Page 336 of Burn of the Everflame

“Not from the gods, Auralie. From our children.”

With that, my lips pressed closed.

“Any sign of him?” Remis asked.

I scanned the fighting, searching for a glimpse of Taran, and caught a brief, distant flash of auburn-red hair. I squinted to confirm what I’d seen. In the same spot, a swinging white braid flew by.

My heart raced. I knew Diem and Teller would eventually join the fight, but a voice inside me, a mother’s instinct, warned that something about this was wrong.

My distraction cost me—a broadsword came swinging, moving too fast for me to deflect. I seized up, bracing for its impact, and a loud clang rang in my ears as the blade smashed against my chest. I stumbled back, staring down in shock at the godstone breastplate Brecke had crafted from Andrei’s ashes. Without it, the blow would have been instantly lethal.

Even in death, my Andrei was still protecting his family.

“Over here,” Remis shouted, “I think I found them.”

I made quick work of the broadsword’s owner before they could strike again, then glanced over my shoulder and balked—a few feet from Remis, Taran knelt beneath a shimmering dome, while Diem stood beside him, casting light and shadow magic at anyone who came near.

My head whipped back to where I’d spotted her moments ago. It was too far away for her to have made it here so soon.

“What happened?” Remis asked her. “Is Taran hurt?”

Diem shook her head.

“He’s gone,” Taran said hoarsely. Cradled in his arms, clutched against his chest, was a motionless body covered in burns. Only a patch of glossy golden hair revealed the man it had once been.

“Oh, Aemonn,” Remis murmured. He knelt at Taran’s side and placed one hand on Aemonn’s head, the other on Taran’s shoulder. “May the Blessed Mother guide him home.”

Taran’s body shook with sobs. “It should have been Father. He should have been here. He should have died instead.”

Remis sighed, then gave a slow nod.

“Jean Hanoverre—he was going to kill Zal,” Taran stammered. “Aemonn took the blow instead. Why would he do that?” His anguished eyes turned to me, head shaking, as if he couldn’t bring himself to believe in his brother’s love, even as he held the burnt, bleeding proof of it in his arms.

Remis took Aemonn’s hand and clutched it between his. “Jean will pay for what he’s done.”

“He already has,” Diem said, gesturing to a nearby corpse. Her voice sounded strange. Lower, almost masculine.

“Then House Hanoverre will pay,” Remis swore. “I’ll wipe every last one of them from Emarion soil.”

Taran nodded, fists clenching, and I frowned. Remis and Garath had many sins as fathers, but I feared the gravest was teaching their sons that violence and vengeance were the only ways a man could prove his love.

As Luther soared overhead on Sorae, I wondered with growing trepidation what that meant for my daughter.

“Teller!”

My daughter’s voice—her real voice—called out from somewhere nearby, sounding angry and harsh. But I’d been standing right beside her . . . and her lips hadn’t moved.

“Auralie,” Remis whispered. His eyes went wide as he gestured to Aemonn’s hand, lying limp in his lap. I frowned, not understanding—until Aemonn’s finger curled in an almost imperceptible twitch. “I think he’s . . .”

I cut Remis off with a strong shake of my head. It wasn’t unusual for bodies to spasm after death, and I couldn’t bear to worsen Taran’s grief with misplaced hope. I looked back at Diem, trying to make sense of what I’d heard, but Remis hissed my name again.

He pointed to Aemonn’s shoulder, where the plates of his golden armor had melted under the heat of the light magic that had killed him. The fabric of his shirt had burned away, and the skin beneath was brutally charred. Then my breath caught—in the center of the gruesome wound, a patch of new, pink skin was beginning to grow.

Remis’s eyes shot to mine in mutual realization: Aemonn was healing.

And dead Descended couldn’t heal.

I rushed to Aemonn’s side and grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse. Each beat was so faint and far apart that if he was a mortal, there’d be nothing anyone could do for him but say the Rite of Endings. Even for a Descended, the odds were grim. His wounds would take hours, maybe days, to heal, and his heart might only last minutes.