Varang was used to being obeyed.

Fear did that. Power did that. Fire made people careful with their distance and their words. She understood that kind of reverence—it was practical, earned, brittle if mishandled.

This was not that.

Her mate watched her the way one watches something holy without expecting mercy. Not wide-eyed. Not foolish. Certain. The kind of belief that didn’t need permission or proof. When Varang spoke, her mate listened like the words mattered. When Varang bled, her hands were steady, reverent, as if tending flame instead of flesh.

She didn’t kneel. Didn’t submit.

She believed.

Believed in Varang’s strength, her fury, her right to lead and burn and choose. Believed without fear of being consumed. And when Varang caught that gaze—open, unwavering, devoted—it unsettled her more than defiance ever had.

Fire could command obedience.

But devotion?

That was something Varang had never learned how to hold without trembling.