“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.” The smile fades. “Our parents died when she was still young, by dragon standards. A border conflict that shouldn’t have claimed anyone. I raised her after that. Taught her control, discipline, how to manage abilities that came from a part of her heritage I couldn’t share. She made me laugh. Actually laugh, not the polite noise I made at social functions. She cracked walls I’d spent centuries building and made me think that maybe warmth wasn’t weakness after all.”
The sunset has deepened around us, the sky bleeding into purple at the edges. Tamsin’s fire has steadied, burning low and constant around her fingers. She’s still watching me with that careful attention, not interrupting, not judging.
“She wanted to learn. Wanted to understand the Fire-Bringer part of herself, to connect with that heritage. I tried to help, but I’m a dragon. I understood fire from a dragon’s perspective, not a Fire-Bringer’s. So when she found someone who could teach her—really teach her, combining witch magic with Fire-Bringer techniques—I was grateful.”
I feel Tamsin go still beside me. She knows what’s coming. She has to.
“Morrigan came to our territory under the guise of diplomatic outreach. A Valdorian princess interested in Fire-Bringer traditions, she said. Lyric was thrilled. Someone who understood both aspects of her power, someone who could help her integrate abilities that felt like they belonged to different people.” My hands have clenched into fists at my sides. I force them to relax. “She talked about Morrigan constantly. Her wonderful new mentor. Her friend. The princess who understood what it meant to carry gifts you didn’t ask for.”
“Auren...”
“I encouraged her.” The admission tears something in my chest. “I was grateful. Grateful that someone was helping my sister grow into her power. Grateful that she’d found a friendwho made her happy. I had Brotherhood duties, strategic planning, a war to prepare for. I couldn’t give Lyric all the attention she needed. So I thanked whatever providence had sent a Valdorian princess to fill the gap.”
The fire around Tamsin’s hands gutters out entirely. Her face has gone pale in the fading light.
“Morrigan befriended her over months. Gained her trust with patience and apparent kindness. And then, when I was away on Brotherhood business—when I wasn’t there to protect her—she led Lyric to a ritual circle in the Valdorian forests.” My voice has gone flat. Cold. The only way I can speak these words without shattering. “I felt my sister die through our sibling bond. Felt her terror become agony become silence. By the time I reached her, it was over.”
“The blood ritual.” Tamsin’s voice is barely a whisper.
“The blood ritual,” I confirm. “Morrigan wanted to steal Fire-Bringer flame—thought she could drain it from a young Fire-Bringer and absorb it into herself. It didn’t work. She lacked Fire-Bringer blood entirely. But Lyric died anyway. Screaming. Terrified. Calling for a brother who arrived minutes too late to save her.”
Silence falls between us. The sunset has faded to twilight, stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. The fortress is quiet around us—the cleanup largely finished, the wounded being tended, the living trying to process what the day brought.
“I held her body until dawn.” I don’t know why I’m still talking. Can’t seem to stop. “Couldn’t cry. The grief was too vast for tears. Something inside me froze that night and never thawed. I buried her in our family’s ancestral grounds and felt the last warmth in me die with her.”
Tamsin turns away from me. For a moment, I think I’ve finally pushed her away—that the truth of what her sister did to my family is too much, that she’ll retreat into defensive angeror justification or any of the reactions I’ve encountered when Morrigan’s crimes come up in conversation.
Instead, she presses both hands flat against the stone wall and bows her head. Her shoulders shake once. Twice.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks on the words. “Auren, I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“She’s my sister.” She lifts her head, and I see tears tracking down her cheeks. Not performance. Not manipulation. Genuine grief, for a woman she never met, caused by a woman whose blood they share. “She’s my sister, and she murdered yours, and nothing I say will ever make that right.”
“No.” I should feel vindicated. Should feel satisfaction at finally hearing a Valdorian acknowledge what was done without excuses or deflection. Instead, I feel something else—something uncomfortable and unfamiliar that I can’t immediately name. “It won’t.”
“But I’m still sorry.” She faces me fully, tears still falling, fire still extinguished. Raw in a way I’ve never seen her. Vulnerable in a way that makes something in my chest ache. “I’m sorry she did that to you. I’m sorry for the years you spent frozen. I’m sorry that my blood carries the legacy of her cruelty.”
“Tamsin—”
“And I’m going to stop her.” Her voice hardens, grief giving way to something sharper. Something that burns brighter than any fire. “I’m going to make sure she never hurts anyone else. Never takes another sister, another daughter, another person who just wanted to learn and grow and be loved.” She meets my gaze with eyes that have gone fierce despite the tears. “I can’t undo what she did to Lyric. But I can make sure Lyric is the last.”
TEN
AUREN
The words settle into the space between us. Not forgiveness—forgiveness isn’t hers to give, and we both know it. Not absolution, because there is no absolution for what was done.
Something else.
In all the years since Lyric’s death, I’ve encountered countless people from Valdoria. Diplomats, merchants, refugees after the Shadow Clan’s attack. Some knew what Morrigan did. Others didn’t. But whenever it came up—whenever the truth of the Betrayer’s crimes surfaced in conversation—I received the same responses.
Deflection. Justification. The careful distancing of themselves from Morrigan’s actions, as if naming her crimes might somehow implicate them by association. They spoke of circumstances, of pressures, of dark magic that corrupted her. They made excuses for a murderer because acknowledging the truth was too uncomfortable.
Tamsin doesn’t make excuses. Doesn’t deflect. She stands before me with tears on her face and takes responsibility for something that isn’t her fault—not because she did it, but because she carries the same blood as the woman who did. Sheacknowledges Lyric’s death not as an unfortunate incident but as a crime, a horror, something that deserves grief and rage and promises of prevention.
