Page 9 of Burn of the Everflame

Cordellia snatched the letter and tucked it in her belt. “We’ll discuss it.”

“It’s time for you to go, Mireille,” Auralie said frostily. “Tell the Crowns if they have any more invitations like these, they best deliver them by hawk. The next messenger you send won’t leave here alive.”

3

LUTHER

The Crowns of Emarion extend an invitation to the Guardians of the Everflame to negotiate the terms for a proposed agreement of peace.

The light of the campfire danced across the paper as I reread the words again and again. Over the hours I’d been studying the message, the text had seemed to come alive, morphing from elegant, handwritten letters into sharp rows of tiny soldiers, lined up and awaiting the order to strike.

“What do you think?” Teller asked. He was seated beside me, hunched over with elbows on his knees. His shrewd focus was not on the note, but on me.

I glanced back at the invitation. The rest contained other pertinent details—where (the Lumnos palace) and when (the start of spring, in two weeks’ time)—and repeated assurances that all those in attendance were guaranteed safe passage “notwithstanding any past or current crimes.”

But it was the very first line that caged my attention.

“You don’t trust the invitation?” Teller asked.

“The Crowns don’t even trust each other. They will go into this meeting anticipating a betrayal. We’d be fools if we didn’t do the same.”

“So you think Mother was right to say no?”

I held the letter out to him. “Tell me what you see.”

He slowly skimmed each line, deliberating over each word’s meaning, just as I had done. He chewed his lip in thought, the spitting image of his sister—the same furrowed brows, the same defiant frustration at a puzzle that didn’t fit.

Reminders of her were everywhere, but nowhere more clearly than in her mother and brother. The Bellators were a family unmatched, each unique in their own way, but sharing the same burning, passionate core.

I saw nothing of myself in my own sister, physically or otherwise. Everywhere that I was dark and angry, she was joyful and bright. I was the imposing Prince who commanded rooms. Lily was the sparkling Princess who made them come alive.

Diem and her brother had their differences, too. While she was impulsive, Teller was careful, holding back until he was certain of every move. Still, they were two sides of a coin, molded by loving parents who raised them in their image. Divided as they were at the moment, I had no doubts the Bellators’ bond would survive. Family was everything to Diem, and I knew it meant a great deal to Teller and Auralie, too.

That’s why I’d stayed here instead of returning to Lumnos. Protecting Diem’s family was the closest I could get to protecting my Queen—and a part of me hoped that someday I might have the honor to call them my family, too.

Teller frowned at the paper. “This first sentence . . . they didn’t address it to my mother directly. They addressed it to the Guardians. Was that deliberate?”

“Every word in that letter is deliberate.”

He thought for a moment. “The Descended always use proper titles. They take hierarchy seriously.”

“Very seriously,” I agreed. “My father used to burn my tongue with light magic if I didn’t address the highest-ranking Descended in a room first.”

I froze at my own admission—I’d never told that story to anyone.

Sympathy washed over Teller’s face, followed by rage. “Did he do that to Lily, too?”

“No. I tutored her on title etiquette myself.”

I held back the rest—that my father had only allowed it after I agreed to take his punishments on my sister’s behalf for every mistake she made.

“Then why wouldn’t they address this letter to my mother? Is it because she’s a mortal? Or . . .” Teller’s gaze shifted to a tent nearby. Its canvas walls were illuminated by the glow of a lantern, revealing the silhouettes of two women in animated conversation. “Maybe they suspected she would say no, and they wanted the Guardians to defy her.”

I looked around at the mortals gathered by the fire. Though Auralie and Cordellia had quickly retreated to speak in private, their tension had ripple effects in the camp. Enduring the Fortos King’s torture without revealing the Guardians’ secrets had earned Auralie a godlike status among the rebels, but now they huddled together, debating in hushed voices whether her choice to refuse the Crowns’ invitation had been strategic or selfish.

Teller tapped the letter. “Haven’t we been hoping for the Crowns to give in and ask for help?”

“Yes, but we thought they would ask for help from Diem. This was meant to be her army. If the Crowns are coming directly to the rebels⁠—”