Shadows Of The Flame

CHAPTER TWO: THE FIRE AWAKENS

Darius

The worst part of being a prince is the morning.

I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is silk. Gold. The canopy above me—embroidered with the Aurelius crest, a flaming sword crossed with a thorned crown. I’ve stared at that stitching for twenty-five years, and I hate every thread of it. Dawn breaks through the tall windows, pale and weak, barely offering warmth. The sunlight catches the edges of the room, but it feels more like an intrusion than a blessing.

In ten minutes, servants will arrive, pulling me from my bed like some puppet. They’ll dress me in the costume of a prince—more of a doll being prepared for display than a ruler. The thought makes my stomach twist.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling.

A thousand thoughts storm through my head, but one stands out above the rest: What would it feel like to wake up somewhere else? Somewhere no one knows my name, somewhere the blood running through my veins doesn’t matter?

I imagine a cottage or a tent in the Outlands. I imagine a life that isn’t bound by duty, by the suffocating expectations of the throne. But I quickly pushed it away. Stop being dramatic—you're a prince, not a martyr, so stop wallowing.

I throw off the covers and make my way to the window. Below, the servants scurry between the kitchen entrance and the well, and the guards patrol the outer wall.

Beyond them, like a shadow stretching over the land, the Thornwood waits. I press my palm against the cold glass, feeling its chill seep into me.

Somewhere out there, a version of me is free; I can almost feel it, that other life, but it’s childish. Cassian is the heir, the golden one. I am the spare. The contingency plan in case the real prince breaks. And I’m tired of being the contingency.

The door opens with a soft creak.

"Good morning, Your Highness," Aldric says, his ancient voice as dry as ever. I turn, trying to ignore the exhaustion that already hangs over my shoulders like a heavy cloak. "What horrors await me today?"

Aldric, as always, doesn’t smile. "Your father requests your presence at breakfast. A council meeting at midday. And Lady Mirabelle of House Ruskal has sent a letter expressing her desire to..."

"Burn the letter."

"Your Highness."

Tell Lady Mirabelle I’ve contracted a rare skin condition or that I’ve taken a vow of silence. Just... tell her anything that spares me an afternoon of poetry about my eyes."

Aldric inclines his head with the same stiff formality. "Breakfast, Your Highness?" I sighed, rolling my eyes as I turned away from the window. "Fine. Breakfast."

The great hall is as cold as it is grand. My father sits at the head of the long table, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, eyes fixed on his poached eggs as though they have personally offended him.

Cassian sat beside him, golden-haired, golden-skinned, golden-everything. He’s the prince everyone expects, the one everyone loves. And me? I take my seat at the far end, as far from my father as physically possible. Not an accident.

"Darius," my father’s voice cuts through the quiet. His tone is heavy, like the weight of his displeasure rests in every word. "You are late." I glanced at the clock—breakfast was scheduled for dawn. It’s dawn, and I’m here. Punctual, if nothing else.

My father’s jaw tightens. Cassian hides a smirk behind his goblet.

I reach for a bread roll, but the dry taste in my mouth reminds me of one thing—everything here feels like an obligation. The council meeting today, my father continues. "You will attend."

Will I?

His eyes lifted from his eggs, cold and calculating, fixing me in place. "You are the prince of Veldaris. It’s time you started acting like one." I chewed slowly, letting the words sink in. "I was under the impression Cassian was the prince of Veldaris. I am merely the spare."

Cassian coughs, barely hiding his amusement. My father’s grip tightens on his fork. You are both princes, my father snaps. You will both serve this kingdom in whatever capacity I decide. Do I make myself clear?

I’m about to say something biting—something that will make him understand how suffocating this life is. But the words catch in my throat.

The fight I’ve had with my father for years with his endless expectations is exhausting.

Instead, I take a breath. Perfectly clear. I will attend the council meeting. I will nod at the designated moments and be the very picture of a dutiful son.

My father stares at me, his gaze like ice, before returning to his food. Silence fills the space between us. Cassian finally speaks up, asking for more wine.

The council meeting is exactly as tedious as I expected.

Six lords and three ladies argue about grain taxes, border patrols and whether the Thornwood’s recent expansion is a genuine threat or merely seasonal.

I sit in my designated chair, my attention drifting in and out as they drone on, nodding, glancing, pretending to care, while the shadow of the Thornwood in my mind grows, and the way it stretches over the land tells me something has changed.

..." Thornwood has never moved this aggressively," Lord Mireven’s voice cuts through my thoughts. "Something is wrong. The words snagged my attention.

I think of the forest, patient and dark, waiting for something, and then I remember the servant, her deliberate, unflinching walk, her stillness, and for a moment, it almost feels like she was watching me.

Prince Darius? Lady Velthorne’s voice is like gravel. I blink, and the table is staring at me, my father’s gaze sharp and cold.

"My apologies. What was the question?" I mumbled.

Lord Mireven clears his throat. "Whether you have any thoughts on the Thornwood situation, given your family's... connection to the forest."

Connection? The word grates against me. What they call a connection, we call a curse. The Blood Tithe. The thing my family has been bound to for centuries.

Every thirty-three years, we pay the price. A sacrifice was made to the forest, and I am part of that cycle. The forest is in my blood as much as the throne is. And though I sit here as a prince, this kingdom’s history is written in roots and shadows.

I sit back, forcing myself to focus, and say, my voice even, “I think Thornwood is not our enemy but a symptom, and the disease is in this room.” The room goes silent.

Lord Mireven’s face flushes red. My father’s gaze hardens and his jaw tightens like stone.

I smile, but it’s not a pleasant one. "I only mean that we spend too much time managing crises and not enough time asking ourselves what’s causing them. What bargain did we make centuries ago, and what are we still paying?"

I pause, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. "But I am only the spare. My thoughts are hardly relevant."

Lady Velthorne mutters, "Perhaps we should adjourn." The meeting ends, but the unease lingers in the air. The nobles flee, but my father’s shadow falls over the table, cold and heavy.

"In my study," he says, his voice sharp.

I stand before my father in the cold study, where the fire crackles like a warning and the weight of his anger hangs heavy in the air.

You embarrassed me today.

"No," I say. "I embarrassed myself. You merely took it personally."

He slams his hand against the desk, the crack echoing through the room. Heat surges in my chest as my ember magic stirs in response—but I keep it down, for now.

“You have given me a cage, and you call it a palace,” I say, my voice cold, but it is a cage.

He glares at me, his eyes blazing, but there's something else there, something familiar in his anger—something I've spent my life fearing. He never strikes, not physically, but I feel it in the air, the same threat he's carried for years.

Instead, he draws a slow breath, his voice quieter now, but no less menacing. "You will attend the Masquerade of Ashes tomorrow night.

You will stand at my side and smile for the court, and you will dance with Lady Mirabelle. And you will not say a single sarcastic word. Do you understand?"

The Masquerade of Ashes. A cruel tradition. Nobles dressing as beggars to mock the starving. A celebration of everything wrong with this kingdom.

"Of course," I say, my voice a mockery of politeness. I will be the very portrait of grace.

"Get out," he growls.

"I got out," I mutter under my breath.

I don't return to my chambers; instead, I walk through the long gallery, past the statues of kings who were never truly alive. I

I step into the eastern gardens—the only part of this palace that doesn’t make me want to burn it down.

The garden is overgrown, wild and stubborn. Dark roses climb the walls, and ivy chokes the fountains. No one comes here—and that's why I love it.

I sink onto my usual bench beneath the willow, closing my eyes as the peace of the place washes over me—my head aches, my chest feels heavy, but this is the only place I can breathe. The sound of footsteps snaps me out of my thoughts. I open my eyes and there she is.

A woman in a servant’s tunic, her dark hair in a loose braid, pale skin glowing under the moonlight. Her eyes—the color of winter skies are fixed on me. Her gaze is sharp, unreadable. She stands at the edge of the willow’s shadow, perfectly still, like a blade waiting to be drawn.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

She’s not supposed to be here. The eastern gardens are forbidden—a servant caught trespassing would be dismissed, or worse. But she doesn't flinch. She stands like someone who conquered fear long ago and forgot to be afraid.

Well," I say, breaking the silence. "You are lost."

She doesn’t blink. "Am I?"

Her voice is rough, unlike any servant I’ve ever heard. She’s not afraid of me. And that... that makes something stir in my chest. Curiosity? Intrigue? Something I can’t control. You’re in the eastern gardens, restricted and punishable, I say. The palace doesn’t welcome trespassers.

I didn’t know, she replies, her tone flat. "I’m new." New. And you decided to wander into the royal gardens?

I got lost, she says simply.

"You don’t look lost."

What does loss look like?

Her question catches me off guard. She’s sharp, too sharp for a servant. I feel it in the way she holds herself—like she’s seen things, felt things most people haven’t.

I should have her thrown out. But I don’t. You're not afraid of me, I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.

"No."

"Why?"

Her jaw tightens. A dangerous, hidden thing flickers in those ice-blue eyes—then, like a flame blown out by the wind, it’s gone.

Should I be? She asks, her tone low and calm.

"Most people are," I answer.

"I’m not most people."

She walks away, each step like a promise. Dangerous and unpredictable. Her name is Sera Nightshade, a servant but not a servant; I don't believe it for a second.

And I have to know why she’s here and what she’s hiding. For the first time in years, I feel a spark of something alive in the cold ash, and it’s far more dangerous than boredom.