Except she’s not unbowed. I can see it now that I’m closer. The slight tremor in her shoulders. The way her hands grip the stone wall hard enough to whiten her knuckles. The unstable flicker of white fire dancing around her fingers, responding to emotions she’s trying to contain.
She hasn’t noticed my approach. She’s staring at something in the distance—the direction Morrigan’s forces retreated, maybe, or the horizon beyond which Valdoria’s ruins smolder. Her fire gutters and flares in erratic patterns I’ve come to recognize as distress.
I should leave. She clearly wants to be alone. Strategic wisdom suggests giving her space to process, allowing her to regain composure before our next interaction. Emotional engagement is a complication neither of us needs.
I don’t leave.
“Staring at the horizon won’t change what’s behind it.”
She doesn’t startle at my voice. Just turns her head slightly, acknowledging my presence without fully facing me. “I know.”
“Aisling wants to check your reserves. You’ve been avoiding her.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” I move to stand beside her at the wall, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. Her fire is running hotter than normal—a sign of magical exhaustion, paradoxically. The body compensating for depleted reserves by burning what remains. “Your fire is unstable. Your hands are shaking. And you haven’t eaten since before the attack.”
“You’ve been watching me.”
“I’ve been watching everyone. It’s my job.” Not entirely true. I’ve been watching her more than others. Telling myself it’s because she’s the primary tactical asset, the Crown’s only viable wielder, the linchpin of any strategy against Morrigan and Ulrik.
Lies are easier when you don’t examine them too closely.
“How many died?” Her voice is quiet. Controlled. The voice of someone who’s asked questions like this before and knows how to brace for the answers.
“Two warriors in the initial wave, one who didn’t reach the healers in time.” I don’t soften the numbers. She asked for thetruth; she deserves it. “Seventeen injured, four seriously. Two may not recover full combat capability.”
“Because of me.”
The words hit harder than they should. I turn to look at her properly, finding her profile still aimed at the horizon, her jaw tight, her fire flickering with that unstable rhythm.
“Morrigan attacked because I’m here.” She continues before I can respond. “She sent those creatures, those... things she made from dragons... because she wanted to prove she could reach me. Those people died because my sister wanted to send me a message.”
“Your sister attacked because she’s a monster who tortures living beings into nightmares and uses them as weapons.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “You are not responsible for her choices.”
“Aren’t I?” She finally turns to face me. Her eyes are dry, but there’s something shattered behind them—guilt so familiar, I recognize it instantly because I see it in my mirror every morning. “She’s my blood. My family. I should have stopped her years ago. Should have seen what she was becoming. Should have?—”
“Should have what? Predicted that your sister would ally with the Shadow Clan and become a murderer?” I hear my voice getting harder and can’t seem to stop it. “Should have somehow prevented choices she made before you were old enough to understand what they meant? Should have known, at fifteen, that the sister who left home would one day destroy everything you loved?”
She flinches. Something crosses her face—surprise, maybe, at the venom in my tone. Or recognition, of a kind.
“This sounds personal.”
The observation cuts through my composure like her fire through shadow constructs. Direct. Unavoidable. Precise.
I should deflect. Change the subject. Retreat behind the walls I’ve maintained for decades against exactly this kind of vulnerability.
Instead, I hear myself say: “I blamed myself for years. Still do, sometimes.”
The silence stretches between us.Tamsin’s fire stills, her attention fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. Just waits, offering space for words I’ve never spoken to anyone.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. Don’t know what’s possessed me to crack open wounds I’ve kept frozen for decades. But her guilt is a mirror to my own, and suddenly, I can’t bear to let her carry it alone the way I’ve carried mine.
“Lyric was born when I was already over five hundred years old.” The words feel strange in my mouth—too soft, too revealing. “A surprise, my parents said. A gift they hadn’t expected. She was nothing like me. Warm where I was cold. Spontaneous where I was calculated. She felt everything so intensely, so openly, while I’d spent centuries perfecting the art of feeling nothing at all.”
Tamsin stays silent. Listening.
“Our Fire-Bringer. The first in our bloodline. When her powers emerged, she was terrified. Couldn’t control the flames. Set her bedroom on fire twice before she learned to contain them.” A ghost of a smile crosses my face. I can’t help it. “She was so embarrassed. Kept apologizing for the scorch marks on the ceiling.”
