The flames danced without sound.
Vex stood barefoot on the balcony of her chambers, the stone beneath her still warm from the sunrise. Before her, the Hollow's highest tower overlooked a forest shrouded in smoke. Not from war—but from signal. Watchtowers, built from the bones of dead pines and dead men's mistakes, had been lit one by one across the ridge.
They would see them from the capital. That was the point.
The fire didn't crackle. It hissed.
Behind her, Agni flickered into existence like an afterthought. She said nothing. Neither did Vex. They had moved beyond the need for words.
A knock at the door. Not Rhydir—he never knocked. A quieter sound. Hesitant. Scarred.
Vex turned, her hair cascading down like spilled wine. She was already dressed—loose black silk that clung in the right places, bloodstone rings on her fingers. She didn't need armor anymore. She was the weapon.
A Hollow guard opened the door. She barely nodded.
Then the girl stepped in.
Thin. Pale. Bruised. One leg dragging slightly. Her hands, calloused and burned, trembled as she tried to curtsy. Her mouth opened—no sound. Just her eyes. Wide. Unbroken.
Vex didn't move for three breaths.
Then she crossed the room in a blink and fell to her knees before the girl.
"Irene?" Her voice cracked like a whip—and yet it trembled like a prayer.
The maid's lip quivered. "You remember me, My Lady?"
"How could I forget?" Vex took her hand, saw the scars, the collar mark on her neck—still healing. Rhydir's doing, then. He had found her and brought her home.
"They sold me," Irene whispered. "After… after the trial. They said I knew too much. The Duke signed the order himself."
The Hollow room pulsed with heat. Agni flared beside her, outraged and silent.
Vex didn't shed a tear. She only smiled. Slowly. Serpentine.
"Then they've given me another reason."
"I begged to die," Irene whispered. "But someone found me."
"Rhydir," Vex said.
The girl nodded. "He said you needed me."
Vex did not cry. But she leaned forward and rested her forehead against Irene's.
"Then let them know what loyalty looks like."
⸻
Later, in her private war room, Vex stood before a black altar, her hands dipped in a basin of hot blood and ash.
Before her, a feather—charred, phoenix-black, brittle and burned.
She whispered no words. Magic didn't always need sound. She pressed the feather into a silk-lined box, snapped it shut, and sealed it with a thread of blood from her ring finger.
"Deliver this to Greyhold," she told the Hollow rider waiting at the door. "To the Duke. Let him open it himself. Ride through the main roads. Be seen."
The rider bowed and vanished like smoke.
No explanation. No signature. Just ash and memory.
⸻
The Court of Velgrave reeked of incense and denial.
The King lounged on his marble throne, wine in hand, surrounded by sycophants with painted faces and empty praises. The Queen, ever composed, sat beside him with perfect posture and colder eyes.
Duke Harwain of Greyhold—Vex's stepfather—paced the hall with a fevered restlessness. His face had grown more haggard in recent weeks. He claimed it was age. The Queen knew better.
"Border fires," a general reported. "Patterned. Three towers. Controlled."
The King shrugged. "Bandits. Or perhaps the southern tribes playing with torches again."
"No," the general replied tightly. "No looting. No movement. Just light."
The Queen tilted her head, her fingers frozen on the stem of her goblet. "What color was the fire?"
"Red," the general answered.
A servant burst through the doors, panting, mud-splattered, terrified.
"Your Grace! From Greyhold—a courier arrived." He held up a small, pristine box.
The room fell to hush.
The Queen stood. The Duke reached for the box with trembling fingers and snapped it open.
Ash spilled across the velvet tablecloth like poison.
On top, a feather—blackened, shriveled, still warm.
The Duke recoiled. "No. No—this isn't possible."
The Queen stepped forward, picked up the feather with a gloved hand, and held it to the light.
"She's alive," she murmured.
The King laughed, too loud. "Impossible. The witch was executed. Her body—"
"Was never found," the Queen interrupted.
The court rippled with whispers. Vex. The Fireborne. The Hollow Queen.
The King barked, "Send Thaesen. If she's alive, he'll confirm it. She was his friend once—he'll sniff her out."
The Duke's mouth was dry. "She… she said she'd never return. She swore it."
"She swore vengeance too," the Queen said coolly. "And I rather think she's keeping that promise."
⸻
The Hollow burned with strategy.
Vex stood over her war map, placing bloodstones over cities like chess pieces. Greyhold. Dalvyr. Northmarch. Every location tied to someone who betrayed her. She marked each with a tiny flame.
"Irene," she said without turning, "have the scouts report on Greyhold's garrison movements by midnight. I want to know if they flinch."
"Yes, My Lady," Irene whispered, already moving.
Vex didn't need to look. Irene's presence was felt—like a thread stitched into her spine. She was more than a maid. She was proof.
The door creaked.
Rhydir leaned in, arms crossed, silver eyes gleaming with humor. "Delivering nightmares now?"
She didn't answer immediately. She circled the table, her robes whispering over the stone floor, the firelight turning her eyes molten.
"They thought I'd wait," she murmured. "They thought I'd build a kingdom of ash and never send smoke."
"You could've ruled in peace."
"I offered peace once," she said. "They spat on it. Now I offer silence."
Rhydir pushed off the doorframe, crossing the room with slow, confident steps. He stopped just shy of her shadow.
"I saw Irene," he said quietly. "She'll heal. Eventually."
"You brought her back," Vex replied.
"I owed you."
She looked at him, tilting her head. "Then why do you stay?"
He smirked. "Because I like the way your fire feels when you forget to pretend you're human."
She let that sit between them, heavy as smoke.
Then she turned back to the map. "The Duke will try to run."
"Let him."
"No," she said, voice low. "He'll run to the King. He'll cry wolf, and they'll send wolves of their own. I need him afraid, but breathing. For now."
Rhydir studied her a moment longer. "You've changed."
"No," she said with a smile like a sharpened kiss. "I've just stopped apologizing."
⸻
The next morning, the King of Velgrave was woken not by trumpets or servants, but by a scream.
He burst into the Queen's antechamber, sword half-drawn, only to find her standing barefoot in her chemise, holding another box.
Ash, again. A second black feather.
This time, wrapped in velvet dyed with royal crimson.
The Queen looked up, eyes wide.
"She knows."