Page 1 of Our Radiant Embers

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LIAM

Up and coming.

That was the polite term people used when referring to my family. By means of dirty magic, some added behind closed doors. We were an unknown quantity, yet untested—forget ‘Two households, both alike in dignity.’ That was Shakespeare, and this was hardly fair Verona.

So, no ancient fatal feuds for us, thanks. No tales of star-crossed lovers either—just Adam Harrington and me, and a regrettable, drunken hookup over a year ago.

Anyway.

I adjusted my suit jacket, a bit snug around the shoulders over my fairly tall frame, while the door guards were judging me for dawdling outside the ballroom. All right, no time like the present. If you can’t beat them, join them.

As my mind drew a blank on further motivational quotes, I squared my shoulders and strode into the ballroom. Alone. Because unlike others, I didn’t need to demonstrate my status by parading arm candy around. Not casting shade or anything, just stating an innocent fact.

Since they had no skin in the game, the Blackwood family was hosting. For tonight, this meant their sprawling mansion on the outskirts of London was neutral ground—check your coats and hostile intentions at the door.

At first glance, it could have been any high-society gathering or posh charity event. Expensive fabric draped over equally expensive guests, bowtied waiters offered champagne and microscopic canapés, and gossip, no doubt, flowed freely. The grand hall, with its high ceilings and marble floors, echoed with the clink of crystal and soft laughter.

At second glance, a few details registered that would have seemed odd to the uninitiated observer. The walls emitted a soft, natural glow that illuminated the room, a water fountain at the centre danced to the tinkling notes of a piano, and a fragrance of fresh blossoms layered the air without clear origin. A chandelier that was more a work of art than a light fixture pulsed gently with a spectrum of colours, casting a kaleidoscope of shadows that played on the guests’ faces. It was one of my designs, and seeing it so prominently displayed made me tip up my chin.

In a far corner of the room, the Prime Minister, flanked by two advisors, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. I couldn’t blame him, what with how he was surrounded by people who could kill him without breaking a sweat. Not me. While I could easily devise the tools, I didn’t have the stomach for using them.

Well then. Game face on.

I accepted a glass from a passing waitress with a murmured thanks. She shot me a surprised glance from underneath demurely lowered lashes, and right, yeah. Acknowledging the hired help was not industry standard in these circles. But five years ago, I might have been in her place—just enough magic potential to orbit around those who mattered.

I reminded myself that I belonged. No, I couldn’t trace my lineage back to, say, the Middle Ages—hell, I couldn’t even trace it past my grandmother. But I had every bloody right to be here. Even if I was wearing one of only two designer suits I owned while most people in this room had likely chosen from a whole wardrobe of options.

The practice of publicly ranking families on the strength of their magic had largely fallen out of favour, but we still catered to them, didn’t we? Only the Novas still registered officially, a testament to their towering might and their family’s prestige. It set them apart from people like me who lacked either the power or the inclination to publicise their status. So, really, we hadn’t stopped bowing to those chosen few who outclassed the rest of us.

Except I didn’t bow anymore. Not to anyone.

“Well,” a wry voice said from behind me. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

I didn’t bow to anyone, no. And especially not to Adam Harrington.

Slowly, leisurely, I turned and raised my glass in a friendly salute. “Adam. Opting for a tried and true classic on the insult front rather than using your brain?”

His smile didn’t waver. “I’d respond, but I’d rather not engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed person.”

God, he was infuriating. He carried himself with all the inbred entitlement of his family clout, a prince among commoners. Dark curls and hazel eyes that watched me with thinly veiled derision, and if I squinted just right, the warm, orange glow of his magic was so bright it bordered on blinding. Fun fact, though? He’d just about melted into me when I’d dragged my teeth along his throat.

“Where’s darling Cassandra?” I asked sweetly. “Shouldn’t she supervise you, make sure you don’t accidentally end up with someone’s dick in your mouth?”

Adam scowled. “She’s not my fiancée.”

Funny how that hadn’t been my question. I countered his frown with a sunny grin. “You may want to clarify that with your father. Pretty sure the announcement is ready to go.”

It was hardly even an exaggeration—rumour had it their families had drawn up the marriage contract the moment both Adam and Cassandra Hartley manifested as powerful fire mages. The only surprise was that she wasn’t popping out kids yet.

“You don’t?—”

Whatever Adam intended to say got cut off by Cassandra herself, smoothly gliding into the space between us. “Adam, there you are! Your father’s been looking for you.” Her gaze slid to me, blue eyes assessing me as her tone cooled. “Ah, and Liam Morgan. Built any weapons of mass destruction lately?”

That was rich coming from someone who could burn down an entire city block—who’d been trained for it too, because the mightiest families were nothing if not paranoid. Then again, their paranoia may be justified. The last time two ancient families had clashed, an unfortunate mix of fire and wind magic burnt down Notre Dame.

“Not for a few days, no.” I gave a regretful shrug. “Just couldn't get the colour scheme right, you know?”

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