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Lunara giggled. “Amun left it unattended on a side table during our short visit to Argoph. Seemed rather convenient if you ask me.”

Absurdly so.

Except the colored map of Bordoroth—blanketed in a horde of Xs and Os, Amal’s neat notes in the margins regarding the various locations and leads on his missing cousins—was utterly useless to him now. As soon as the war with Okthana ended, the Demons were banned from entering the Westrealm in groups larger than two without advanced notice. Lyriat’s own fault for getting caught.

Brand was out, no thanks to the Oracle, and the only other two Demons Lyriat trusted with such a task were his extremely recognizable twin cousins, who would be spotted immediately if they weren’t where they were meant to be—like anywhere except trailing Brand and Lunara, their official charges.

Lyriat’s choked laugh was a bitter thing, tears welling. “I can’t even fucking use it.”

Not unless he wanted to risk being found out again, and thus imprisoned—or worse, executed—by the creature who was the closest thing he had to a father anymore. Alwyn wouldn’t want to do it, would hate every fucking second of it, but he was a decent Emperor for a reason.

Stirling threaded around their ankles as Brand and Lunara met eyes again, and Brand finally nodded before turning his attention to Lyriat. “You can’t, but Magnus can.”

It was like someone walked into his head and called the light on. He’d been sleeping before, so lost to sorrow that there wasn’t room for him to be his usual, calculating self.

Sweet, burning Solyrian. He should’ve thought of it.

“The Chieftains sent him a missive last night,” Lyriat murmured. “They’re calling him back to act as High Ambassador while Caius and Thad are stuck in the Northern Glens.”

“Now that seems convenient,” Brand growled.

“Exactly.”

Too convenient, probably, and it made him sick to admit it.

“Well I received word from Araxis that they requested his help.” Lunara giggled, more wicked than either of them. “I was so delighted by the idea of The Blessed Nightmare of the Endless Dark herding wayward goats that I didn’t even stop to think it might be otherwise useful.”

Lyriat hoped Araxis’s presence there was the blessing it seemed to be, and not another curse in disguise.

“So”—he surveyed the map again, fingers skimming the soft, fraying edges of the parchment as the endless web in his mind finally flared to life with renewed vigor—“Magnus will be our eyes and ears in Thodelebor.”

Lunara was bubbling over, so much anticipation she could hardly stand it.

Brand’s hazel stare burned into her from his place on the dais, a perfect match for the effervescence he was pouring into the bond. The heat and longing. Just as bleeding beside himself as she was.

You lucky witch.

She was. Stars above, she was.

The Demon in front of her bowed low, arms flourishing wide before he straightened and lumbered away.

How Lunara managed to stay still while she waited for her summons, she’d never know.

“Step forward, Lunara the Moonweaver, Blessed Keeper of Illamiata,” Lyriat boomed, “and air your grievance.”

Fern snorted from the front of the gathered crowd when Lunara practically sprinted to the foot of the steps. Hedda and Faldir—at their posts on either side of the Dominion of Demons—were no better. Fair, since her curtsy, as usual, was utter dragonshite.

She didn’t care.

Today, they were celebrating.

Not like you had much choice in the matter.

True. Lyriat had all but begged them for this cheeky little bit of theater. And since the rest of the family firmly agreed with Brand that no one in the history of Bordoroth had ever needed a rest as much as they did, it was supposed to be a month of celebrating. Lunara just wasn’t sure they’d be able to stay away that long under the circumstances.

Sure about that?

Goosebumps scattered their way across her skin when the bond flared in answer, like a calloused finger running from neck to navel. Slowly.