Rowan dreamed of fire.
Not in the nightmare way she’d expected—no screaming, no burning flesh. Just…light.
Flames licking up the trunks of trees, leaves glowing from within like stained glass. Her own hands, held out in front of her, wreathed in something that wasn’t quite flame and wasn’t quite light.
She reached for a branch.
It curled toward her, eager.
She woke with her heart pounding and her palms tingling.
Sunlight—well, Courtlight—filtered through the window. The crooked tree outside cast twisted shadows across the floor.
Caelan was gone again.
A small plate sat on the bedside table.
Honey cake.
Rowan stared at it.
“I am not being emotionally manipulated by pastry,” she told it.
It stared back.
She ate it anyway.
After washing and dressing—in trousers and tunic again, this time grabbing a dark coat because the Palace had more drafts than her apartment—she stepped out into the corridor.
Lucien leaned against the opposite wall, idly flipping a dagger.
“Good,” he said. “You’re awake. The swamp bitch sent an invitation.”
Rowan blinked. “The what now?”
“Mire Queen,” he said. “Sorry. Court term of endearment.”
“What kind of…invitation?” she asked, dread poking its head up.
“Tea,” he said. “And threats. Figuratively. Possibly literally.”
“I thought we were busy with your own Court trying to use me and/or kill me,” she said. “We’re adding other Courts to the mix already?”
“News travels fast,” he said. “Especially when someone pokes their head into the lake and says hello.”
She winced. “That was…not entirely my fault,” she muttered.
“Didn’t say it was,” he said. “But consequences don’t ask who signed the form.”
He flicked the dagger again. “Caelan’s trying to stall,” he added. “He argued we should get you stable before letting other powers sniff. The Mire Queen…argued back.”
“And?” Rowan asked.
Lucien grimaced. “They compromised,” he said. “You’ll see her. Here. In a…controlled environment. With witnesses. After lunch.”
“Oh, good,” Rowan said faintly. “A nice casual murderous tea with a swamp monarch.”
Lucien’s mouth twitched. “You’re taking this remarkably well,” he said.
“I’m still half asleep,” she said. “Give it a minute.”
As if on cue, anxiety crashed through her, late but enthusiastic.
Lucien watched it cross her face.
“Breathe,” he said. “You’re not going in alone. Caelan will be there. Maerlyn will hover. I’ll lurk and look pretty.”
“You’re very confident in your ability to sway ancient powers by smoldering at them,” she said.
“It’s worked before,” he said cheerfully.
She rubbed her palm.
The sigil Zia had carved into it last night—before she crossed—glowed faintly when the light hit it, like an imprint on her skin.
“Do we have time to…train?” she asked. “Or whatever it is you people do besides tormenting mortals.”
Lucien’s eyes lit. “We always have time to make you less likely to die,” he said. “Come. The yard’s empty. The serious people are off having Serious Talks.”
***
“Again,” Lucien said.
Rowan lunged.
He parried.
They moved across the training yard in a blur that felt both too slow and too fast.
Her muscles burned.
Her lungs ached.
Something inside her—something that had woken at the seam, hummed at the lake, flared during last night’s dance—buzzed under her skin.
It felt like…potential. Like static building before a storm.
When Lucien’s blade glanced off hers, a little spark jumped between them.
He blinked. “Interesting,” he murmured.
“What?” she panted.
“Again,” he said.
She scowled and attacked.
This time, when steel met steel, the spark was bigger. A visible snap of light.
Lucien’s eyes widened. “Well,” he said. “You’ve got party tricks.”
“I didn’t—” she started.
“Don’t think about it,” he said. “Just…feel. Where do you want that…tingle to go?”
“Tingle,” she said flatly.
“Yes,” he said impatiently. “Focus, hinge.”
She tried.
It wasn’t like flexing a muscle, exactly. More like…turning her attention inward. Toward the hum.
When she swung again, she imagined…pushing the buzz down her arm.
The blades met.
Light flared between them.
Lucien hissed.
A thin line of black sizzled along his sword where it had touched hers.
“Fuck,” he said appreciatively. “You burn.”
Panic skittered up her spine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” he snapped. “Do it again.”
She stared. “You want me to fry your sword?”
“It’s mine,” he said. “I can get another. I can’t get another you.”
The statement landed heavy.
“Again,” he said.
They worked for another half hour.
Each time, she tried to channel that buzzing.
Sometimes it flared wild, skidding off in ways she didn’t intend—singing the edge of his blade, making the ground under her feet crackle, once even making a nearby practice dummy burst into flame.
Lucien crowed.
“Caelan is going to be so jealous,” he said. “You set things on fire without trying. It took him *centuries*.”
The idea of Caelan as a baby pyromancer made Rowan snort.
After she singed one of Lucien’s eyebrows by accident, he called a break.
“Sit,” he said. “Drink. Don’t puke.”
She flopped onto a bench, chest heaving.
“What…is that?” she panted. “The…spark. The buzz.”
“Magic,” he said. “Yours. Raw. Unrefined.”
She glared. “Very helpful.”
He sat beside her. “Everyone’s feels different,” he said. “Some people’s is cold. Some is…sharp. Yours is…heat. Friction. Pressure. No surprise. You’re a hinge.”
“Stop calling me that,” she said.
“It’s a compliment,” he said.
“It’s a door part,” she said.
“It’s the thing everything moves on,” he said. “You’re the pivot. Own it.”
She scowled.
He grinned.
“If you learn to control it,” he said, “you can do more than spark. You can…snap oaths. Burn glamours. Light things that don’t want to be lit.”
“Sounds…dangerous,” she said.
“It is,” he said. “That’s why we’re starting in baby steps. Or baby arcs.”
He tossed her a canteen.
She drank.
The water was cool, cleaner than any she’d had at home, tasting faintly of some herb she didn’t recognize.
“You’re not…afraid of this?” she asked. “Of me with this.”
“Of you generally? A little,” he said. “Of you with power? Also a little. But also excited. I like chaos. I like change. The Court’s been stale. You’re…fresh air.”
“Fresh arson,” she muttered.
He snorted. “Even better.”
***
Lunch was a blur.
Brann shoved more food at her.
“You’re about to sit with a woman who bathes in swamp water and turns men into reeds when they annoy her,” she said. “You need protein.”
“Lovely,” Rowan said faintly.
Caelan appeared at her side halfway through a bowl of stew, jaw tight.
“It’s time,” he said.
“Already?” she asked.
He nodded.
Brann clucked her tongue. “Don’t let her drag you under, girl,” she said. “Her mud stains.”
“I’ll…try,” Rowan said.
Brann slapped Caelan’s arm. “You watch her,” she said. “Don’t let that green-skinned harpy talk circles around you.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“Your best is often not good enough,” Brann muttered. “Improve.”
He smiled. “Yes, Auntie,” he said.
Rowan followed him through corridors that grew darker, damper.
The air cooled.
The walls slickened.
“We’re meeting her in the Water Hall,” Caelan said. “Neutral enough for her taste. Less likely for her to…sprout things.”
“Comforting,” Rowan muttered.
They arrived at a set of double doors carved with waves and water plants.
Lucien leaned against the wall beside them, sleeves rolled, looking like he’d just stepped out of a fashion spread entitled “Weapons and Warnings.”
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” Rowan and Caelan said in unison.
Lucien grinned. “Adorable,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He pushed the doors open.
The hall beyond was humid.
Pale light filtered down through glassy panels in the ceiling, making everything shimmer faintly green.
A long pool ran down the center of the room, flanked by narrow walkways. Water plants floated on its surface. The faint sound of frogs. The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly rotten.
At the far end, on a low dais carved to look like a mossy rock, sat the Mire Queen.
She looked as she had in Aisling’s room.
Tall. Willowy. Skin the color of river silt. Hair hanging in long, wet ropes, threaded with lilies and pond scum. Her dress flowed around her like dark water, pooling on the dais.
Her eyes were golden, pupils wide and inhuman.
She smiled when they entered.
“Children,” she said. Her voice was soft, muddy. “How lovely of you to come play in my puddle.”
“Your Majesty,” Caelan said, bowing.
“Little prince,” she cooed. “So stiff. You should relax. The water helps.”
“I prefer not to drown today,” he said politely.
She laughed, a bubbling sound. “Fair,” she said. “For now.”
Her gaze slid to Rowan.
It felt like being pinned by a spear.
“So,” she said. “This is the hinge.”
“I really hate that nickname,” Rowan said under her breath.
Out loud, she said, “Rowan Vance. It’s…weird to meet you in person.”
The Mire Queen’s lips curled. “You’ve seen me,” she said. “In the reflection.”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “You were…encouraging my mirror to start a war.”
“A war,” the Mire Queen mused. “Such a big word. I prefer ‘festival.’ Or ‘spring cleaning.’”
Lucien snorted softly.
Caelan’s hand brushed Rowan’s back, subtle.
“Why did you want to see me?” Rowan asked. “Beyond…curiosity.”
The Mire Queen rose.
Water dripped from her dress, pooling around her bare feet.
It didn’t seep into the stone.
It clung.
“Because,” she said, gliding closer, “when someone tugs at the borders between worlds, I like to know whose fingers are on the fabric.”
She circled Rowan slowly.
Not touching.
Studying.
“You’re not what I expected,” she murmured. “Less…shimmer. More…iron.”
“I’ve been told that’s a compliment,” Rowan said.
“It is,” the Mire Queen said. “We have enough glitter. We need more rust.”
She stopped in front of Rowan. “Do you know what your grandmother could have done?” she asked.
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Besides not walking into the woods at all?”
“She could have come to *me,*” the Mire Queen said. “The marsh gives. The marsh takes. We’re very good with rot. With sickness. We know how to pull it out.”
“You’re saying you could have…healed my mother,” Rowan said. “Without stealing anyone’s child.”
“I could have…tried,” the Mire Queen said. “Nothing is guaranteed. Not even death.” Her eyes glittered. “But your grandmother didn’t know my paths. She knew the wood’s. So she went there. And here we are.”
Bitterness flared in Rowan’s chest. “Great,” she said. “Another reminder my life is a series of bad directions.”
The Mire Queen chuckled. “Your life,” she said softly, “is a series of opportunities. Wasted so far. But salvageable.”
Caelan stiffened.
“What are you offering?” he asked tightly.
She looked at him lazily. “I’m not offering *you* anything, little prince,” she said. “I’m offering *her.*”
Rowan folded her arms. “I’m listening,” she said warily.
“Your bargain,” the Mire Queen said. “The one that binds you to this place. It is woven through Autumn’s roots. Their rules. Their…vanity.” She leaned in. “But roots drink from the swamp too.”
Rowan’s skin crawled.
“I can…loosen them,” the Mire Queen said. “If you loosen something for me.”
“Which something,” Rowan asked, voice low.
The Mire Queen smiled.
“Autumn sits fat on its land,” she said. “Its borders. Its old bargains. It forgets that once, we were one forest. Two Courts. Then they built their pretty Palace inland and left us with the muck. I would like…a door. Between us. Through you.”
Caelan swore under his breath.
“You want her to be a bridge,” he said.
“Hinges make good bridges,” the Mire Queen said sweetly. “If she opens for me, I can flow. Into your roots. Your halls. Your bargains. I can…soften things.”
“You mean drown them,” Caelan said.
“Details,” she said.
Rowan felt sick.
“You’re asking me to…betray him,” she said slowly. “And his Court.”
“I’m asking you to betray *them,*” the Mire Queen said. “Not him. He’s already half-swamp whether he admits it or not.”
Caelan’s mouth twisted. “Flattering.”
The Mire Queen’s gaze sharpened. “You think your King’s leash is the only one on you?” she asked Rowan. “You think binding yourself to this Court is the only path? There is my water too. And Winter’s ice. And Summer’s fire. And the wildwood’s teeth. You can…use them. All of them. Or you can let Autumn hold you by the throat and call it a choice.”
The words hit too close to her own fears.
Rowan swallowed. “What do you get,” she asked, “if I…open?”
“Chaos,” the Mire Queen said simply. “And influence. I don’t want your throne. I want their roots. I want to be in the room when they decide who lives and dies instead of hearing about it after the bodies float.”
“Honest,” Rowan said faintly.
“Always,” the Mire Queen said.
Caelan stepped slightly in front of Rowan now. Not blocking her. Just…to the side.
“If you touch her,” he said quietly, “I will drain your marsh by hand.”
The Mire Queen laughed, delighted. “Oh,” she said. “He does care.” Her gaze slid past him to Rowan. “He’ll say don’t trust me,” she murmured. “He’s right. Don’t. Don’t trust *any* of us. Including him. But use us. All of us. As we’re trying to use you.”
“Calling it ‘use’ doesn’t make it more appealing,” Rowan said.
“It makes it honest,” the Mire Queen said. “Do you like pretty lies better?”
Rowan thought of all the times she’d seen Gran look away from truth because it hurt too much.
“No,” she said.
“Good,” the Mire Queen said. “Think about it. You don’t have to answer now. I’m not Maerlyn. I don’t like my bargains rushed. They sour.” She smiled. “I’ll be in your dreams.”
“Oh, excellent,” Rowan muttered. “Another tenant.”
The Mire Queen laughed.
She slid back onto her rock, hair dripping.
“Run along, children,” she said. “Go scamper among your leaves. The mud will be here when you’re done playing.”
Outside, in the corridor, Rowan sagged against the wall.
“That,” she said, “was awful.”
“Yes,” Caelan said. His face was pale under the torchlight. “And not entirely wrong.”
She glared. “Do not start agreeing with the swamp witch,” she said. “I can only handle so much deceit per day.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “She’s…right about one thing,” he said. “We’re not the only game. There are other powers. Other bargains. If we try to cut you off from them entirely, we’re…no better than my father.”
“You’re not cutting me off,” she said. “I’m choosing to prioritize not getting drowned.”
Lucien sighed. “You did well,” he said. “You didn’t promise. You didn’t spit in her face. Both are wins.”
“I wanted to,” Rowan said.
“I know,” he said, sounding proud.
Caelan looked at Rowan.
“Come,” he said. “You need food. And rest. And to not think about mud for a few hours.”
“And after that?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“After that,” he said slowly, “I think it’s time we stopped poking your magic with sticks and actually taught you how to use it.”
She exhaled. “Finally,” she muttered. “A lesson I actually want.”
Lucien grinned. “You say that now,” he said. “Just wait until you’re on fire.”
“Comforting,” she said.
The burn in her palms throbbed in anticipation.
For the first time, under the fear and grief and anger, something else sparked in her.
Excitement.
Power.
Hers.
She would not be just a hinge for their doors.
She would be the one who decided when they slammed shut.
---