Page 257 of House Ignis

He smelled like war, victory, and home.

“My darling daughter,” my mother said softly.

The world tilted. She was glowing, her auburn-blonde hair cascading like spun silk and her green eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Her fairy-silk gown flowed gracefully around the gentle swell of her belly.

Gods… she smelled like home. And heartbreak. I folded into her arms, grounding myself in the familiar scent of jasmine and warm rain. When I finally pulled back, her cheeks were wet.

“Mother,” I breathed, my own voice wavering.

“Daughter.” She smiled through the tears, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face just as she had when I was small.

Then my father pulled me back into his embrace. “We missed you,” he said, pressing a firm kiss to my cheek.

When I stepped back, he didn’t let go completely. His hands stayed heavy on my shoulders, studying me.

His gaze moved over my face, my stance, and the way I held my chin.

He was measuring me. He was searching.

Searching for Jax.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. He wanted to see his son in me. He wanted me to be the ghost of the perfect heir, the warrior prince who had burned brighter than any of us.

His throne was waiting for me—once I finished at the Academy, once I proved myself worthy.

His eyes softened with pride, but beneath the surface, there was something sharper.

Expectation. Always the crushing weight of expectation.

Ezra and Ember stepped forward beside me, their movements effortless and refined from years of surviving the razor-sharp scrutiny of court.

Together, they dipped into smooth, practiced bows—shadow and flame moving in perfect, lethal unison.

“Your Majesties,” they said, their voices steady.

My father acknowledged Ezra with a sharp, curt nod.

It was a look of approval, the kind he reserved for warriors he respected but did not yet fully trust. His fire-bright gaze lingered on the Umbra male only briefly before shifting, softening in a way that felt almost sacred.

Because my mother was already moving toward them.

“Oh, Ember,” she breathed. Her voice alone was enough to fracture the rigid tension of the hall.

Ember straightened slowly, and for a heartbeat, I forgot how lethal she could be.

I forgot the way she moved in battle like wildfire made flesh.

Under the chandelier light, she looked painfully, achingly familiar.

Gods, she was the spitting image of my mother.

The same auburn fire lived in her waves.

She had the same sharp green eyes, capable of cutting a man open with a single glance, and the same proud lift of the chin that refused to bow—not even to kings.

House Ember blood did not run quietly; it roared.