The grand flame-lit throne room of Agni shimmered in gold, red, and emberlight. Silk banners bearing the sigil of the Fire God Agni fluttered above the heads of dancing nobles and powdered courtiers. Incense smoke curled lazily through the air like whispered prayers, mingling with the metallic scent of fire magic and the heady perfume of ambition. Laughter echoed like hollow bells, accompanied by music that felt far too cheery for the man slouched at the side of the dais. Ravi Balakrishnan, Crown Prince of Agni, lounged across his intricately carved obsidian throne with one boot slung over the armrest, the other tapping rhythmically against the marble. His armor, gilded and scorched in places from recent battle, glinted under the warm flicker of floating flame orbs. A long crimson sash draped loosely over one shoulder, undone just enough to provoke scolding stares from the older ministers.

He swirled the wine in his cup, watching it with all the enthusiasm of a tiger eyeing a bowl of water. His molten yellow eyes, bright and burning even in the low light, flicked with boredom—and thinly veiled fury. His hair, a cascade of thick, dark locks, pulsed with faint embers at the tips, threatening to ignite with every fresh intrusion.

Nobles paraded their jeweled daughters past him like prized cattle. Silken-clad maidens bowed, fluttered their lashes, whispered compliments rehearsed by anxious mothers. The very air reeked of desperation. Ravi’s jaw tensed. His grip on his cup tightened. He could feel it—that rage curling inside him like a slow flame waiting to roar. If he let go, even for a second, this ball would become a pyre.

Beside him, The Fire King, Balhaar Balakrishnan, sat tall and commanding, his own presence no less volatile. The resemblance between them was unmistakable—both men built like warriors, carved from fire and iron. The King’s gaze cut to Ravi, sharp and wordless, as if to say control it. Ravi exhaled through his nose, a thin tendril of smoke slipping past his lips. He huffed, loud enough to be disrespectful, but quiet enough to avoid direct rebuke.

Then he saw you.

And the fire dimmed.

You stood across the hall, dressed not in desperation, but in defiance of it. Not dolled up to impress—no, you didn’t need to try. You weren’t like the others. You never were. Ravi’s lips twitched into a rare, genuine smirk. Catching your eye, he made a face—childish, mocking, a perfectly timed mimicry of the simpering lord just walking past. He hid it with a lazy sip of wine.

Your laughter—the real kind, not the forced kind echoing around the room—reached his ears like bells in a monsoon storm. His smirk softened.

You, the noble who grew up with him in the palace, the one soul in this firelit hell who saw past the smoke and fury. You had always been his calm. His chaos. His secret. And his only softness.

No one else knew how to touch the inferno without getting burned.

Ravi remembered the nights spent on the palace rooftops with you, away from court politics and parental lectures. How you'd patch him up after battles and scold him for burning the training grounds again. How you laughed when he lit his tutor’s robes on fire. How, despite everything, you stayed.

He was the fire—and you were the reason he didn’t let it consume the world.

Now, as the ball waltzed on and the court spun in its own madness, Ravi had only one thought: You’re here. And suddenly, everything else can burn.