.
Don’t look away.
Just meet her gaze. “You don’t see the future. You see *possibilities*. And I don’t trade in fear. I trade in *truth*.”
She laughs. “Oh, you are *delicious*. But let’s not pretend. You came because you need me. Your infirmary is overflowing. Your people are still hunted in the outer packs. The Vampire Elders are regrouping. And the Fae—*my* Fae—are the only ones who can move between the courts without war being declared.”
“So?” I say. “What do you want?”
“A simple thing,” she says, stepping down from her throne, the fire parting for her like water. “A favor, repaid. You walked through my fire unburned. You took nothing from my vault. You showed *respect*—rare in your kind. So I offer you safe passage for your healers. For your hybrids. For your *truth*.”
“And the price?” I ask.
“One night,” she says. “One night in my court. Not as a prisoner. Not as a supplicant. As a *guest*. You will dance. You will feast. You will speak with my people. And you will listen to what they have to say.”
“That’s it?” I say, suspicious.
“That’s *everything*,” she corrects. “The Fae do not give gifts without exchange. This is not mercy. It is *balance*. You have disrupted the old order. You have burned the Council. You have claimed the Alpha. But you do not yet understand the weight of what you’ve done. And if you do not learn—” She gestures to the fading vision. “—that future *will* come to pass.”
I don’t answer right away.
Just study her. Not her beauty. Not her power. But her *eyes*. There’s something beneath the fire. Not kindness. Not compassion.
*Regret*.
“You lost someone,” I say, sudden. “Someone you loved. Someone you couldn’t save.”
Her smile falters.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
“The Winter Queen,” I say. “She wasn’t always your enemy, was she?”
Her eyes flash. “You overstep.”
“No,” I say. “I *see*. Just like you see me. You don’t want an alliance. You want a *witness*. Someone who’ll remember that the Fae weren’t always divided. That there was a time when Summer and Winter ruled together. Before the Council poisoned the courts. Before they turned you against each other.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Just turns, her fire swirling around her like a cloak. “So. Will you accept my bargain? One night. In exchange for safe passage. For protection. For the chance to save more of your kind?”
I think of Mira, the girl I healed. Of the child with the silver wound. Of Elira, standing before the Council, unafraid.
I think of Kaelen, his hand on my back, his voice in my ear: *“You’re not just fire. You’re healing.”*
And I know—
This isn’t just a bargain.
It’s a *bridge*.
“I accept,” I say.
Her smile returns—sharper this time. “Then welcome, Zara Ember, to the Grove of Living Flame.”
—
The feast begins at dusk.
Not with food.
With *fire*.
A ring of flame erupts in the center of the grove, spiraling upward, forming a great wheel of fire that pulses with rhythm, with music, with *magic*. Fae step into it—male, female, neither, their bodies shifting between form and flame, their voices rising in a song that isn’t sound, but *sensation*. It thrums in my bones, in my blood, in the bond beneath my skin.
Kaelen feels it.
I feel *him*—a pulse in the back of my mind, a growl in my chest, a warning.
*You’re too far from me.*
*You’re in their world now.*
*Come back.*
I close my eyes.
Send him a single thought: *I’m safe. I’m not alone. I’m not afraid.*
The fire flares.
And then—
He’s quiet.
But I know he’s still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
The Summer Queen appears beside me, offering a goblet filled with liquid fire. “Drink,” she says. “It will help you see.”
I take it.
Don’t hesitate.
And I drink.
It doesn’t burn.
It *opens*.
My vision shifts—colors deepen, sounds sharpen, the fire around me *speaks*. I hear whispers—memories, truths, secrets. A Fae woman, weeping over a frozen body. A child, hidden in the roots of a black tree. A pact, broken, sealed in blood and ice.
“You see now,” the Queen says. “The cost of division. The price of pride.”
“And you think one night will fix it?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “But one night can *begin* it. Just as your public claim began the fall of the Council. Just as your healing began the rise of the hybrids. Change starts small. With *choice*.”
I look around.
Fae watching me—really watching. Not with fear. Not with disdain.
With *curiosity*.
And I know—
This is what she wants.
Not obedience.
Not submission.
*Witness*.
So I do it.
I step into the fire.
Not to dance.
But to *speak*.
My voice cuts through the music—clear, strong, unafraid. “I am Zara Ember. Daughter of Lysara. Last of the Emberborn. Co-ruler of Veridian Spire. And I am here not to beg. Not to bargain. But to *remember*.”
The fire stills.
The music fades.
Every Fae turns to me.
“I remember the Blood Pit,” I say. “I remember the ledgers. I remember the names of the hybrids who were taken, who were tortured, who were *erased*. And I remember that some of you—*many* of you—did nothing. You looked away. You stayed silent. You called it peace.”
Gasps ripple through the grove.
But I don’t stop.
“But I also remember the ones who *did* act. The Fae who smuggled hybrids to safety. Who whispered warnings. Who risked their lives to save the truth. And I remember that the Council feared you—not because you were weak, but because you were *free*. Because your magic is not bound by blood. Not by law. But by *choice*.”
I lift my hand.
Fire flares—red-gold, *mine*—spiraling from my palm, weaving into the fire wheel, merging with it, not fighting it, but *joining* it.
“You want me to dance?” I say. “Then I’ll dance. But not for you. For *them*.”
I step into the center.
And I move.
Not like a Fae.
Like a *wolf*.
Like a *witch*.
Like a *woman* who has burned and been reborn.
My body shifts—low, powerful, fluid. My hands carve sigils in the air. My feet strike the stone. My fire weaves with theirs, not to dominate, but to *harmonize*. And then—
One Fae steps in.
Then another.
And another.
Until the fire wheel is alive with movement—Fae and hybrid, flame and fire, past and future, all dancing as one.
The Summer Queen watches.
And for the first time, I see it—
Not triumph.
Not victory.
*Hope*.
—
Later, we sit by the fire—just the two of us, the others dancing in the distance, their laughter echoing through the grove.
“You surprised me,” she says, sipping from her goblet.
“Good,” I say. “You should be.”
She smiles. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you,” I say. “You’re not just fire. You’re *grief*. You’re not just pride. You’re *regret*. And you’re not just bargaining with me. You’re trying to *heal*.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Just looks into the flames. “The Winter Queen was my sister. My twin. We ruled together, once. Before the Council poisoned her mind. Before they made her believe I betrayed her. She froze my heart. I burned hers. And now—” She lifts her hand. A single tear falls, but it doesn’t land. It *ignites*, burning to ash before it touches the ground. “—we are both alone.”
I don’t offer pity.
Just truth. “Then end it. Not with fire. Not with ice. With *memory*. With *witness*. Invite her here. Let her see what you’ve shown me. Let her see that not all bonds are broken. That not all fire has died.”
She looks at me. “And if she refuses?”
“Then you tried,” I say. “And that matters. Just like my mother tried. Just like I’m trying. Just like *you* are.”
She’s silent for a long moment.
Then—
“The safe passage is yours,” she says. “For your healers. For your people. For as long as you need it.”
“And the bargain?” I ask.
“Fulfilled,” she says. “You danced. You spoke. You *remembered*. That was the price.”
I nod. “And the next one?”
She smiles—soft, real, *unafraid*. “There is no next one. Not from me. But if you ever need fire—*true* fire—I will answer.”
—
When I return to Veridian, Kaelen is waiting.
Not in the Hollow Maw.
Not in the chambers.
At the edge of the mountain path, where the wind bites through my tunic and the stars burn cold and bright.
He doesn’t speak.
Just pulls me into him, one arm wrapping around my back, the other cradling my head, shielding me as the world dissolves into fire and need.
“You were too far,” he growls against my hair. “Too long.”
“I was safe,” I say. “I was not alone.”
He pulls back, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine. “You’re *mine*. And I will not lose you to fire. Not even Fae fire.”
“You won’t,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest, over his heart. “Because I choose you. Every night. Every dawn. Every breath.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just kisses me.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and need and something deeper—something fierce, something *protective*. My lips are soft, demanding, my tongue sliding against his like a claim. He gasps, his hands flying to my waist, not to control, not to dominate, but to *hold on*.
He tastes like smoke and iron and something darker—something ancient and wild. The kiss is slow, deep, a collision of fire and fury. My fangs graze his lip, just enough to sting, just enough to make him growl.
And then—
My hand slides under his shirt, fingers burning over his stomach, his ribs, his back—
And the world explodes.
Heat. Light. Fire.
His magic ignites—just for a second, a burst of black-silver flame that licks up his arms, searing the air between us.
I don’t flinch. Don’t pull back.
I just moan into his mouth, my body arching into his, my fingers clutching at his skin.
And then—
He breaks the kiss.
Steps back.
His breath comes in ragged gasps. His lips are swollen. His body aches. His core throbs with a need so deep it feels like a wound.
I stare at him, my eyes dark, my chest heaving. “You feel that?” I ask, voice rough. “That fire? That need? That’s not the heat. That’s us.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just watches me.
And I know—
This isn’t just a moment.
It’s a promise.
—
Later, we walk through the city.
Not with guards. Not with ceremony.
Just us.
The streets are alive—torchlight flickers in the alleys, hybrids stand tall in the open, wolves walk beside witches, humans trade with fae. No more hiding. No more fear.
And then—
A child.
Not more than six. Half-wolf, half-witch, her eyes gold, her hair streaked with fire. She stops in front of us, her small hand clutching a carved wooden wolf.
“Are you really the Alpha?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Yes,” Kaelen says.
“And you?” she asks, turning to me.
“I’m Zara,” I say, kneeling. “And I’m here to make sure no one takes your wolf away.”
The girl smiles.
And hands me the toy.
I take it—slowly, carefully—and press it to my heart.
“Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “I’ll keep it safe.”
And as we walk away, I feel it—
Not just the bond.
Not just the fire.
Home.
And for the first time, I believe it.
This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.
Of the truth.
Of the fire.
Of us.