*Selene*
I do not sleep.
The flame that burns inside me will not allow it.
It throbs like a secondary heartbeat—louder than the first. I feel it pounding inside my flesh, surrounding my bones with a thousand hidden promises. Not heat. Not strength.
Hunger.
Not for blood.
For *more*.
More knowledge. More control. More truth about what I am now.
Julian is in the other room. I can hear him breathing, deep and restless. He pretends to sleep, but never actually does anymore. I've changed him too—his reality ripped wide apart like a ribcage. Monsters don't just live anymore. They live with him. Sleep on his couch. Drink his coffee. Fight glowing-eyed demons in dark alleys.
And yet, he stays.
Still, he likes *me*.
But that won't protect him.
Riven was right. The Crimson Court won't be satisfied with a warning. Lucien's assault was a sample, not a test. They'll hit harder next time.
Which means I have to stop reacting.
I have to strike first.
⟡
By noon, I'm at Velvet Veins.
The club is less crowded than usual. Strange for a Saturday.
The dance floor is dark. The lights are off. And behind the bar, Riven is cleaning a glass he doesn't even glance at.
"You look like hell," he mutters without looking up.
I slide onto the stool. "Feel like it too."
He raises a brow when he finally sees me. "Still burning?"
I nod. "Worse now."
"Good. You'll need it."
"For what?"
He puts the glass down and leans forward. "You need a mentor."
"I have you."
No, he sneers. "You've got me as half-dead bartender who shoves you every now and then toward survival. What you need is someone who knows Solkari power. Someone who's seen real war."
"You know someone?"
Riven nods. "She'll demand pay."
"I don't have anything."
"You have blood."
My spine stiffens. "I'm not giving—"
"Not *your* blood," he interrupts. "Your flame. She survives on power. And she might get you. if you burn hot enough.".
I clench my eyes together. "Who is she?"
He leans forward. Lowers his voice to a whisper.
"They call *Ashara*. Banished Solkari queen. Oracle of fire and fury from a millennium past. She resides in the tunnels of Old Eros."
I open my eyes again. "The underground tunnels you mean?"
"The ones that no cartographer would venture to mark? Yeah. She resides in shadows where the ancient city continues to catch its breath. You go to see her, Selene… you do not go as prey."
I stand up. "Tell me how to find her."
Riven regards me slowly, with a look of pity.
"Take a match," he says. "And set it aflame where the shadows do not move."
⟡
That night, I navigate through the underside of Eros.
Through the rusty fences and abandoned stairwells. Down into the catacombs beneath the neon.
The deeper I go, the warmer it becomes. As if the earth itself were holding its breath.
Finally, I find a wall covered in ash-stained runes. I trace the symbols with my fingers—and the stone melts.
Behind it, a room blazes with red flames. The walls pulse like veins.
And at the center of it all, seated on a throne of melted bone and metal, sits *Ashara*.
She stands tall, wrapped in burned silks that wave like fingers of living ash. Her face is black as coal, but her eyes burn like white stars. Her voice, when she speaks, is low and song-like and horrifying.
"You brought fire to my nest, little phoenix."
I drop to my knees before I even realize I'm doing it. Not in submission—but in instinct.
"I need your help," I say.
"You need *yourself*," Ashara sings. "But speak your plea to me, girl of flame."
"The Crimson Court desires my death."
"They desire to *own* you," she corrects. "You're too alive to kill. But not yet strong enough to hold."
"Then instruct me."
Ashara rises from her throne and circles me, eyes blazing like flames against skin. "Why should I offer you my time, child of the spark?"
"Because if I die," I whisper, "they'll bind your fire next."
That freezes her. Then grins.
"Clever tongue."
She lifts a hand—and flame erupts from her palm. Not red, not gold.
*White*.
Pure Solkari fire.
She pushes it into my chest—and I scream as it engulfs me.
Pain.
Ecstasy.
Power.
Ashara smiles, pleased.
"Lesson one," she breathes. "You are not the flame's slave. You are its master."
⟡
The training begins in silence and ends in flame.
I don't remember it all.
Ashara doesn't teach like Riven. No words of wisdom. No warnings. Only power. Devouring, burning, merciless power.
She draws out the magic of me like venom from a wound.
Every time I fall, I get back up.
Every time I cry out, I burn more.
Until at last, I stand in the center of the room—flames curling around my body like shields—and Ashara nods once.
"You are not ready for war," she tells me. "But you are ready to make a decision."
"Choose what?"
She cocked her head.
"Are you a symbol?"
Or a *weapon*?
⟡
I go back to Eros and see Julian standing on my fire escape.
He is holding a coffee in his hand. No cap. He knows I don't like them.
"You have soot on your face," he says.
I take the coffee, drink, and regard him. "You have worry in yours."
"I'm not very good at pretending."
"Good," I say. "Don't do it now."
We sit there in silence for a moment.
Then I ask, "Would you still love me if I ignited the world and it burned up?"
Julian doesn't blink.
"I'd give you the matchbook."
This makes me laugh—laugh softly, stifled, relieved.
And then I look over him.
Across the way.
And catch sight of a red envelope affixed to our door.
I walk over, rip it open.
A black invitation card printed with crimson ink inside.
Perfect, curled-out handwriting.
> *Selene Marlowe,*
> *The Crimson Court cordially invites you to parley.*
> *Midnight. The Glass Cathedral. Come alone.*
> *—L.V.*
I carefully fold it and look back at Julian.
His jaw tightens.
"You're not going alone," he says.
"I have to."
"No, you don't."
I tuck the card into my pocket and look up at the sky.
Eros shines. Beaming light from every window, every corner.
But I don't see the city anymore.
I see the battlefield.
And it starts with this.
"I'm finished hiding," I whisper. "Bring them on."
Julian is at my side.
"You're not a symbol," he says to me. "You're a *storm*."
I smile.
No.
I am not a symbol.
I am not even a storm.
I am fire.
And tomorrow, the Crimson Court burns.