For the first time in years, the prince dismissed the guards.
He didn't say why.
He simply stood at the balcony after Lira left and whispered something into the flame — and the fire obeyed.
The guards vanished.
The halls emptied.
And the palace began to shift.
Like it, too, sensed that something ancient had been stirred.
Something fragile.
Something dangerous.
Lira wandered through the eastern wing, guided by the maid again.
But this time, the girl didn't speak.
She only looked at Lira with something between fear… and awe.
The silence followed them like a shadow.
Until the girl whispered, "He's changing."
Lira looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"The prince," the maid said, without meeting her eyes. "He hasn't spoken like that to anyone in years. He doesn't explain. He doesn't ask. He commands."
She stopped walking. Her voice dropped lower.
"And he never, ever lets people live after they touch the cursed altar."
Lira didn't flinch. "Then why am I still here?"
The maid just shook her head.
"I don't know. But whatever you did… the fire saw it. And now, nothing in this palace will ever be the same."
He was watching her.
From the tower.
From the shadows.
From the flame itself.
He tried not to. He tried to focus on the scrolls, on the sealed war maps and crumbling prophecies in the royal archives.
But his eyes drifted.
Back to her.
To the girl who looked into his fury and didn't flinch.
To the only soul the flame didn't reject.
His fists tightened. The magic surged.
He hated it.
He hated how calm she made him feel.
How easy it had been to speak to her.
How much it scared him that he wanted to speak again.
And yet…
He was already calling for her again.
That night, Lira was summoned to the tower.
No one had entered it in over a decade.
They said it was where the flame lived.
Where the bloodline was tested.
Where madness began.
She walked anyway.
Barefoot again. No fear.
She pushed open the heavy iron door—and saw him standing at the center of a ring of fire.
It didn't touch him.
It circled him, like it bowed to him.
He turned.
His eyes were golden again. Not glowing. Just… tired.
"Sit," he said.
She did.
No throne. No guards. Just stone floor and firelight.
He stared at her for a long moment.
"I don't sleep," he said suddenly. "When I do, I see things I shouldn't. I hear screaming. I wake with fire on my hands."
Lira didn't interrupt.
He looked down. "But last night… it was quiet. The first quiet in years."
He looked up again — into her.
"You were in it."
She didn't know what to say.
He stepped closer.
"The flame inside me is not kind. It devours. But when you touched me…" He trailed off.
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Because she already knew.
She had felt it too.
The fire hadn't pulled away from her.
It had leaned closer.