Page 146 of Burn

Whose thorns could not burn.

My chest hitched. The rose in my hair. Poet had said its thorns were impervious to fire, and if one drew in their essence, it protected that person. The effect did not work forever but long enough to create a temporary barrier.

That dark magic extends to you and everything you keep close.

His words reemerged from the day I’d recovered after my allergy poisoning. At the same time, the environment watered, the inferno growing stronger, the molten heatwaves compromising visibility. Yet as realization struck, I closed my eyes and pictured the faces that mattered. Then I opened my gaze and glared at the flames.

Summer created fire. But Autumn survived it.

Plucking the rose from my hair, I traced its petals and barbed stem. I winced as I pricked my thumb, a pearl of blood rising to the surface. Armed as best as possible, I sucked in a breath. Then I stepped forward.

I could have jumped, but that was my jester’s style. Rather, I walked like a ruler.

Tenacious. Resilient.

The flames hit my skin. They lapped at my dress, stoking it like a hundred pokers. And yet.

They didn’t penetrate the garment. They didn’t burn me.

Poet slashed a path through the mob. When he finally breached the front, I broke into desperate motion. The jester glimpsed the rose in my hand, which wiped the terror from his face. Understanding dawned an instant before he charged, hurled himself into the flames with the agility of a jaguar, and landed millimeters from me.

On a furious cry, I threw myself at him. The jester mashed me against his frame, and my body became armor, screening him from being scorched.

… and everything you keep close.

Standing within the bonfire’s heart, we held fast, held tight, held on. Never letting this go. Never lettingusgo. We clutched one another, engulfed in the blaze, which danced around us in a tableau of orange and blue. Sparks whisked overhead, yet the wall of heat and the laurel of slashing flames failed to reach us. They merely formed a wreath, an unbroken circle that felt more like a shield than a trap.

Like a ribbon. Like a crown.

As we inched apart, Poet’s rage dissolved as he held my face. Relief, wonder, and love glittered in his eyes. I gripped his jaw, splaying my fingers over his skin and marveling at the molten light sketching his features.

For my Season, for my kingdom, for this man.

For them, I would walk through fire.

As would my jester.

To be safe, I nicked Poet’s thumb with the thorn, a bead of crimson pressing through his flesh. Slowly, he slid the droplet across my lower lip. Then with a fractured groan, he snatched my mouth with his.

Enveloped in a circlet of flames, my jester kissed me. His mouth fused to mine, hard and harsh, licking his blood from my lips, sharing the taste of it with me. Seasons, I clasped his face and kissed him back, my mouth opening for the desperate lash of his tongue.

It lasted seconds, yet the fit of his lips penetrated the crux of my body, bestowing me with inexhaustible strength. Gasping out of the embrace, we heaved for oxygen. After another swift brush of the lips, Poet linked hands with me. Turning, we strode through the flames without so much as a blister.

The mob had stalled earlier, their expressions captivated as they’d witnessed me and the jester embracing in the nexus of a fire. My kin, my court, my people. Now they gazed as their princess and jester stepped through, our movements in tandem to one another, so that Poet and I sank to our knees in unison.

As one, we had survived their anger and fear. As one, we knelt for our Season.

Just like that, the riot ended. The mayhem disintegrated, and silence washed through the square, apart from the crackling flames.

They could have accused us of using some type of harrowing magic to defy the bonfire, whereas I could have explained about the rose. Yet they knew how almighty nature worked, and they must have comprehended. Somehow, the Season had blessed me and the jester, had protected us.

A speech flitted through my mind, only to disintegrate before it reached my lips. On the training lawn, my words had won the troops’ fealty. But tonight, my actions alone would reach out to the people.

Mine and Poet’s.

To kneel was to swear a vow. To kneel was to pledge oneself.

We did not seek to command. We sought to connect.

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