A grand manor in the mountain capital—ancestral seat of the Nightingales—glowed with silver lanterns and firelit warmth. Snow dusted the high eaves, while inside, velvet curtains swayed with the hush of winter wind. Tonight, they were hosting distinguished guests.

  The king and queen had arrived—noble in bearing, though no longer in their prime.

  The king wore a layered cloak over a high-collared doublet, tailored trousers tucked into polished boots, and gloves stitched with house sigils. The queen stood in quiet majesty, her gown a blend of frost-blue velvet and plum-damask, square-necked and fur-lined for the season. Her sleeves were a marvel—layered silks slashed with silver, the inner folds revealing traces of warmth. Every detail about her whispered of elegance shaped by restraint.

  Seated between her and Lady Lilia was a small girl.

  Silver hair fell in soft waves around her face, and blue eyes darted anxiously across the room. She wore a high-waisted navy gown with puffed sleeves, a pale gold sash tied in a careful ribbon, and white gloves faintly glowing with subtle charm-threading. Her fur-lined cloak—too large for her still—pooled like fallen snow across her chair.

  She was trying very hard not to fidget.

  Too many strangers. Too many stiff smiles. She would rather be chasing wolves through the frost-kissed wilds of the north.

  Queen Meriane, elegant but gently warm, leaned toward her and made polite conversation. She spoke with the quiet, practiced hope of someone who had never been blessed with a daughter.

  But the girl’s attention had begun to drift.

  She was waiting for dessert.

  Ice cream with flame syrup.

  The syrup had been specially brewed to ignite safely. Most adults received theirs already alight—a theatrical blaze crackling across a mound of frozen sweetness.

  The little girl’s portion came unlit. Too young, they said.

  She didn’t mind. The cold sweetness was enough.

  Except… her nose had started to tickle.

  And the sneeze she’d been holding in finally won.

  Fwoosh.

  A puff of flame burst from her mouth—and to everyone’s surprise, it caught. The syrup flared, a brilliant, flickering blaze.

  …Then the fire jumped. Onto her napkin. The centerpiece. The candles.

  In an instant, the table was ablaze.

  King Calven surged to his feet, voice thunderous. “How dare you try to harm my wife, you pyromaniac assassin!”

  Lord Corvan Nightingale was on his feet just as quickly. “How dare you accuse my grand-niece of such madness!”

  Their eyes locked across the flaming feast. The air shimmered with rising magic—tense, crackling, coiled like a drawn bow.

  With a silent signal, both ruler gestured.

  Their knights, ever-trained, tossed swords across the room with perfect precision.

  Calven caught his in a single motion. His glove flared—copper-threaded Runeart crackling with blue light. A sword of lightning sprang to life in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he fired.

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  Corvan was ready.

  His own glove surged with silver, a translucent sigil forming instantly—a shield of force. The bolt struck it with a crack, throwing up sparks and shattering half the wineglasses on the table.

  Corvan retaliated. His blade carved the air in a perfect arc—sending a slicing wave of wind across the room. Plates flipped. A candied goose launched into a chandelier.

  Calven’s spectral shield rose just in time. The wind struck it with a concussive boom, pushing the entire table three feet backward with a screech across the marble.

  Then, they collided.

  Lightning met wind. Shield struck shield. Ancient grudges flared to life.

  Somewhere, the musicians—bless their dedication—tried to adjust the tempo of their performance to match the rhythm of combat, all while dodging flying cutlery.

  “Aira,” Raven interrupted, eyebrow raised. “I think you’re starting to wander off from what really happened.”

  Aira froze mid-motion, one of her painted cards held like a tiny sword. Steam from their teacups drifted lazily between them.

  She blinked. Then shrugged.

  “Well, how am I supposed to make sneezing sound entertaining for Shadebinder?”

  Don’t pin it on me,

  Shadebinder said dryly.

  …But I do like the duel version.

  Mary, ever calm, sipped her tea. “So. Did you actually sneeze-fire at your dessert?”

  Aira sighed and gently set her cards down, arranging them as she remembered the table from that night.

  “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

  The real memory was quieter.

  Most guests hadn’t noticed at first. Just a little sneeze. But then came the smoke... and the small, unmistakable blaze curling atop the dessert.

  Aira had awakened her sorcery.

  Rare—but not unheard of at that age.

  She clapped her hands over her mouth, mortified.

  Queen Meriane leaned over, eyes warm. “Darling… did you just sneeze fire?”

  Aira mumbled through her fingers. “...Maybe?”

  Lady Lilia didn’t miss a beat. She calmly took out a handkerchief, helping Aira blow her nose.

  “It’s alright, little star. These things happen.”

  She gathered the girl into her lap and held her close.

  “We were planning to go to Sundale anyway,” she said gently. “There are sorcerers there who can help you learn to control it.”

  Aira sniffled, but nodded. Then glanced toward her dessert with quiet longing.

  In the present, Aira took a slow sip of tea.

  Raven leaned casually on the bench beside her. “The queen sounds like a nice person.”

  “She is,” Aira said. “Former queen now… but yes. She always treated me kindly.”

  I liked both versions,

  Shadebinder chimed in.

  Very informative. Very flammable.

  Just then, a soft chime jingled from the waitress’s belt. She approached with a graceful curtsy, her layered skirts swishing like silk in the snow. Her apron was stitched with snowflake motifs, and a silver feather charm dangled from her cap.

  “Thank you for visiting Frostpetal,” she said, with a practiced but pleasant smile. “Your total comes to ten glyphs, Lady Aira.”

  “Of course,” Aira replied, drawing a folded parchment from her coat. She handed it over with two fingers, the ink shimmering faintly in the tea shop’s light.

  The waitress bowed and glided away like falling snow.

  Raven chuckled. “So… what are those parchments you’ve been paying with?”

  “Oh—those?” Aira reached into her coat and pulled out a few more. “Glyphs.”

  She handed one over and began packing up her cards.

  Raven studied the parchment. It was thicker than normal paper—almost like old leather turned to vellum. Its surface held a dry, fine texture. Crisp black ink ran through silver-threaded script, a central rune shaped like an X dominating the design.

  Along the bottom: a storm-wrapped mountain, haunted by shadows.

  At its peak: a Stormclaw—wings outstretched, talons poised, feathers etched with sharp symmetry. Regal. Fierce.

  To the side, an oval portrait: a woman in high-collared armor. Her eyes were sharp as a drawn blade. Her crown bore runes too small to read.

  Aira gently plucked the glyph from his fingers. “Come on,” she said. “Time to pick up the pastry.”

  Her grin turned just slightly devious. “And for you to see what I plan with it.”

  She gave a dramatic, slightly villainous laugh as she spun toward the bakery lane, cloak flaring behind her like ink on snow.

  By the time they reached their destination, the sun had dipped behind the mountains. The sky bloomed in shades of amethyst and molten gold.

  Streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting soft halos across cobblestones. The air had a sharpness to it now—clean, cold, laced with the scent of frost and pastry.

  And between the three of them, they carried fifteen trays of pastries.

  The gate ahead gleamed faintly, its wrought-iron vines and sunburst emblem catching the last of the dusk light. Shadows gathered around its edges, giving it a ghostly, almost reverent beauty.

  It felt as though the city had fallen quiet—day turned to hush, breath turned to fog.

  Aira paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the gate’s bronze knuckles.