Page 235 of House Ignis

Frustration warred with the lingering traces of fear on his face.

“What the actual fuck is going on?” he demanded.

The sheer bluntness of it—the way he looked so genuinely offended by the lack of information—cracked something inside me. I looked at Ember.

She looked at me. And then, we both started laughing.

It wasn’t a graceful sound. It wasn’t pretty, and it probably wasn't even fully sane.

It was just exhausted, breathless laughter born from adrenaline, relief, and the sheer absurdity of Ezra Valeor sitting at the foot of a bathtub demanding answers like a disgruntled king.

Ezra did not laugh.

He slowly crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze flat and unimpressed. “Explain,” he said.

I sucked in a shaky breath and nodded, wiping a stray tear of laughter from my eye.

“I will,” I promised, though my limbs suddenly felt like they were made of wet sand.

Every flare left me hollowed out like this, a shell waiting to be filled.

“But first,” I added, glancing down at my soaked, heavy clothes,

“I would really like to change into a robe… and have a latte.”

For a heartbeat, Ezra just stared at me, his eyes searching mine for any lingering pain.

Then, he stood up, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders.

He gave me that signature, shit-eating grin, his dimples cutting deep.

“On it, Hotshot.”

•••

As soon as Ezra left, Ember helped me out of the bath.

My legs were still shaky, my body feeling heavy and foreign, but she stayed steady beside me until I was standing. She squeezed my shoulder once, a silent gesture of solidarity, before stepping toward the door.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” she said softly.

Then she slipped out, the click of the door echoing in the quiet room.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint drip of water from the tub and the distant, rhythmic hum of Academy magic vibrating through the stone walls.

And Aether. He hadn’t moved. He sat near the vanity, massive and silent, watching me with those ancient golden eyes that seemed to see straight through my skin.

I peeled off my soaked clothes slowly, every movement deliberate and exhausting.

My skin still prickled—a lingering ghost of the flare, the dream, and the memory of a pain that hadn't quite left my bones.

I grabbed a thick robe and pulled it tightly around myself, knotting the sash like it was the only piece of armor I had left.

Then, I looked up.

The mirror did not show a queen.

It showed swollen, bloodshot eyes and damp hair clinging to flushed, blotchy skin.