The east wing burned faster than anyone expected. Heat hit the yard like a closing door. People ran, shouting orders and names. Men shoved water buckets and blankets. The sky filled with black smoke and the house smelled of hot paper.
Lyria was inside. She had gone back for one slip of paper, thinking she could grab it and keep going. The door slammed behind her with a shot of heat. The corridor had already taken the fire. It blocked both ends.
She coughed and tried doors. One would not open. Another stuck and burned her palm when she forced it. Smoke clawed at her throat. Her chest felt tight. She bent over the table and put her face against her sleeve to breathe through cloth. Tears burned the corners of her eyes, but she kept moving. Panic wanted to take the wheel. She pushed it back and thought instead of small steps and ways out.
She heard someone call her name. Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. "Lyria!" it came again, close and then far. She turned and went the other way. The walls glowed orange. An archway shuddered. The floor trembled under her feet.
She found the archive door. It led to the yard, but the smoke poured back at her like wind. She spat and tried the lock. The key she had tucked at her belt had gone missing when the first shelf fell. She cursed and pounded the wood until her knuckles ached. Glass cracked above her. Sparks ran along the ceiling and fell like hard rain.
Something slammed into the door from the outside and a voice roared, "Stand back!"
A hand reached in through a broken panel and grabbed at the latch. It tore under the pressure and the door swung open just enough to let a wind of heat through. Lyria pushed and fell into a man's arms. He pulled her up and shoved her against his chest. He smelled of smoke and mud. He moved with a force that steadied her legs.
Kael.
He set her down a step away and scanned the corridor. He grabbed her wrist, hard and steady, and pulled her into the closest stairwell. They half ran and half scrambled as the house shifted around them. He did not look at her the way others did. He held her like he would hold a shield he could not break.
She coughed and bent forward. He dragged water from a bucket and pressed cloth to her face. He did not let go until she could breathe without choking. His hand did not move from her wrist. It did not loosen.
"The east wing is collapsing," a man yelled from above. "Hold the outer line!"
Kael's jaw set. He shoved the cloth into her hand. "Stay with me," he said. "Do not look back."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to go back for the papers and tear the fire from its throat. She could feel the heat in her hair and the dust on her skin. She thought of the locked cabinet and the smudged ink and Ronan's name. She wanted proof. She wanted it now.
Kael gripped her arm and moved. He pushed through the servants and the guards, toward the courtyard and the line of men trying to beat the flames. He did not ask permission. He did not stop when a thrown bucket missed him by inches. He moved with the single aim of getting her away from the fire.
A beam fell somewhere behind them and a fresh rush of flame lit the corridor. Someone screamed. Lyria stifled a sob and walked faster. Smoke made every step heavy.
Outside, the courtyard was chaos. Men ran, tossed water, beat at edges of flame. Horses panicked and snorted and had to be calmed. The watch tried to form ranks. A cart burned at one side. The air peeled at their lungs. Kael kept moving. He put his body between her and the worst of the heat.
She could see him then. He had mud and soot across his cheeks. He had a split in his shirt from when a beam struck during his run. His chest rose and fell hard. His eyes were not just fierce. They were fixed on her.
A man from the guard lunged at Kael. "You cannot go back inside, Alpha!" he called. "We need men here."
Kael turned his head only a fraction. "I go where I must," he said. His voice cut. It did not sound like an order. It did sound like a fact.
Lyria felt every pair of eyes on them. Servants craned from windows. Men stopped and watched. It felt as if all the house had narrowed to the space where they stood. The heat pressed at her shoulders. Her lungs burned. She wanted to collapse and let someone else take over.
Kael picked her up then, abrupt and heavy. He slung her over his shoulder like he had done this before. His arms wrapped around her and held tight. His steps were long and sure. He moved through the smoke and toward the stable wing where a safe room waited. He did not run. He went steady and sure, the way a man carries a thing he will not drop.
Someone shouted from the courtyard. "There are riders. North gate. Merek's men."
Kael did not flinch. He moved faster. Men fell out of his path or grabbed at him and were shoved aside. He did not slow. He mounted the first step to the safe room and pushed his shoulder into the door. Men had beaten on it already and it swung. He carried her inside and set her down on a bench. He tore at her sleeve and searched pockets for the papers she had tucked away.
"You okay?" he asked. His voice was more raw than it had ever been.
She coughed and shook her head. "I think so," she said. Her voice came out thin.
He found the small scrap she had kept. It was singed on the corner but the ink had not run. He held it up and did not say anything. He folded it and put it into his own pocket. The motion was small and private. But the men in the safe room watched.
A group of servants and guards crowded in, wet blankets in hand. One of them, an older man who had served Kael's mother, stared at Lyria with a look that tried to measure what had passed between them in the fire. Another guard stepped forward with a report in his hand, breathless.
"Riders are at the north gate," he said. "Merek's men demand entry. They claim they come to help. They refuse orders to wait."
Kael turned his head and looked at the yard through the slit of the door. Smoke torn the sky. Flames still licked the house. Men argued and moved. He did not hesitate.
He stepped forward, pulled Lyria up, and set himself in the doorway. He held her hand and his mouth curled in a line.
"You stay inside," he said to the crowd and then he said it to her with his whole voice. "You do not move."
He faced the guards. He turned his chin and his posture changed. His voice carried across the courtyard. "These people have been harmed by your men," he said, loud and flat. He did not give them a moment to respond. Then he said something that stopped the air.
"She is my mate."