Imogen sat cross-legged on the rug in the center of her mother’s old quarters, sunlight spilling across scattered books and loose parchment like molten gold. The room still carried the faint scent of wild jasmine and dragon ash, a haunting blend of memory and magic.

  She wore soft travel leathers today, fitted but comfortable, the kind with deep pockets and worn seams from too many late nights in the archives. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, a few loose strands falling to frame her face as she squinted down at the chaos of journals before her.

  The margins were madness.

  Some pages were neat and deliberate. Others were covered in frantic scrawl, like her mother had been racing against time or something worse. Imogen picked up one volume that was leather-bound and faded, its corners curled with age and opened it slowly.

  The first page was blank.

  The second… not quite.

  For you, little ember…

  The handwriting was unmistakably Cordelia’s. Elegant and looping, but with a tremor beneath the ink. A vulnerability folded between the lines.

  You’re not born yet. But I feel you. Every flutter, every ripple of warmth under my ribs you are already a fire all your own.

  Imogen’s breath caught in her throat.

  She turned another page.

  They tell me you’ll be strong. That the bloodlines in you are strange. Powerful. I don’t know what you’ll become. I don’t think anyone does. Not even the stars.

  Another page.

  If you ever feel lost… know this: you were not made wrong. You were made rare.

  Her chest tightened. The room suddenly felt too still.

  Whatever shape your soul takes… I will love you. Even if I’m not there to say it out loud.

  She turned another page and froze. This entry was different, newer, more personal.

  Sorya, the Queen’s personal guard, just told me she’s three months along. We’ve bonded over fear, over hope, over names. She’s brave and steady, and I trust her in ways I can’t explain. I hope one day you meet her child… and that the two of you become best friends.

  Imogen blinked hard, tears stinging unexpectedly. She closed the journal slowly, her fingers pressing flat against its worn cover as if she could anchor herself in the weight of those words.

  A soft knock at the doorway pulled her back.

  She turned.

  Malachite stood on the threshold, one hand braced lightly against the frame. Her black steel armor hugged her frame like a second skin, paired with leather shorts and a dark steel tasset belt that clinked gently when she shifted. Her knee-high boots were scuffed and dusted with ash, a quiet reminder of the fight she’d just returned from.

  Her brown hair was loose, tousled and a little longer now almost brushing her shoulders. Streaks of light green shimmered faintly in the golden light, softening her sharp profile. There were new shadows beneath her eyes. She looked tired.

  But she was standing.

  She was alive.

  Malachite’s gaze met Imogen’s, quiet and unreadable. There was hesitation there, tucked beneath her usual confidence.

  “Morning,” she said, voice rough and low. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Imogen stared for a moment too long before setting the journal aside. A strange ache tugged at her chest, one part memory, one part relief.

  “You didn’t,” she said gently. “You’re right on time.” Reaching for Malachites hands.

  Malachite looked down at their joined hands, jaw tightening. “I don’t know what to do with this. With him. With all of it…” Her voice wavered. “My father told me I need to get my head out of my ass and stop thinking about mates. The reason I almost died was because I wasn’t strong enough. That if I’m going to be the Queen’s royal guard, I need to be better than what I am.”

  She tried to laugh, but it cracked somewhere on the way out, brittle and hollow.

  Imogen’s expression faltered, stunned for a moment. Her chest tightened at the memory of the smith, the terror in his eyes the night Malachite had been carried into the Healers' Guild, mangled and barely breathing. He hadn’t looked like a stoic warrior then. He’d looked like a father begging the world not to take his daughter.

  Imogen’s voice dropped. “That’s… not fair. You threw yourself off a cliff to protect me. There’s no ‘better’ than that.”

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  But Malachite shrugged like the words didn’t land. “Tell him that.”

  Silence settled for a beat heavy, fraying at the edges before Malachite cleared her throat and pushed the moment away like a stone she couldn’t carry anymore.

  “So,” she said, too casually. “What happened with Elise and the crap she pulled?”

  Imogen huffed, her whole face darkening as she turned back toward the cluttered desk of books. “Oh, you know. Since she’s the lead elder’s precious daughter, she got away with it. Claimed it was an accident. Said she didn’t see me on the training ground. Denied being involved with the three who attacked us. Apparently, she ran to help.”

  Malachite’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I wish.”

  “They ambushed you. Elise nearly got you killed! And now they’re just sweeping it under the rug?”

  “Yep. Neat little rug too. Probably woven with elder lies and entitlement.”

  Malachite’s eyes flared. “What did Darius do?”

  Imogen rubbed the back of her neck, her face twisting with something between irritation and embarrassed fondness. “Well… since technically the Queen’s life wasn’t in official danger you know, because me and Darius aren’t married he couldn’t legally demand punishment.”

  Malachite blinked. “Wait. What?”

  “Yeah. That’s the loophole.” Imogen sighed. “So Axel being Axel suggested we just get married and make it official.”

  Malachite stared at her. “He what.”

  Imogen’s cheeks turned pink. She bit her lip, eyes suddenly wide with too much energy.

  “And… I think Darius is going to propose.”

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Malachite’s expression flattened into stunned disbelief. Then she pointed dramatically.

  “You drop that after talking about political cover-ups and emotional trauma?! Gods above, Imogen!”

  Imogen burst into a laugh, hands thrown up. “I was getting there!”

  Malachite groaned and flopped back dramatically against the doorframe, hands over her face. “I need to lie down. Or scream. Or both.”

  “You’re already leaning on the door like it owes you rent,” Imogen teased.

  Malachite didn’t move. “I just got back from death and you’re out here dropping marriage announcements like it's a festival flier.”

  Imogen grinned, her expression equal parts bashful and giddy. “You think he’ll do it with a big speech?”

  Malachite gave a half-smile, but didn’t answer right away. “All jokes aside… How do you feel about it? About Darius. About being Queen.”

  Imogen blinked, the question catching her off guard.

  She exhaled slowly, some of the sparkle in her expression dimming into something more real. “I don’t know… I think I’m falling for him.” Her voice dropped, quiet and honest. “We’ve kissed twice and I swear my body leaves my soul every time. He’s always there when I need him, and it feels empty when he’s not.”

  She started pacing slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the desk. “He’s not overbearing. He doesn’t try to mold me into anything I’m not. He just… lets me be me. And he always has my back. If I tell him I’ve got something handled, he trusts me. No argument. No power play. Just… belief. Like he 1000% believes in me.”

  She looked back at Malachite, eyes wide and glassy.

  “I think I’m in love with him, Malachite. And being Queen? That doesn’t feel so scary if it means I get to stand beside him.” Her voice caught, but she pushed on. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far as a Dragon Singer without you guys. Especially you and Axel. You’re the family I never had. And I don’t want to lose that, not for anything.”

  Malachite’s expression softened her usual guarded edge replaced with something quiet and proud.

  “You won’t,” she said firmly. “Even if you end up in a crown and throne, you’ll still have us. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Imogen gave her a watery smile.

  Malachite hesitated for a beat, then said softly, “If… if you do this the whole Queen thing and the wedding happens…” She trailed off, scratching the back of her neck like she suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands. “I mean, I know you’ve probably got a million people in line but if you want I’d be honored to stand beside you. As your maid of honor. Or just… whatever you need.”

  Imogen’s eyes shimmered again, this time from something warmer. She stepped forward and wrapped Malachite in a tight hug.

  “There’s no one else I’d want,” she whispered. “You’ve been with me through everything. You’re family.”

  Malachite let out a soft breath. “Gods. Don’t make me cry. I just got out of the infirmary.”

  Imogen laughed, pulling back. “You can cry later. At the wedding. When I make you wear something that sparkles.”

  Malachite groaned. “If you put me in sequins, I’m dragging you off the dance floor mid-vows.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  They grinned at each other battle-worn, bruised, bonded but for the first time in what felt like days, there was light between them again.

  After a quiet moment between them, Malachite stepped away, eyes scanning the walls and shelves. “So… this was your mother’s room?” she asked, brushing her fingers along the edge of a nearby shelf. “Yeah. It definitely screams Dragon Singer. All the books, the scrolls are kind of intense.”

  She smiled faintly, her tone light but distant. “My father won’t let me anywhere near my mother’s things. Says it’s not my business. Apparently, she was the Queen’s guard before him. Guess it runs in the blood.”

  She gave a soft, bitter laugh and turned slowly, wandering through the room like she was trying to feel something long gone.

  Imogen froze.

  Her blood turned to static.

  “…Your mother’s name didn’t happen to be Sorya, did it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Malachite turned, blinking. “Yeah. How did you-?”

  Imogen stared at her, breath caught in her throat. She took a shaky step back toward the desk, hand fumbling for the journal she’d just closed. “She was in here,” she whispered. “She’s in this.”