A bitter laugh broke from her. “I don’t—or did you choose for her?”
A flicker passed through his features. Offense, maybe. “I approached her,” he said evenly. “I saw such potential. In her. Inyou. The bloodline I carry is ancient. I do not squander it. She understood the gift I offered.”
The ego in it made my teeth grind.
“So I was what?” she demanded. “An investment?”
“You were inevitable.”
Finley’s chest rose and fell in sharp motions. “And my father—the male who raised me?”
“He knew he was not your blood.” Eiran’s shadows slithered forward, brushing the tips of her boots before retreating. “Your magic was never his to bargain away. It is older than him. Older than your mother. It was born in you because it was born in me.”
Finley stepped closer to me, her eyes flashing. “My magic.” She gave another short, brittle laugh. “It must be true. You are my father because you speak only of my magic, the way my mother and the male who raised me do. None of you sees the female behind it.”
I leaned into her. “I see her,” I whispered, my words rough with the truth. “You are not measured by your magic. Not to me.”
For a few beats, her eyes fluttered closed, as if she was pulling the words to the hollow places no one else had ever reached. When she opened them, they locked on me. “Never to you.”
“I have watched you since birth,” Eiran said, voice still calm despite the storm brewing in his eyes. “Do not doubt that I see you, Finley.”
She shook her head, a merciless laugh falling from her lips. “If you are indeed my father, you are as useless to me as the rest of my family.” Her chin lifted, my beautifully defiant goddess. “It’s fine, though. I’ve forged my own family with those who actually show up. With those who stay.”
Pride swelled at her words. Her family had bartered and betrayed her, yet she still stood. Unflinching even in the face of Death.
Before Eiran or I could respond, Finley cut in. “Enough. We can pick apart bloodlines later. Right now, we need to discuss Zaicha. Why does she want my magic? What is it she wants?”
“Is Zaicha the one who came to you?” Alastor asked.
Finley nodded, rubbing a hand over her chest as if to hold herself together.
Eiran’s shadows slinked forward. When they curled at her feet, she withdrew. I almost expected a hint of hurt to flash across Eiran’s features, but he was stoic as he straightened, jaw tight.
“You summoned us here,” Finley said with the same defiant lift of her chin. “You said you wanted to tell us of the wielder. So far, you’ve told us close to nothing.”
Power emanated from him, a current of something fierce and dangerous. I shifted to step between them, but before I could, Eiran called it back.
“She wants to return to the astral realm,” he said. “I cast her out thousands of years ago, after the mages were massacred. Their deaths were at her hands, so I punished her to roam the realms alone.”
Finley huffed, the sound sharp. “Stellar parenting,” she muttered under her breath.
Eiran crossed his thick arms, silver light flooding brighter through his veins. “She deserved to be punished.”
“If the punishment meant to teach her something, all you taught her was to hate you,” Finley said, her eyes whitening, the color bleeding out as her emotions surged.
Not trusting Eiran with her anger, I trailed my fingers across her arm, wanting to ease her.
“She had thousands of years for that resentment to fester,” she said.
Eiran studied her, running his fingers across his chin as though cataloging each emotion that filtered across her features.
“I believe you are correct,” he finally said, tone unreadable.
Finley shook her head, her arms folding across her chest. “What does she gain by returning?”
“The same as you,” he said. “Death’s heir can only grow more powerful in their own domain. With the orb, she’ll only be that much stronger.”
“So that’s what all of this is about?” Finley asked, her tone thick with disbelief. “Power?”
