Embers in the Parlour 



The first rule of being a proper maid, Lyria reminded herself, was do not set the furniture on fire.
Unfortunately, Lyria had always been better at summoning infernos than pouring tea.
She stood in the middle of the parlour, fingers laced nervously at her chest, glowing eyes wide with dismay. The wooden chair behind her smoldered softly, thin ribbons of smoke curling upward. A moment ago, she had only meant to warm the room, just a little. A polite, gentle heat. But emotions and flame shared the same treacherous language, and embarrassment was terribly flammable.
Her horns flickered brighter as she replayed the disaster.
She had tripped on the rug.
She had flailed.
Her hair had flared.
And now the antique end table, imported oak, the master had said with pride, was a dignified pile of cinders.
“I barely touched it…” she murmured, watching sparks dance from her fingertips. Even her sigh carried heat; the air shimmered around her lips.
Being a fireborn demon in a house full of dry wood and velvet curtains was, perhaps, not the wisest career choice. She tried so very hard to keep her flames contained, braiding her blazing hair tight, breathing slowly to dim the glow beneath her skin. But the fire was part of her nature. When she startled, it surged. When she blushed, it bloomed. And when she panicked—
The bookshelf crackled ominously.
Lyria gasped and clapped her hands together, squeezing her power inward. The flames reluctantly shrank back into glowing seams along her arms. The room dimmed from blazing orange to a nervous, flickering amber.
She looked around at the scorched floorboards, the blackened chair legs, the drifting ash.
“…I can fix this,” she whispered with determined softness.
After all, what was a little accidental arson between employer and maid?
And next time, she promised herself, she would dust the shelves before catching them on fire.