I try to obey. Try to breathe through the sobs racking my body. Selene holds me from one side, Aisling from the other, and slowly—so slowly—the fire begins to recede.
This is what sisterhood feels like, I realize dimly. Not blood—blood can betray you. But choice. The choice to show up, to hold on, to stay when everything is burning.
I’m aware of Zyphon watching from the doorway. He hasn’t left. Hasn’t pushed himself into the space I asked him to stay out of. He’s just there, a silent presence, letting the Fire-Bringers take care of their own.
It takes a long time for the flames to die completely. For my breathing to steady. For the sobs to become something I can speak around.
“My brother.” The words come out hoarse. “It was my brother.”
Selene’s arms tighten around me. Aisling’s hand finds mine and squeezes.
“Tell us,” Selene says quietly. “When you’re ready. Tell us everything.”
So I do.
It takes hours. The sun rises and fills the room with light while I talk and finally let the truth pour out of me. Selene and Aisling listen without interruption, their presence steady and warm, anchoring me to the present while I navigate the horrors of the past.
I tell them about Balroth. About growing up thinking I was protecting him, when really I was just reminding him every day of everything he couldn’t be. About his smile that never wavered, his support that never faltered—all of it a mask, hiding jealousy so deep it had curdled into something monstrous.
I tell them about the forest. The clearing. The altar. The blade that cut into my arm and drained everything I was into channels carved for exactly that purpose.
I tell them about dying. About watching Zyphon arrive too late. About seeing the curse take root, knowing I was leaving him to carry that darkness alone.
And I tell them about Lakhu. About how he twisted my memories when he resurrected me, made me believe Zyphon was the monster when really the monster was the brother I’d mourned. Made me hate the one person who would have done anything to save me.
“Three centuries,” I whisper. “He’s been carrying this too long. The guilt. The curse. The belief that he failed me. And the whole time, I was dead, and my brother was the one who killed me.”
Selene’s arms tighten around me. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know.” But the words feel hollow. “I just... I loved him. Balroth. I loved him, and he?—“
“He didn’t deserve that love.” Aisling’s voice is sharp, certain. “Some people don’t. It’s not a reflection on you—it’s a reflection on him.”
“But how do you trust anyone after that?” The question comes out raw. “How do you believe in anything? I trusted my brother with my life, and he?—“
“You learn.” Selene pulls back just enough to meet my gaze. Her gray eyes are steady, understanding. “You learn to trust again. Slowly. Carefully. With people who earn it.” Her gaze flicks toward the doorway, where Zyphon still waits. “And you let them prove they’re worth it.”
He’s been therethe whole time.
Hours of listening from the doorway, not intruding, not trying to fix or explain or defend himself. Just present. Available. Giving me space while making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
I look at him now—really look at him. The shadows crawling beneath his skin, the curse he carries because he loved me. The grief carved into his features, decades of pain that he’s borne alone because I wasn’t there to share it.
He didn’t fail me. He fought through an army to reach me. Killed my brother with his bare hands—not murder, but justice. Screamed my name until his voice gave out, then carried my body from that altar and spent centuries keeping a garden of my favorite flowers alive because he couldn’t bear to let me go.
“Zyphon.”
He straightens at my voice, his expression carefully controlled. Still giving me space. Still waiting for permission.
“I remember,” I say. “I remember everything. What Balroth did. What you did. How you—“ My voice breaks. “How you tried to save me.”
Something shifts in his expression. Hope, maybe. Or fear. The two are hard to distinguish when you’ve spent centuries expecting loss.
“And?” The word comes out rough.
I untangle myself from Selene and Aisling. Cross the room to where he stands. He doesn’t move—doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t retreat. Just watches me approach with an intensity that makes my heart ache.
“Thank you,” I say when I’m close enough to touch him. “For coming for me. For killing him. For carrying the weight of my death when you shouldn’t have had to carry it alone.”
