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“She is our⁠—”

“She is Demon!” Lyriat roared, leaning forward. “By the Sisters’ own starlight, Lunara the Moonweaver was bonded to one of my own. Marked as one of my own. I honor her as such. I will protect her as such. This is what you are failing to grasp, Araxis. Whether it be youth, or hard-headedness, or sheer fucking stupidity, I don’t know, but you’re only thinking of what you want and need. What you require of her. What you can take from her. Have you ever once considered what you might give her? What you might offer? Or is she just the vessel to you, a tool to be used, as she fears?”

“No,” Araxis growled. “I haven’t considered it, because she has already been given everything, offered everything, and is refusing it. She is as a goddess to the Sorcerit of Nachthelliae. They only wish to worship the ground she walks on, and she will not even deign to grace them with a few moments of her time and energy while I am landed with the fallout. Constantly. Incessantly. So, forgive me if my heart doesn’t bleed for Lunara the wayward Moonweaver as yours does.”

“And what of her parents?” Magnus asked, sick to his damned stomach. “What of her fears? I’ve heard the story, defended you, but it’s an awful mess. Why have you never given an explanation, even after all this time?”

“Because the true answer to those questions would end me, and Bordoroth—the Evesong especially—needs me alive and breathing for now.” He produced a midnight velvet pouch and chucked it at Lyriat. “That is how many times I will sneak you into Thodelebor. When they’re gone, they’re gone, and you leave me the fuck out of the rest of it.”

“Agreed. Shall we?”

Araxis scoffed and disappeared, reappearing beside Magnus and grabbing his arm. He did the same to Lyriat, then pulled them both into the ether, the oily fingers of the space between caressing Mag’s cheeks, his hair, as they traveled through it.

Solyrian was already tumbling behind the rolling hills when they arrived in the Westrealm, twilight a breath away. The breeze was dense with the rot of dreadbeasts and Forgotten, and smoke rose in billowing patches across the horizon. There wasn’t a fruit or vegetable or blade of grass in sight, the fields nearest them reduced to nothing.

Magnus gasped, his heart turning over. “Weeping Sisters.”

—Ach, lad, it’s…—

Aye. Worse than Caius and Thaddeus reported.

So, so much worse.

“Three hours, Araxis,” Lyriat murmured.

Magnus nodded, dazed. “Aye, we’ll be waiting right here for you to take us home.”

“Odd,” Araxis said, arching a sardonic brow and gesturing at the wasteland around them. “I thought this was your home.”

The arsehole misted away, his cruel parting words still hanging in the dank air.

Magnus clenched his fists and choked back the overwhelming desire to bellow at the sky. “Let’s get this the fuck over with.”

Lunara couldn’t sit. No matter that Lyriat’s secret room deep beneath the mountain was tiny and she could barely move around the curved benches and circular stone table. The second her arse touched down, she’d either pass out or start weeping. So, pacing it was.

At least this way, they don’t realize you’re only hearing every other word.

True. But who could blame her? What Brand said to her that morning, the hatred in his words, his gaze…

No. No, no, no. Ignore.

Finding out they finally had a lead on Nyri and Bal had given her a momentary boost, but this pointless little meeting was⁠—

“I think Brand should be part of the search party.”

That got her attention.

Her gaze snapped to Lyriat where he sat at his usual spot in front of the fireplace, the dancing light behind him more ominous than usual. She wasn’t sure whether it was the flames or the conversation, but an itchy sweat broke out across her body at his declaration, the robe she’d borrowed from Mag suddenly too thick, too tight.

“I’m sorry, you want Brand to go to Thodelebor?”

“You can’t be serious,” Magnus said at the same time, standing from his own seat.

“Think about it.” Lyriat leaned in. “Brand closed the Ghostbor Chasm, his power did that, but he has no idea. If we force him to⁠—”

“If we force anything, we risk setting him off,” Mag growled.

“I know, truly, but if we keep the group small, down to the people who know how to handle him, we can give him a purpose.”