She takes a breath. Another. The fire dims to a controlled glow around her hands. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” Her jaw tightens. “It’s just—seeing it. Proof that she was there when they died. That she watched and took souvenirs.”
“Use it later. When it serves the mission.”
A harsh laugh escapes her. “When did you become my emotional handler?”
“When you asked me to be your contingency.” I release her arm, but the warmth of her skin lingers on my palm. “The ritual chamber is through there.” I nod toward a door behind the throne—smaller than the one we entered through, more personal. “Can you feel her?”
Tamsin closes her eyes, her power reaching out in ways I can sense but not see. The air shivers as her magic extends through the walls, searching. When she opens her eyes again, her expression has gone hard.
“She’s waiting. The ritual circle is already active.” A pause. “She knew we’d come this way. Knew I’d burn through her outerdefenses. This whole layout—it’s designed to funnel us exactly where she wants us.”
“Then we proceed with eyes open.” I check my sword, verify the frost charges I’ve prepared. “She expects you to walk in afraid. Show her differently.”
We cross the great hall, footsteps echoing on stone floors that have felt only Morrigan’s feet for decades. The stolen throne looms as we pass it—a monument to jealousy, to betrayal, to a family destroyed by one of its own. Tamsin doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t let herself.
The door behind the throne is small. The entrance to the heart of everything Morrigan has built.
Tamsin pauses with her hand on the latch. Turns to look at me.
“Whatever happens in there?—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t say goodbye. Don’t give me final words. We’re going to walk in there, you’re going to end your sister, and then we’re going to walk out. That’s the only acceptable outcome.”
Something flickers in her amber eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. “That’s not very strategic. A good commander accounts for all possibilities.”
“I’m accounting for the only possibility I’m willing to accept.” I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I’m not saying. Everything I’ve been feeling since she arrived at my gate. “You come out of this alive. That’s not negotiable.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiles—not the battle grin from earlier, but something softer. Something that makes my chest ache in ways I thought I’d forgotten how to feel.
“Acceptable losses don’t include me?”
“No.” The admission costs more than it should. “They don’t.”
She pushes open the door.
The ritual chamberis exactly as Nasyra described—circular, fifty feet across, the floor carved with channels designed for blood and inlaid with silver for magical conductivity. Focusing crystals ring the space, positioned to amplify power transfer. Chains hang from the ceiling, enchanted manacles designed to suppress Fire-Bringer flame while allowing a drain to proceed.
And at the center, standing in a ritual circle that pulses with dark magic, is Morrigan.
She looks like Tamsin. That’s the first thing I register—the family resemblance undeniable despite years of dark magic twisting her features. Same bone structure, same regal bearing, same height and grace. But where Tamsin holds warmth, Morrigan radiates cold hunger. Black hair streaked with white falls past her shoulders. Her eyes shift between colors as magic moves beneath her skin—pale blue to deep violet to something that might be blood red.
Beautiful in a way that sets the teeth on edge. The beauty of poisonous flowers. Of predators in moonlight.
“Hello, little sister.” Morrigan’s voice echoes strangely in the chamber, amplified by the ritual circle’s power. “I was beginning to think you’d never arrive. Did you enjoy my welcome?”
“The shadow constructs?” Tamsin’s voice is steady. Controlled. “They were barely a warm-up.”
“Oh, those weren’t for you.” Morrigan’s gaze slides to me, and something cold and satisfied settles in her expression. “The ice dragon himself. Auren Valek, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
My hand tightens on my sword. “Have you.”
“Lyric spoke of you often, near the end.” The words are designed to wound, delivered with precise cruelty. “Called for you while I worked. Seemed to think her big brother would save her.” She smiles—a predator’s smile, all teeth and malice. “He didn’t, of course. You were too late. How does that feel, I wonder? Knowing she died waiting for you?”
The ice in my chest cracks. Rage floods through me—hot, immediate, exactly what she wants. My frost flares, spreading across the floor toward the ritual circle.
Tamsin’s hand finds mine. Squeezes once. Brief. Grounding.
“You’re trying to make him angry.” Tamsin’s voice cuts through my fury. “Make him sloppy. It won’t work, Morrigan. He’s not the one you should be worried about.”
