Chapter 41
Blessed Flame
MAX
Two servants flank the entrance to the dining room, their expressions carefully blank.
Golden lanterns hang suspended above the long table, their warm light glinting off crystal glasses and polished cutlery.
Tall windows overlook the palace gardens, and a dozen high-backed chairs line either side of the table, though only four have been set for dinner.
“And you don’t remember anything?” Ethan asks.
“Nothing at all,” E responds.
His restless bite of power beckons from across the room, and I head toward him.
Ethan’s gaze flicks over to us. “Ah, here they are. Son, this is Iris Lovatt. You’ve known her all your life, really.”
E clears his throat and greets her. “Good evening, Iris.”
“My prince.” She offers him a sultry curtsy, then a deeper one for the king. “Your Majesty.”
My mind flashes back to the throne room, and I bite back a wince at how absurd all this decorum feels.
Ethan’s gaze lingers on her as she rises. It travels slowly from the elegant line of her shoulders to the curve of her waist, openly appreciative, entirely unconcerned with who might notice.
Then his attention shifts to me.
His eyes drift over me with the same shameless scrutiny, lingering far too long as they travel from my heels to the hem of my dress, then higher.
Ethan studies me the way one might study a painting, as though I’m a work of art meant to be admired, displayed, and ultimately possessed.
The look is intimate enough to make my skin crawl.
Only at the very end does he look at my face, and his expression changes. The polite smile falters, and he tilts his head.
“Father,” E says next, his voice catching slightly on the word, as though he’s still getting used to it. “This is Maxine Morgan Bloodsinger.”
The tension eases from Ethan’s shoulders, and a broad smile spreads across his face, so warm and immediate it catches me off guard. Until now, every glance he'd stolen toward E had been threaded with uncertainty, with hope so fragile it looked painful, while Iris and I were purely eye candy.
No, he looks genuinely pleased to meet me.
More than pleased. Delighted.
“Well,” he says, his eyes dancing, no longer appraising my body but actually seeing me. “This is a surprise.”
The warmth in his voice sends an unpleasant chill through me, but I force myself to smile back.
I dip into a quick curtsy, trying to imitate Iris and falling well short of her poise.
“Nice to meet you, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t you remember me at all, Maxine?” he asks expectantly.
The question steals the air from my lungs.
Nick is still in the hands of the Reds. Every instinct in me wants to ask Ethan if he remembers my mother, if he ever regretted what he did, if he knows how thoroughly his betrayal shattered my life. But those questions can wait.
For now, I need his help.
So I swallow my anger, my disgust, and every ugly memory clawing at the inside of my ribs.
“No, Your Majesty,” I say softly. “Should I?”
For now, I need him, his soldiers, and his influence. I depend on his willingness to move mountains for the son he thought he'd lost forever.
So I tuck every accusation behind my teeth and keep my expression pleasant.
“You two know each other?” Iris asks.
“Yes,” Ethan answers.
E’s hand finds my waist, and he grabs a fistful of my dress for a second, probably realizing what this means.
I school my features into those of a surprised, na?ve young woman. “I’m afraid I can’t remember.”
Whatever history exists between Ethan Lightbringer and my family, tonight, he isn't the man who betrayed my mother.
He's the father of the man I love, and the king who might be able to bring my brother home.
“Oh, I don’t blame you,” Ethan says. “You were very young. After your mother died, I wanted to find you and take care of you, but you simply disappeared.”
Take care of me?
What a clever way to phrase that.
Ethan motions to the dining table. “Alright, let’s sit down and get dinner started. We have all night to catch up.”
Four servants step forward and pull out the plated dining chairs. Ethan takes the seat at the head of the table. Iris glides to his left without hesitation, while I’m seated at his right, with E beside me in an old-fashioned man-woman-man arrangement.
“Excuse me, Your majesty. But are we...” My gaze darts down to the silk napkin tucked in my lap. “I beg your pardon. Only... I never knew the name of my father.”
Iris’s eyes widen. She nearly chokes on a sip of wine.
Ethan laughs.
“Oh, rest easy, child. I am not your father, though I would have considered it my duty to take you in if I’d been able. Your mother and I were very close for a time, and I knew how much she loved you.”
Again, no lies.
“Should I assume by your name that Mabel Bloodsinger was the one who took you in?”
The first course arrives before I can answer. Delicate slices of citrus-cured fish are arranged over shaved fennel and fresh herbs, each plate more art than a meal.
“Yes,” I say, picking up my salad fork. “She raised me.”
His smile thins. “How is dear Mabel?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from her in a while.”
Beside me, E’s hand settles on my thigh beneath the table. His fingers tighten briefly, grounding me. Comforting me. He’s figured out the stakes of this conversation, even if he doesn't know every detail.
“Why did you come to Faerie? Why did my soldiers find you with those rebels?”
I rest my hand over E’s.
“We thought your son was a ghost,” I admit, and my cheeks burn. “I-I wanted to bring him back to life.”
Iris huffs into her wine. “But he’s not dead.”
My gaze drops shamefully to my lap. “Well, I know that now.”
When I dare glance up again, Ethan is studying me with an expression I can't quite decipher, and heat creeps farther up my neck.
E’s fingers lace through mine beneath the table.
“You two found each other against all odds,” Ethan says softly, his attention shifting to his son. “Tell me everything you remember.”
The rest of the first course passes, discussing E's disappearance, his years as a “ghost,” and the mystery surrounding the ailment that made him not only invisible but incorporeal.
By the time the servants clear our plates and bring the main course—a roasted piece of red meat glazed with honey and herbs, accompanied by buttered vegetables and golden potatoes—the conversation has narrowed entirely onto him.
Ethan leans back in his chair. “You were cursed. That’s the only explanation.”
“Cursed?” E repeats.
“To slowly disappear like this, you’d need more than an enchantment or a spell.” Ethan swirls his wine thoughtfully, and a hard look settles over his face. “Someone definitely wanted you out of sight and out of mind. Must have been Willow.”
I don’t like the way he says her name, like it’s his favorite curse word.
Ethan rests his utensils and turns to Iris. “Iris, darling, I wonder if you could leave us. I have something private to discuss with Maxine and my son.”
Iris bares her teeth in a smile that contains no warmth whatsoever. “Of course.”
She rises with the grace of a court lady, though her narrowed eyes make it clear she isn't pleased to be dismissed.
Ethan waits until she's gone before motioning to a servant for a refill.
The servant steps forward immediately, pouring dark red wine into his crystal goblet. Ethan murmurs something in his ear. The man nods, then exchanges a quick glance with the other servants.
One by one, they file out of the dining room.
Only once the door closes behind them does Ethan speak again.
He takes a casual bite of meat. “My son is invisible, Miss Lorntre, but he’s not a ghost. If you came here hoping to save him from his end, I’m pleased to tell you that you already have. But as long as his soul remains linked to the likes of Willow Summers, it will forever be bound to darkness.”
Miss Lorntre…
“You— You know my true name?”
Ethan grins boyishly, and I'd find it charming if I didn't know the truth. “There wasn’t a secret your mother could keep from me for long.”
My heart hammers, and I fight to keep a grimace from surfacing.
What about Nick?
Does he know about him, too?
If my mother told Ethan everything, then he would know she had twins. He knows there was a second child.
“My son’s wife has become the most dangerous revolutionary since the first Red Queen chased your kind from the Red Forest. My son’s magic runs in her veins, and she’s found ways to use it to push her powers beyond comprehension. I’m afraid she’s become quite unstoppable.”
He swirls the wine in his goblet.
“She’s already killed three Fae monarchs this year alone and destroyed the Eternal Chalice, sending Faerie into chaos and teetering dangerously close to civil war.”
He lets that news simmer, but I’m still caught up in his confidence that my mother shared all her secrets with him. I need to know if that’s true.
“Speaking of the Reds. You are their ally, yes?”
He takes a measured sip of wine.
“The Red Queen is no friend of mine, but I had to defend my borders against the rebels. The Summer King is useless.”
He sounds almost defensive, as though he doesn't want me judging him for his dealings with the Reds, and that gives me the opening I need.
“When we crossed paths with them, a friend of mine was mistaken for a Tidecaller,” I say carefully. “They brought him with them, and I was hoping to ask for your help arranging his safe return.”
“Anything for you, my dear.”
His answer comes without hesitation, but is almost dismissive, as though this is hardly the time to discuss such trivial things as my brother’s life.
“Now, as I was saying, Willow needs to be stopped.”
He’s not talking to his son, but staring directly at me.
“She is too powerful for me to vanquish alone. She’s harnessed dangerous, outlawed Mist Fae technology, and I suspect she can’t be killed by traditional means.”
My stomach knots.
“But you, Maxine…” He leans forward. “You’re special.”
E grips my hand even tighter.
“Magic. Swords. Even end-all blades are instruments meant to follow patterns already set, and enact what the Gods decided long ago.” His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine. “But to change the very fabric of fate, you need fire.”
My pulse pounds at my temple. Fire.
“A fire born not to create comfort, but to cauterize. To change destiny itself. To free tangled threads, repair the pattern, and seal the frayed edges. A fire meant to permanently erase the Gods’ mistakes.”
A chill races down my spine.
“Most kings and queens think of immortality as the ultimate prize, but it’s such a puerile endeavor. Everyone craves it, but even the Mist King always lacked the power to truly alter his fate.”
A flicker of greed gleams in his ice-blue eyes as he tips back his wine glass and drains it.
“The Gods spin their yarns carelessly. They knot lives together, tear them apart, leave loose ends trailing through centuries, then walk away from the damage. When the weave grows unstable, when respect and tradition are abandoned, and the pattern threatens to unravel entirely, something must be done to restore order.”
His voice hardens. “There are things even an end-all blade cannot kill, like Death itself. That task falls to the Flame of Fate.”
My stomach twists.
“It isn’t a fire that can be summoned or forged. It cannot be taught, shared, or passed on.”
His gaze never leaves mine.
“It’s you, Maxine.”
The words land with terrifying certainty.
“You are the crimson flame born to purify us all and sever rotten, invisible threads that would otherwise last forever.” He raises a brow. “Like curses...or wedding vows.”
Beside me, E goes rigid. “Max could break my curse?”
“Maybe.”
“Would that bring back my memories?” E sounds genuinely worried, and his father answers with a grimace of his own.
“That’s a good question. Without knowing how the curse was phrased, there’s no way to know. And even then, the effects of a curse can be incredibly obtuse. Contradictory, even.”
Butterflies scatter through my stomach.
I’d love for E not to be invisible anymore.
Do I really have that power?
Little old me?
Ethan continues, clearly more interested in high-level Fae politics than in seeing his son restored to the visible spectrum.
“With your help, we can free my son from the clutches of a woman who has inflicted her pain and suffering upon millions of others. A woman who wants to destroy the world as we know it.”
“But he married her, didn’t he?” I ask. “She can’t have been that awful if he married her.”
I want to believe that.
Ethan slams his wineglass down on the table hard enough to make me jump. His eyes flash with anger, but he exhales through it before speaking again. “That was a long, long time ago.”
His voice is measured now, but only just.
“Willow Summers locked every Fae royal in a room and destroyed the Eternal Chalice, likely expecting to be the only survivor. She plunged our world into chaos. She created the conditions that allowed the Mist King to rise from the grave and infect the sceawere. She made the in-between dangerous to travel and crippled our defenses.”
Disgust curls his lip as he rises from his chair.
“And the first step toward bringing her down is stripping her of the magic she stole from my son.”