The delegation arrived at dusk, summoned under the guise of diplomacy but reeking of desperation.
It had been three weeks since the rumors reached the capital: whispers of a phoenix queen, of cursed lands in the east and outlaws pledging loyalty to a woman once presumed dead. Nobles were growing restless. Merchants refused to travel the roads once gifted to traitors. And the king—cornered by a crown growing too heavy—did what cowards always did when pressed.
He sent others to test the fire.
Officially, they called it a peace envoy. A gesture of goodwill. But behind the ceremonial banners and practiced smiles, it was a veiled attempt to gauge Vex's power—and maybe, foolishly, tame her. The choice of emissaries was deliberate: Seraphina, the King's razor-edged spymaster, and Crown Prince Kaelric, his spoiled heir, known less for tact and more for lechery.
They arrived at the Hollow's obsidian gates just as the sun bled into the horizon. It was no coincidence. They wanted to appear unafraid of her darkness—but the timing was too careful. They were hoping shadows would make her seem smaller.
Instead, dusk made her empire glow.
At the heart of the obsidian courtyard, Vex stood poised, draped in black and crimson silk, her posture regal and unyielding. Firelight danced over her skin, reflecting the embers of her wrath. She waited like a goddess poised for judgment.
Rhydir lingered behind her, relaxed but alert. His silver eyes flicked toward the distant figures approaching on horseback, tension barely veiled beneath his languid grace. He'd been circling her like a storm for days, amused, devoted, and armed with a jealousy so sharp it glittered.
"They send their dogs," he muttered, voice low. "And expect you to leash them."
Vex didn't answer. She didn't need to. She could already sense it—the rot at the heart of the kingdom bleeding into its emissaries. One of them was familiar. The other reeked of arrogance.
As the horses slowed to a halt, Seraphina was the first to dismount. Dressed in her usual midnight cloak, she looked every bit the shadow of the king's will—but her gaze, as it met Vex's, was steady. Assessing. And perhaps, now, different.
Then came the prince.
Crown Prince Kaelric Alaricson. Son of the king. Future of the realm. And a spoiled, volatile parasite wrapped in royal silk.
He dismounted lazily, as if expecting fanfare. He was tall, golden-haired, his face sculpted in the way only royalty and devils were. He smiled at Vex like she was his prize.
"You must be the fire they're all whispering about," he said, sweeping into a mockery of a bow. "I must say, I expected more… ash. And less allure."
Rhydir shifted behind Vex, but she raised a hand. Not yet.
"Speak your business," she said coolly.
Kaelric stepped forward, ignoring her tone entirely. "My father sends his warmest regards. He wishes for… peace. A summit. Talks of truce. Maybe even—dare I say—reconciliation." His eyes dipped. "Though I'd prefer… union."
"Touch me," Vex said silkily, "and I'll decorate my throne room with your teeth."
That only made Kaelric grin wider. "Feisty. I like that."
Behind her, Rhydir was suddenly not smiling. Not even a little.
Vex turned sharply and began walking into the inner sanctum of the Hollow's throne chamber. "You're guests. But not protected."
Kaelric followed without hesitation. Seraphina hesitated—her eyes lingered on Rhydir's hand, twitching near his blade. Then on Vex's back, proud and unafraid.
Inside, the chamber burned with low, golden firelight. Shadows curved along carved obsidian walls, the air thick with tension and heat.
Kaelric didn't wait to be seated. He leaned casually against the armrest of her throne and grinned. "You know, you're wasted out here. All this fire, and no kingdom beneath it. But with me, by my side—"
His hand moved, bold and presumptive, aiming for her waist.
He didn't make it.
There was a rush of movement—blinding, brutal. One moment, the prince was reaching. The next, Rhydir had him pinned against a pillar, a dagger at his throat, eyes full of murder.
"Finish that thought," Rhydir growled, "and you'll finish bleeding."
Kaelric choked out a laugh, but his bravado cracked. "What are you—her pet?"
"Her sword," Rhydir snarled. "Her flame. Her choice. And you don't get to touch her."
Vex watched silently, her expression unreadable. But the firelight behind her flared, heat rising like the breath of a dragon just shy of waking.
Then Seraphina moved—quick and clean. She stepped between them, placing a calm hand on Rhydir's arm.
"Let him go," she said, voice firm but quiet. "He's not worth the blade. Not yet."
Rhydir hesitated. Then, with a disgusted snarl, he let the prince drop to the ground.
Kaelric coughed, red-faced and humiliated. "This is how you host emissaries?"
"No," Vex said, turning toward Seraphina. "He was never an emissary. He was bait."
The spymaster met her gaze. And then, slowly, Seraphina did something no one expected.
She bowed.
Not to the king. Not to the crown. But to Vex.
In full view of the prince, of Rhydir, of the Hollow's flickering firelight, Seraphina knelt.
"My loyalty," she said quietly, "was to a kingdom that's already dying. I won't serve rot. I won't let him rule it."
Kaelric sputtered. "Traitor!"
Seraphina stood. "No. Just someone who sees where the future really lies."
Vex said nothing for a long moment. But something shifted in her stance—an unspoken acceptance. The phoenix within her stirred, pleased.
"Then rise, Seraphina," she said. "And serve something worth burning for."
⸻
They exiled the prince the next morning.
He was not killed—though Rhydir had argued, colorfully, for that option. Instead, he was sent back to the capital with nothing but a warning carved into the stone of the Hollow's gates.
"Send another hand to take what is mine—and I will send back your crown in pieces."
⸻
That evening, in the private chambers carved into the volcanic heart of the Hollow, Vex sat before a fire that never died. Rhydir stood behind her, silent.
He hadn't said much since the incident.
"Speak," she said without looking at him.
He did.
"I would have gutted him."
"I know."
"I wanted to gut him."
She turned then, eyes flickering with fire and something more complicated.
"I would've let you," she murmured, "but he needed to go back. To show them we don't kneel."
Rhydir stepped forward. His fingers brushed her bare shoulder, lingering. "You don't kneel," he said. "You make others fall to their knees."
She looked up at him. "Are you complaining?"
"Never," he said, his voice low. "But it's hard to watch anyone look at you like that."
Her lips quirked. "Jealousy, Rhydir?"
He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear. "Not jealousy. Just… territorial."
She turned into him slowly, letting her fingers trail down his chest.
"You don't have to guard me, Rhydir," she whispered. "I'm not breakable."
"No," he said, catching her hand. "But you're mine."
Their lips met—fire to fire, no submission in either, only the thrill of shared power, the way empires rise between two mouths that refuse to yield.
⸻
Far to the east, in the capital, Prince Kaelric stormed into the king's war room, bloodied, furious, and ranting. He demanded retribution. War. Execution.
King Alaric listened with a cold face, but the edges of his eyes twitched.
"She's no longer a girl in exile," Seraphina's betrayal still burned through him.
"She's building a throne out of fear and loyalty," he admitted aloud, the room falling silent.
"And what shall we do, sire?" asked Lord Malric, nervously.
King Alaric rose from his seat, slowly.
"We prepare," he said.
"Prepare to fight?" someone asked.
"No."
His voice dropped into something low. Heavy.
"Prepare to kneel."
A silence settled—deadly, suffocating.
Not fear. Not guilt.
But inevitability.