Ashbourne did not sleep.
Even in the dead hours between midnight and dawn, the city stirred. Shifters patrolled the half-repaired walls. Witches traced ancient glyphs in ash and blood across shattered stones. Enchanters murmured over crystals that hummed with borrowed light. The bones of the Hollow Court’s old throne still lingered in the palace, like the ghost of a crown that refused to be forgotten.
And I was bleeding.
Not from a wound. Not from battle.
From magic.
It spilled through my veins, scalding and brilliant, searing my thoughts, my breath, my skin. Ever since the pact in the throne room, the Flame hadn’t gone quiet. It had grown louder. Wilder. Restless, as if something beneath Ashbourne stirred every time I closed my eyes.
Mira sat across from me in the old war chamber, h
