Elaria stirred under Vex's shadow like a beast beginning to stretch.
The Hollow was only its heart—but its veins ran far, and its teeth were sharp. In the last fortnight, three watchtowers fell silent. Patrols from Greyhold turned back at unseen borders. Supply routes twisted into ash-lined paths. The air near the western ridges shimmered with cursed heat. Crops wilted overnight. Wells soured. Travelers whispered of red-eyed women and voices in fire.
No armies marched. No declarations were sent.
And yet, the kingdom bled.
At the center of it all, Vex stood on the balcony of her newly-forged keep in central Elaria—The Ember Spire. Her robe caught in the high wind like wings, and behind her, the banners snapped: black and crimson, bearing the sigil of the Phoenix-Eye. A symbol not just of rebirth—but of vengeance remembered.
Below, on the cracked flagstone of the courtyard, Irene knelt.
Not out of submission. But loyalty.
"I want you to be my voice, Irene," Vex said, not unkindly. "When I am fire, you are the wind that spreads it."
"I'm no diplomat, My Lady."
"You're worse," Vex said, eyes glittering. "You're honest. They won't see it coming."
Irene swallowed. "And if I'm caught?"
Vex stepped forward, knelt beside her, and took her hand—once calloused, now gloved in silk. "Then they'll learn what it costs to touch what's mine."
⸻
The Duke's gifted lands lay just outside the Elarian border. A lush stretch of valleys once known for orchards, vineyards, and trading posts. His prize for betraying the daughter of the woman he married.
Now?
A wasteland.
Fields blackened. Crops ruined. The wind carried the scent of smoke and something fouler—fear. Cattle fled, fences broke, and the workers—those who had once toiled under duress—had vanished without a trace. No bodies. No blood.
Just silence.
"Sabotage," the Duke told the royal council, wild-eyed. "Witchcraft!"
The King poured wine into his goblet and made a show of yawning. "Then stop letting your fields get hexed. Gods' breath, Harwain, you can't manage land that doesn't bite back?"
The Queen raised one delicate brow. "No wolves sighted. No signs of raiders. And yet…"
"Elaria was fallow," Harwain hissed. "We never expected her to—"
"To make something of it?" the Queen finished.
The room went quiet.
They all knew. They wouldn't say it, not yet—but they knew.
Vex Rhiadne was alive.
And she was building something.
⸻
Back in Elaria, Vex walked the ruined northern ridge with bare feet.
The scorched land hummed under her steps—not dead, not exactly. Changed. Tempered.
Agni flared beside her, manifesting briefly in the form of a flame-eyed lion pacing at her heel.
"They think they've punished you by giving you rot," he growled, voice like burning coal.
Vex knelt, dragging her fingers through the warm, ashen soil. It pulsed beneath her skin.
"I was born in rot," she murmured. "I thrive in it."
The land would regrow. But not with wheat. Not with grapes. No—this earth would bear fire-root, embervine, bloodthistle—plants that could bend light, trap heat, whisper secrets. Magic bound to terrain.
Let them come. Let them see a new Elaria, red and reborn.
A kingdom not of gold, but of power.
⸻
Three days later, Thaesen arrived.
Not with an army, not with allies. Alone. Hooded. Quiet as guilt.
The Hollow recognized him, but did not bite. It let him pass, cold and watchful.
He found her standing in her war garden, surrounded by thorned vines and pulsing roots. Her hair had grown longer, darker at the ends, streaked with blood-red fire. She wore no crown. She didn't need one.
"Vex," he said.
She didn't turn.
Thaesen took a step closer. "You're alive."
"So the rumors say."
"I thought you were dead. I—I mourned you."
"And then?" she asked, voice flat.
"I tried to speak for you. To save you."
"And when that failed?"
Thaesen's voice cracked. "I begged."
Vex turned, finally, and the weight of her gaze nearly dropped him to his knees. Her eyes—phoenix-lit—were colder than he remembered.
"You begged the King who signed my mother's death? The Queen who slit my name from the court records? Or the Duke who handed me over with a smile and a bag of silver?"
"I couldn't stop them."
"No," she said, "you wouldn't."
He flinched.
"I never forgot you," he tried again. "I never stopped hoping—"
She stepped forward, slow, graceful, terrible.
"Then you are a fool, Thaesen. I am not the girl who cried on your shoulder. I am not the minister's daughter, whispering schemes in your ear. I died, and what rose from that grave was not yours to remember."
He looked broken. She felt nothing.
"You used to smile at me," he whispered.
"I smile at many things now," she replied, eyes glowing. "None of them are harmless."
Thaesen opened his mouth, then closed it.
"You should go."
"And if I don't?"
"I'll treat you as I do any other relic of my past," she said softly. "Bury you."
⸻
That night, she stood atop the Ember Spire again, Irene beside her.
"You don't love him anymore," Irene said, a statement not a question.
"I loved a memory," Vex replied. "But he came here hoping to find the past. And I've already burned it."
Irene hesitated. "Then who do you love now?"
Vex looked out across her new kingdom—the fires, the rivers glowing with magic, the people slowly returning to her side.
"When I find someone who can stand beside me without flinching," she said, "I'll consider the question."
She won't say it but she thinks of that bastard flirt who comes and goes as he pleases.
⸻
In the royal court, panic bloomed.
Reports rolled in from across the west: entire trade routes rerouted by mysterious storm fronts, forests twisted by flame-wrought beasts, whispers of a new queen.
The King called for Thaesen.
He did not return.
The Queen sipped her wine slowly and muttered, "The fire isn't coming. It's already here."
........................…
Later that night, after the whispers of Thaesen's failed visit had died down, Vex sat alone in the Ember Spire's private sanctum, flamelight flickering across her features.
Rhydir stepped through the door without knocking. As always.
His silver eyes scanned the room, then locked on her like a blade sinking into soft flesh.
"You let him in," he said simply.
Vex didn't glance up from her goblet. "He found his way."
"And you didn't stop him?"
"I didn't need to. He left broken."
Rhydir walked forward, slow, controlled, like a predator feigning disinterest. "You speak of him with such… detachment."
"He's a memory," she said, setting her goblet down. "A fading one."
"And yet, he made it all the way here." His voice sharpened. "To you."
Finally, she looked at him. "Rhydir, are you jealous?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stepped in close—so close that the warmth of his skin brushed against hers like static before a storm.
"I watched you nearly lose yourself feeding from me," he murmured. "Felt your hunger. Your fire. I've seen you rise from ash and crown yourself with ruin."
A pause.
"Don't insult me by pretending he matters."
Vex smiled, slow and dangerous. "Then why does it burn you?"
Rhydir's jaw tensed. "Because he saw something that belonged to me."
Her eyes narrowed, hungry. "Do I?"
He didn't blink. "Every inch."
Vex leaned in until her breath kissed his neck. "Then hold your ground, Rhydir. I do not belong to boys who beg for the past. I walk beside men who burn for the future."
Silence.
Then, his mouth curved. "Then you'll find I am a blazing storm."
She turned away, smirking. "Then let's see if you burn brighter than him."
And behind them, the shadows twisted in delight.