Page 258 of Burn of the Everflame

“No matter what.”

“Even if you have to lead the army against him yourself?”

“Yes,” I snapped. “Even if I⁠—”

I stopped abruptly, awareness colliding against me like someone following too close behind. We were no longer talking about Garath, or Aemonn, or Taran, or Vance. Perhaps we hadn’t been in a while.

Suddenly, my dress was too tight. The air was too thin.

“He’s . . . he’s dead,” I whispered. “Luther killed him.”

She clutched at her chest as if her heart were breaking. “Never in my life have I prayed harder for something to be true.” Love, pity—both were written all over her face. “The day I stabbed him on the island, I checked his pulse. His eyes didn’t close. His chest didn’t rise. He was dead that day, too.” She paused. “Ophiucae is not a normal Descended, is he?”

I let out a long, shuddering breath and shook my head.

“Do you believe he’s dead?” she asked.

A flock of angry gryverns couldn’t have torn the answer from my throat. I could not bear to breathe life into the possibility that the happiness everyone had accepted, the unifying victory everyone so dearly needed, was just a ticking clock.

A lit fuse.

She turned me to the mirror and stood behind me, setting her chin on my shoulder. With her face beside mine, the relation between us was vivid. There was something about seeing the matching slopes and curves of our features that made me feel closer to her.

In her, I saw the woman I might become, in time. The creases of a smile, whittled by decades of laughter with family and friends. The way her strong personality had softened with age, its hardest edges sanded smooth by maturity and experience, though her heart never changed. The shadow of grief from those lost, but also her confidence, the certainty of purpose that only a long life, well-lived, can give.

In our differences, it was Ophiucae I saw. There were pieces of me that felt like his and mine alone. Not just my eyes or my magic—my quickness to anger, a drive for justice that could easily lead me astray when tainted by revenge.

We were dangerous, he and I. To others, but especially to ourselves.

There were parts of me that belonged to Andrei, too. The scars that littered my body, the strength that steeled my soul. Even my posture, from years of his scolding: Diem—back straight, chin high. The example of leadership he had set for me weighed on every decision I made.

Three people.

Three lives who’d molded mine.

“Mother,” I said, “if Ophiucae is alive . . .”

My brother’s grumbles wafted in from the parlor, complaining about his suit as Lily reassured him with effusive compliments.

My mother glanced toward the door. “Teller never complains about clothes. He must be nervous.” She shot me a knowing smile. “Perhaps it has something to do with the pretty girl he’s taking as his date.”

I suspected it had more to do with the grudge he was holding against me, though I kept that thought to myself as they appeared at the door. “Isn’t he handsome?” Lily asked, nodding frantically in a plea for us to agree.

“Very handsome,” my mother echoed. “A fine suit.”

Teller held out his arms to show off the design—golden, scripted handwriting swirling in an elaborate maze over sunset-hued jacquard. “It’s the text of a book,” he said. “Zalaric won’t tell me which one. Something about war, I think.”

“Maybe if you look a little closer, you can figure it out,” Lily suggested, a conspiratorial excitement to her tone. Her eyes shot to me. “Perhaps you two could help him?”

My mother walked to Teller’s back and squinted at the design. “It looks like a description of a battle.”

Teller gave up reading and dropped his arms. “Why would he choose that for me? And where’s the phoenix?”

Lily looked at Teller’s chest, then back at me. Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. She looked his chest again, then at me, and they flew even higher.

I walked closer, ignoring the way Teller’s jaw tensed at my presence. I traced a finger over a spiral of text just below his shoulder. “If Taran was involved, it might be better if we never know,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted. “It’s probably something obscene, like a⁠—”

My breath caught as my finger stopped on two words, embroidered just above his heart.