“You killed our parents.”
“They chose you over me. Every day, every decision, every allocation of resources—you, you, you. The special one. The important one. The one worth protecting.” Her voice cracks, and for just a moment, I hear the sister I used to know. The one who felt overlooked and overshadowed. The one whose pain turned to poison.
Then the moment passes, and she’s the monster again.
“Enough talk.” She raises both hands, and the ritual circle flares with blinding intensity. “Time to take what’s mine.”
TWENTY
TAMSIN
The chains descend.
They move with unnatural speed, enchanted metal seeking my wrists, my ankles, the pulse points where my fire burns brightest. I dodge the first set, incinerate the second, but there are too many. The chamber was designed for this. Every angle, every approach—chains waiting to bind.
One catches my left wrist. The manacle snaps shut, and my fire gutters.
Cold spreads from the contact—not physical cold, but something worse. The enchantment is suppressing my Fire-Bringer abilities, dampening the flame that lives in my blood. I try to burn through, but my power slides off the metal without effect.
Another chain catches my right wrist. More cold. More suppression. My fire dims to embers.
“There.” Morrigan’s voice is thick with satisfaction. “Not so special now, are you?”
She approaches, staying within her ritual circle but close enough that I can see the triumph in her shifting eyes. Close enough to see the madness that’s consumed her.
“The manacles suppress Fire-Bringer flame. Took me years to design them.” She traces a finger along my jaw, and I feel the dark magic crawling beneath her skin. “You’re just a witch now, little sister. Just like me. How does it feel?”
I don’t answer. I’m focusing on what she just said.
The manacles suppress Fire-Bringer flame. Just the flame. They’re not designed for witch magic.
Because Morrigan has witch magic. She wouldn’t build suppression for her own abilities into a ritual designed to drain them from me.
“Begin the drain.” She steps back into the center of her circle. “Let’s see what you’re really made of.”
The ritual activates.
Pain explodes through my body—fire and ice and something worse, the sensation of my essence being pulled from my veins. The channels in the floor light up as power begins to flow, directed toward Morrigan’s waiting form. She gasps with pleasure as the first taste of my magic reaches her.
This is what Lyric felt. This is how she died—screaming, terrified, her power ripped away inch by agonizing inch while she called for a brother who would arrive minutes too late. I understand now why Auren’s hatred calcified into something absolute. This isn’t just murder. It’s a violation.
I scream too. Can’t help it. The pain is beyond anything I’ve experienced, beyond anything I imagined possible. My body arches against the chains, fire trying to flare but suppressed by the manacles, witch magic flowing freely through the channels?—
Wait.
My witch magic is flowing freely.
Through the haze of agony, I force myself to think. The manacles suppress my fire, but the ritual is designed to drain my fire. Morrigan built her system around Fire-Bringer power because that’s what she’s been obsessing over for decades. That’swhat she tried to steal from Lyric. That’s what she needs to control the Crown.
But I’m not just a Fire-Bringer.
Mother’s voice echoes in my memory: Our bloodline carries two gifts. The fire burns hot, but the witch blood runs deep. Never forget what we are.
Morrigan forgot. She’s so fixated on what I have that she doesn’t, she’s forgotten what we share.
I stop fighting the drain.
Instead, I push.
