Malvoria's castle had survived many sieges, but none so ferocious or so absurd as the current battle raging in the royal dressing room.
If chaos had a throne, Kaelith was sitting on it, flushed with power, a handful of purple fire threatening everything within reach.
The child's earlier reluctance to wear anything other than trousers and a rumpled tunic had evolved into outright rebellion: every dress, every frilly jacket, every delicate sash that didn't meet her approval went up in small, fragrant flames.
Elysia, eyes wide, tried in vain to salvage a pink frock as Kaelith set the hem ablaze. "Kaelith! That was silk—do you know how long it took the seamstress to make that?"
Kaelith only giggled, tiny fangs flashing, her hands already reaching for another garment. Malvoria watched with a kind of pride mingled with exasperation.
The fire was her own color, deep violet and edged in gold—protective, lively, utterly untamable.
