Kirastasia wasn’t a stupid girl. She was flighty, and whimsical, and the absolute shallowest creature in existence, but she had a brain in that beautiful skull of hers—and it was a clever one. At first, only suspicion had linked her two treasured firebirds together; the young princess had never before laid eyes on such mystical creatures and could only assume that Eriel and Rom were somehow connected. That whole “birds of a feather” thing, right? The same way eagles nested together? Their flame-colored fur matched so perfectly, Kira could not think of the kalaks as separate entities. But stopping at that vague conclusion wasn’t enough for the pale owlet; she needed to be certain, and the only way to be certain was to snoop.

Among the things Kirastasia was exceptional at, snooping was definitely one of them.

She learned quickly that Cold Summers was ruled by the very ember-born wolves that entranced her—all that answer required was a question asked to the right person. She didn’t bother digging into their rather tumultuous family history—BOR-ING—but Kirastasia discovered, much to her delight, that both her beloved Eriel and her plaything Rom carried some semblance of royal blood. Imagine: royalty! JUST LIKE HER! No wonder she had met them both; it was clearly fate. Once that conclusion dropped into her paws, Kershov’s daughter lost all interest in other parts of their story. She didn’t want others to spoil the delicious hidden narrative for her; she wanted to unwrap their fractured fairytale petal by petal, piecing together their broken past like a child creating a glittering mosaic from a handful of delicate glass shards. Kirastasia felt with every passionate fiber of her being that whatever fable she ended up crafting would be absolutely perfect. And she hadn’t even decided the ending!

Of course, part of her planning required that even though she sort of had an understanding of Eriel and Rom’s positions, she never allude to it. If too much slipped from her pouting lips, Rom would just stubbornly deny it, and then their game would die. Kira refused to allow that. Eventually she’d pry the right answers from that handsome jaw of his . . . but insidiously, cunningly, cross-examining each of his responses until his mystery unraveled. Rom had no reason to think the airy snowbird knew anything about him—surely one of his sneering retorts would hold a grain of accidental truth? Maybe? Oh, the russet warrior could be so IMPOSSIBLE sometimes!

One would think that even the most devoted of puppet masters would need a break from her disobedient marionettes every once in a while—except that wasn’t the case with the fishnet punkette. She was currently resting just inside the border, hiding in the clustered embrace of a fragrant rosebush. It’s sweetly cloying scent masked her own feminine signature quite efficiently while allowing her to breathe deeply of Rom’s masculine cologne. She noticed that though he tried to keep his patterns varied, there were a few choice entrances and exits he favored; most likely because they were easy for his heightened senses to memorize. Imagine her sense of gloating triumph when the male phoenix plodded back into Malignant, head down and too drowned in this thoughts to realize she was watching him intently.

As soon as he was a body-length away, Kira burst from her hiding place, plume raised saucily over her spine and maple eyes luminous. “Mister Rommmm!” she chirped, insanely happy at the way he flinched. Quick as a snake the girl wound around him, meshing ivory and ruby, before darting out of snapping range with a giggle on her tongue. “Where on earth have you been? Malignant rabbits not tasty enough for you refined palate?”