Chapter 6
Delia
The Dining Hall, Ashfell
The toast comes after the vows.
Wine is liberally poured into shallow crystal cups that glow faintly from the heat of yet another hearth, though this one is not as large or luminous as the Great Flame.
The liquid is dark and rich, almost black at first glance, but when I lift it to my lips it tastes of sun-warmed fruit and smoke, of something aged and intentional.
Not sweet. Not bitter. Balanced.
Thorne watches me as I drink.
Not like a conqueror.
Like a man holding his breath.
Dessert follows, carried out on stone platters still warm from the hearth.
It looks like lemon meringue at first glance—tall, cloudlike—but when my spoon breaks the surface, molten caramel spills out instead, glossy and golden.
The top is crowned with something like roasted marshmallow, blistered and dark at the edges, and the plate is rimmed in coarse salt.
I take a bite.
Oh.
Wow.
The sweetness hits first, then the smoke, then the salt—sharp enough to make my mouth water all over again.
I make an undignified sound before I can stop myself.
Thorne’s mouth curves.
“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “You are enjoying yourself openly.”
“I ran into a fire today,” I murmur to him under my breath as the last course is set before us, “and I was kidnapped to another realm.”
His eyes seem to burn as he takes in my response.
The molten caramel dessert glows faintly on the plate, salt catching the firelight like crushed stars.
“I’m allowed to enjoy dessert,” I finish.
His mouth curves—not a smile, exactly, but something dangerously close.
A low sound rumbles from his chest, felt more than heard.
Approval. Amusement. Maybe hunger.
“Then eat, Shula” he murmurs, voice meant only for me. “You have earned it. And I assure you, you will need the fuel.”
Oh. Oh. Wait. Did he really just say that?
He floods my system, but I don’t respond because there’s no time.
Around us, the hall comes alive again.
A man introduced to me as Grier Pyros approaches first, a cup of dark wine cradled carefully in scarred hands.
He bows—like a serious old-timey bow.
“My Lord,” he says, then hesitates before turning his gaze to me.
Not unkindly. Measuring, but I don’t think it’s cruel.
I mean, why would it be?
“And, my lady. May the Flame favor your union. If the bond takes, The Ember Vein will burn brighter for it.”
There it is. I hear it in the word if–insolence, disbelief, disrespect—and it infuriates me.
I don’t even know why it should. Only that it does.
Thorne growls deep in his throat, and after a long moment he inclines his head.
Just once, though.
And I catch the subtle tightening of his fingers against mine—pride and maybe even rage held tightly in check.
Another minister follows.
Then another.
A flame-tender with burn-silvered hair offers a stiff smile.
A sentinel with half a face rebuilt by magic thumps his fist to his chest.
An older forge-keeper mutters a blessing under his breath that sounds like a prayer spoken directly to fire.
Each congratulation lands like a weight.
Like expectation.
But they don’t appear challenging.
Not like the first.
Not like Grier.
The room hums with voices, clinking cups, the crackle of the Great Flame—but my awareness narrows until it’s just him.
Thorne at my side.
The heat of his arm brushing mine.
The way his attention never truly leaves me, even as he answers them in short, controlled replies.
I feel it—the constant tether of him.
Not a pull exactly.
More like an awareness.
As if I exist in the same gravity well and he’s learned my orbit by heart.
Present.
Possessive.
Watchful.
Like if he looks away for even a breath, I might dissolve back into smoke and memory.
The last minister withdraws with a bow and a murmur of blessing.
The doors close.
The hall seems to exhale.
Thorne turns to me fully at last.
It’s startling—how different he looks without an audience.
No armor of ceremony.
No measured distance.
Just him.
Heat and shadow and intent.
“What?” I ask, nerves sparking as his gaze holds mine. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His eyes track my face slowly, like he’s cataloging something precious. Or volatile.
“I expected you to fight me on this,” he says. “To be outraged. To refuse my claim.”
“I thought about it,” I answer honestly.
One dark brow lifts.
“Did you?”
I nod.
“More than once.”
His mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper. Interested.
“I would not have given up easily,” he says, voice low.
“I know.”
That’s the truth of it.
I felt that the moment he kissed me.
This isn’t a man who bluffs. Or retreats.
I inhale, and his scent fills my lungs—smoke and iron and something faintly sweet beneath it, like embers banked just right.
It doesn’t make it harder to breathe.
It makes it easier.
Like I’ve finally found the right air.
And if that isn’t a red flag, I don’t know what is.
“I know what’s at stake, Thorne,” I say quietly. “Masha told me about Nightfall. About the SoulTakers.” I hesitate, then add, softer, “Your people are at war.”
His expression hardens—not with anger, but resolve.
“The entire realm is at war,” he murmurs. “With those who would unmake it. We cannot let them win, milady.”
“I agree,” I say. My fingers curl against the edge of the table, grounding myself. “That’s why I didn’t fight.”
Something shifts in him at that. Surprise, maybe. Or respect.
“Brave little Shula,” he says.
Not mocking. Almost reverent.
“Are you overwhelmed?”
I glance at the remnants of dessert—molten caramel cooling in delicate swirls, salt glinting like starlight—then back at him.
At the firelight caught in his eyes.
At the reality of where I am.
“Terrified,” I admit.
His hand lifts, stops just short of touching me, as if he’s giving me the choice even now.
“And?” he prompts.
“And, I’m oddly okay with that,” I finish.
His breath hitches. Just barely.
“Good,” he says softly. “Fear means you understand the cost.”
“The cost of what?”
“You know what I speak of. Do not pretend otherwise.”
“The cost of desire?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His gaze drops—to my mouth, my throat—then returns, darker now.
“That,” he says, voice roughening, “is why I chose you. You see much, Lady Delia.”