Ordinarily, Phriosune Prison etched a foreboding figure onto the horizon. The structure was one of the few things that did not require much reconstruction when the Titan crashed into Elysium. Mor Ardain had practically fallen face first onto the new continent's shores, and in turn, most of its buildings crumbled in the impact, as did the bulk of the Titan's limbs. However, Phriosune had been located deep in the near-forgotten wastes along the Titan's back. Sheltered there from the worst of the impact (and reinforced by Mor Ardain's spine) Phriosune Prison had maintained its structural integrity.
Until now. Where once rose impressive spires rigged with ether-imaging surveillance cameras now swirled great plumes of smoke and clouds of ash. Hardly a single stone remained in an upright position. Patrols no longer scanned for unruly prisoners but rather survivors. Waves of heat thrown from still-lit fires made the entire scene dizzying to behold.
Mòrag stood outside at the perimeter of the wreckage, her friends in tow. The sight struck them all dumb. According to the eyewitness reports—which were unreliable due to fresh shock—the chaos had originated within the facility. Some sort of explosion occurred in or around the facility's ether ventilation shafts. The ensuing gas leak necessitated a mass evacuation of the prisoners into the main courtyard. Only when the prisoners were out in the open did the carnage of the event really begin.
A collection of pirated Ardainian airships had surrounded Phriosune's courtyard. Half of these circled down into a boarding position to accept the fleeing prisoners. Most took the invitation gladly; those who broke off like lone wolves were shot down. Meanwhile, the other half of the Aramach's airships unleashed a cascade of bombs and ammunition, leveling the facility they just emptied. And then the Aramach airships left as quickly as they came.
"I'm just going to say what we're all thinking," Rex began. "Shit."
It was a sentiment Mòrag shared—and for a lot of reasons. With each passing day, the Aramach was looking less like a guild of criminals and more like an independent militia. And how had they gotten past the facility's defensive perimeter? The airspace surrounding it required security codes, all of which were updated on a regular basis. Likewise, an interior explosion caused all sorts of questions. Shipments in and out of the prison were meticulously regulated by the Senate's Justice Committee. The Senators often saw to the task personally; arguably, it should have been impossible for explosive materials to cross the facility's threshold.
However, the most troubling thought came from the prison roster. Mòrag had read through it on the journey over. Many of the names she recognized as men she personally apprehended: murders, abusers, thieves, embezzlers...it was a long list. None of them would be exactly happy to see her. She wasn't foolish enough to believe that there weren't people out there who wanted her head; that came as part of the job, and she long since reconciled herself to the fact that an assassination might be her fated end. Putting scumbags in prison always eased the stress of that reality. But now that so many of them were out, the stress was much harder to bury.
"Mòrag, what do you want us to do?"
She thought about it a moment; where should they even start? There were clues to search for, surveillance recordings to review, survivors to find, and much more. It would be a long afternoon. And since this was an Imperial matter, they'd be following her lead.
Architect, I need a vacation.
"Tora, does Poppi still have her drill attachments?"
"Of course. What do?"
"You and Poppi help clear away some of this rubble. And keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Rex and Pyra, start looking for clues in the ether ventilation area. I need to know how that explosion started there."
"Got it," Pyra answered.
"Where do we find the vents? Or where they used to be?" Rex asked.
Mòrag pulled out a map of the facility and pointed to the general vicinity of the ether chambers, used to maintain the locking mechanisms and the power grid throughout the prison. "Look for anything that seems out of place."
"Everything is out of place."
"Not the time, Pandy," Zeke hissed.
With their orders, Rex, Pyra, Tora, and Poppi trotted off and set to work. Mòrag dispatched Nia and Dromarch to the assignment best suited to their talents: the makeshift infirmary. Doubtless their healing capabilities would do a lot more good than the field medics. Brighid also departed to send a partial report back to the capitol (there was a field communications office in the village about a mile away, where the prison staff made their homes).
"And what do you want us to do?" Zeke asked. Pandoria continued to mimic his gestures in the background.
"Take your pick of the tasks I gave everyone else. Or if you'd rather, you can come help me review the surveillance footage."
"Gotcha."
Both Driver and Blade tagged along with her as she moved to the surveillance building. Mercifully, that section of the prison system remained intact; it was housed separately from the main complex. At the time, critics contested that maintaining a separate structure was inefficient. Mòrag agreed, but now she was grateful for it. Maybe they could learn more from a surveillance tape than panicked eyewitness reports.
The room buzzed with activity—both the hum of electricity flowing through the equipment inside and the murmur of soldiers hard at work. But when they entered, the men went quiet. More than once, she caught whispers of, "What's the Inquisitor doing here?" and "Didn't they get married two days ago?" It was starting to get really old.
"Who's in charge here?" she asked, hoping some productivity would break up the uncomfortable silence.
A soldier rushed forward, anxiety clear on his face. "Sargeant Keene, at your service, ma'am."
"I want to see the footage of the attack."
"Um, we're still working on that, ma'am."
"You don't have the visual report prepared? What have you been doing all day?"
She should have seen the explanation coming: some form of remote ether interference had rendered the cameras useless during the attack. The interference did not prevent the ether cameras from recording, but it did scramble the images, rendering them unusable until well after the incident. That left the prison security team effectively blind. The team had been busy unscrambling the footage ever since. It was tedious work.
"Ciaran. He's behind this," she muttered to herself, making a mental note to track down records about Ciaran's core crystal as soon as she got home.
"Isn't that your old teacher's Blade?" Zeke whispered.
"I suppose he's found himself a new Driver...Sergeant Keene, show me what footage you do have."
The footage simply served to confirm the eyewitness reports. The explosions originated inside the building, drawing the prisoners out, where they were rescued by Aramach's airships. Nothing seemed amiss in the halls, around the cells, at the prison's common areas, or elsewhere. Every guard had been on patrol as prescribed. And then the chaos ensued.
"Say, are there any cameras installed in the ether ventilation rooms?" Pandoria asked.
The soldier looked at her like she had asked the most obvious question in the world. "Of course there are. But a fat lot of good they do us. Anything within that room was blasted to bits."
"No, Pandoria's onto something," Mòrag said in realization. "The cameras might be out during the attack, but in the moments before the blast, they were operational. Pull it up."
At first, the recording was spectacularly unhelpful; all it did was loop a few seconds of an empty room before the entire screen lit up with brilliant red, then went blank. Over and over again. But when they played it back slower, they realized that the explosion itself originated from a single metal crate. A shipment of ether fuel cells, by the look of it.
"Stop the playback! There!" Zeke urged. He pointed at the box. "What's that mark on the side of it?"
"Every shipment is marked with the crest of the Senator that authorized their delivery. The members of the Justice Committee oversee shipments here personally," Mòrag explained. "Keene, who's made deliveries within the last few weeks?"
"All of the records went up in the blast. As did the captain who would have known the shipments."
"Damn it. Can you zoom in on the crate? Let us see it better."
The man did as he was asked, but the crest emblazoned on the side of the crate only blurred.
"Recognize any of it, Mòrag? Anyone?"
She squinted, desperate for a better look. She could have sworn that she'd seen the mark before, but without the clarity of the distinguishing details—it was only the tiny elements that distinguished one crest from another—she couldn't place the crest's owners. It was not enough evidence to damn anyone, just arouse suspicion.
"It's too blurry. Can't you get any closer?"
Keene shook his head, defeated. "We don't maintain good cameras in the supply rooms, ma'am. That's the best picture quality we can manage."
Another dead end. How long will this bastard spy keep slipping through my fingers?
Pandoria was the first to speak. "Should we go check with Rex? See if he's found anything in the room that blew up?"
"She's right, Mòrag. It's worth a look."
Finding the Aegis and her Driver was easy enough; Rex was digging through the rubble and searching for clues at such a frenzied pace that he threw dust clouds everywhere. If not for the gravity of the situation, it would have looked rather comical. Mòrag couldn't help but wonder if Driver or Blade had started a dust-fight somewhere along the way. Rex's salvager suit was covered in ashes.
"It's not the Cloud Sea, Rex. You're not supposed to swim in it!" Mythra scolded.
"Well you could be a bit more enthusiastic about helping. Mòrag needs us to find clues."
"He's right," Mòrag said, alerting the pair to their presence. "Do you need help searching?"
Mythra shook her head. "Nope. Already found something."
The Aegis held up a scrap of metal, idly tossing it back and forth from one hand to the other.
"Mythra! You might have mentioned that a bit sooner!"
The Blade smirked. "Watching you swim through the rubble was entertaining, all right?" She tossed the piece to Mòrag. "It's not much, but it looks like some sort of identifying mark. Probably from the box that caused the explosion."
The scrap metal was still warm between her ungloved fingers, but not too hot to touch. The scrap itself took up most of her palm. But more importantly, most of it was covered in marks, the imprint of a crest.
By some miracle, the details of the crest were still sharp. Like most noble houses, this crest—or at least the parts of it she could see—maintained all the features of Mor Ardain's crest: the Imperial shield, the sword running down its center, and the eagle's wings behind it. But it was in the add-on elements whereby each noble house distinguished its crest; most houses chose to add on weapons, symbols of their houses, or a tribute to their family's Blade. Usually the four corners of the shield took a different element. As a result, it was nearly impossible to remember every single house's crest. But the archive room in the capitol maintained detailed records.
And luckily enough for Mòrag, this scrap of metal held a significant portion of the crest—enough to see a dragon head emblazoned on one of the four corners of the shield. Probably enough to identify its owner.
Finally, some luck at last.
"Well? Do you recognize it?" Zeke asked.
She hesitated. "I swear I've seen it before, but I can't recall where. Not many houses have a dragon on their crest."
"But whoever it belongs to, that's our guy? Right?" Rex added hopefully. "Like, only our spy would be shipping explosives in here. If we identify the crest, does that mean we've got him?"
Mòrag nodded. "I'll be able to identify it. We're closing in on him."
That announcement drew a few excited cheers before their somber surroundings drew them back into a more respectful attitude.
Busywork claimed the remainder of the day. Brighid ferried messages and reports back and forth between the field communications office. Zeke and Pandoria returned to the surveillance building to sift through additional footage. When she wasn't busy answering questions or talking to the soldiers milling about, Mòrag helped Rex and the others sift through and clear the remaining rubble. No other clues surfaced, but the scrap of metal in her pocket gave her hope. Cutting off the spy from the Aramach would do Mor Ardain a world of good; perhaps, with enough questioning, he could lead her right to them. At the very least, the Aramach would have a much harder time blindsiding the crown with their man on the inside compromised.
That hope alone made the day's backbreaking work bearable. By the time the sun began to set, they were all thoroughly exhausted.
"Tora think he pulled every muscle in body," the Nopon wailed when they were finally heading back into town for some well-deserved rest.
One of the locals had offered them a ride in his wagon, promising to drop them off at the local inn. Mòrag hated to inconvenience a stranger, but even her muscles ached. The offer was too good to pass up. So she'd climbed in after Zeke, and her feet thanked her for it—as did her companions.
"Masterpon cannot pull what not exist," Poppi replied. Her master simply groaned a feeble "meh-meh" beside her.
"Sheesh, Mòrag. Is that the kind of stuff you put up with every day?" Nia commented, massaging her sore palms.
"It's not usually quite this hectic, but yes. My position keeps me quite busy."
"That's a whole lot of daily nonsense to put up with," Pyra added.
Rex chimed in. "And now she has to put up with Zeke every day, too. It's a double dose of daily nonsense!"
"Oi, can it, you!" Zeke protested.
His voice held its usual dramatism as he pretended to be offended at Rex's comment. But Mòrag could tell by the way his shoulder shook against hers that he was laughing. Leave it to Zeke to thrive off playful banter. Hang on—when had he put his arm around her? And since when did it feel so comfortable? Had he been doing it all day without her noticing?
The gesture, as innocent as it was, was not lost on their companions.
"Um, guys. Is it just me, or are we technically with Zeke and Mòrag while they're on their honeymoon?" Nia asked.
The question was met with a variety of snorts and giggles and a confused "what is honeymoon?" from Poppi, which only served to increase the laughter. Dromarch simply shook his head at his lady's remark.
"Buzz off, kitty no-mates," Zeke retorted, Pandoria mimicking his gestures from the other end of the wagon.
"I really hate that nickname."
"And I hate 'Shellhead,' but that didn't stop you from slapping me with the nickname. And this isn't our honeymoon, fuzzy. It's a business trip."
"It's your first trip together after your wedding. Pretty sure that's what a honeymoon is, Shellhead."
Not that it would have been much of a honeymoon thanks to me, Mòrag thought, hoping she wasn't going red at their comments. Were they ever going to grow bored of teasing? Maybe if she just played along, they'd move on to a different topic.
"If this is our honeymoon, then Zeke took me to a zoo, because you all are acting like animals."
That got quite the reaction from everyone. Most of them gasped that Mòrag of all people had joined in the banter; she usually stayed out of such things, only intervening when it got out of hand. Nia hissed playfully in response, twitching her ears. Mythra and Pandoria doubled over laughing.
"The actual animal of the group takes offense at that," Dromarch purred. His tail flicked, punctuating his statement. "Please don't loop me in with these hooligans."
Before Nia or Rex could add in their own response, the wagon rattled to a halt in front of Sandra's, the self-proclaimed "Best Inn Town" (albeit the only one). Not that anyone cared; just about any bed would do at this point. The group tumbled out of the wagon and entered the small establishment, more than doubling the noise level inside.
It did not take long for the inn's few guests to make the connection as to who had just entered. The innkeeper looked particularly starstruck.
"Ah! Lady Mòrag! And Lord Zeke! I certainly never expected to see you two at my inn. Not now, anyway. How can your humble servant assist?" she asked, bobbing her head over and over in tiny little bows. After the seventh awkward head bobble, she caught herself and finally stood still again.
"Sandra, my friends and I require accommodations for the evening. And supper would be nice, if you can manage it."
"For our dear first lady and her friends? Of course! I'll whip up a fresh batch while you all get settled. How many rooms do you all need?"
...Oh. That was not a question any of them had considered until now. Mòrag and Zeke turned to the others. A lot changed since the last time they stayed at an inn as a group.
"Oi, chum, how many do ya think we need? One for us, one for you and Pyra, and then a guys' room and a girls' room—sound right?"
Rex turned beet red. "O-one for me and Pyra? Nah, we're just, well, we weren't planning on, I mean, with everyone else—"
"What Rex is trying to say is that I want to hang out with the girls tonight. For old times' sake," the Aegis interjected, rescuing her Driver from his own innocence. "Although I guess this time we'll have Brighid and Pandy with us, too."
Mòrag turned to her Blade. "Unless you'd rather have a room of your own, Brighid?"
Brighid hesitated, then shook her head. "I'll stay with the girls."
"Three, then."
During their travels on Alrest, Mòrag usually dealt with the majority of the group's finances—primarily because she was the best with the minute details of a budget, having handled the same on a military scale. Of course, they shared a group purse during that adventure, usually drawn from the rewards they received from grateful villagers they helped. Not long after Rex put her in charge of the group's purse, Mòrag had learned that Tora was the most likely to swipe a coin or two from the shared wallet; his always was "one coin short for tasty sausages" which he needed to "survive." And since Tora feared Mòrag more than anyone else in the group—perhaps with the exception of Brighid—Mòrag was the best choice to protect it.
As a result, Mòrag had always been the one to pay for their lodging. Today, however, with only three rooms, the price seemed small. In the past, they'd always booked four or five: one for Zeke and Pandoria, one for Mòrag and Brighid, then one each for the other guys and girls, and an extra one if some of their other Blades came along. She'd never stopped to consider how their marriage would affect details as simple as temporary living accommodations. Nothing wrong with that—just a simple reminder that everything was going to be different now.
"Three rooms it is!" the innkeeper said cheerfully. "Two group rooms, and then our honeymoon suite for our royal couple."
"I really wish people would stop throwing that word around," Zeke whispered as he took the keys from the woman.
"Let's just be grateful that Kora didn't come along for once," Mòrag whispered back.
Once the room keys were passed off to the most responsible occupant of each room—without question Brighid for the girls and Dromarch for the guys—the Aegis party dispersed to get settled and pass the time until dinner was served. Mòrag and Zeke quickly discovered that "honeymoon suite" simply implied that it was the only room that had a double bed (it was a very small inn in a very small town, after all). For some reason, that put them both a bit more at ease. Being doted on as newlyweds felt strange, as if everyone else had forgotten that it was an arranged marriage. They could do without the special treatment.
Likewise, their friends seemed to have adapted to the changes at the drop of a hat. During their adventures across Alrest, there had always been the unspoken agreement that, when they sat down to eat, a space was to be left beside Brighid or Pandoria, giving the group's adult Drivers room to sit beside their Blades. No one had ever requested the arrangement; it just happened. Today, however, was another matter. When Zeke and Mòrag rejoined the group for a long-awaited meal, both Brighid and Pandoria had been effectively surrounded by other companions. Two adjacent seats remained for them.
"Sorry, lovebirds," Nia teased when they sat down, "there aren't enough tables for you to sit by yourselves. Try to keep the lovey-dovey stuff to a minimum while we're eating."
Architect, this nonsense is never going to end.
To her relief, the teasing didn't catch on as they dug into the simple meal the innkeeper had prepared. It was nothing fancy, although Ardainian cuisine had improved tremendously on Elysium. But sitting together around the table, eating, talking, laughing, not even bothering to plan their next move—it felt cozy and comfortable. Mòrag did not realize how much she had missed it.
One by one, members of the group dispersed, leaving to prepare for bed or explore the town a bit before the last traces of sunlight vanished. The inn's other occupants did the same. Before long, Brighid found herself alone in the common area, scrawling an entry in her journal while the innkeeper tidied up for the night.
The fire Blade stifled a yawn. Her exhaustion was getting the better of her; ferrying messages back and forth was always part of her job. Today it had been especially stressful. But she did not fancy the idea of joining the other girls in the room just yet. They would probably be up gossiping for an hour or two, and she didn't fancy joining them. Especially since the topic of her Driver's new marriage would be a primary talking point in the discussion. How could she possibly join in without making the situation even more awkward? The girls had no idea why the subject of a honeymoon made Mòrag so uncomfortable—although, to her credit, Mòrag weathered the teasing with surprising grace. But Brighid couldn't bring herself to prattle on about a romance that hadn't quite blossomed yet. She couldn't explain her silence, either. So here she was, avoiding conversation entirely. Plus, it was no secret that Mythra talked in her sleep and snored. Brighid didn't know if she would be able to sleep through such a racket. And she dreaded trying.
Maybe she should have gotten a room to herself after all.
"Do you mind if I join you?"
Brighid looked up from her journal. Pyra stood opposite her. Two cups of tea steamed in her hands. Before Brighid could respond to her request, the other fire Blade sat down, placing one cup on both sides of the table.
"Jenerossi?" Brighid asked. Even though she had a keen eye, her nose could never manage to keep track of all the different blends Pyra made. This one was the exception, since the Aegis brewed it almost daily.
"Yes. Rex and I picked some up in the market before we came back to the inn. I've also got peppermint, if you prefer."
Brighid shook her head and sipped a bit of the warm, soothing drink. Perhaps it needed a little bit of sugar, but the brew itself was excellent.
"You know, Brighid, you've seemed out of sorts lately. Are you all right?"
Brighid clamped her eyes shut, fighting down the panic that threatened to show itself on her face. Was it that obvious? What did Pyra know? She couldn't possibly tell her. And yet...Pyra was the Aegis. Her mind was insightful, constantly acquiring data from other Blades—data about feelings, reactions, relationships, behaviors, how the species evolved. Even if Pyra's access to the Conduit was gone, her tendencies as the Master Blade had not. She never stopped observing. It was no wonder that Pyra had noticed she was not herself. But what could she possibly say in response?
"...I'm still adjusting to the thought of Mòrag being married, of all things," Brighid admitted at last. It wasn't exactly a lie, either. "I suppose I'm struggling with it more than I anticipated. It's hard not being at her side constantly. After all, when our group was traveling across Alrest, she and I always took a room together. Bunking with you and the other girls just doesn't feel right. I mean no offense, of course."
"None taken. But is that really it?" Pyra asked. "I don't mean to pry, but I've been watching you handle this case for a few weeks now. And I have to admit, I'm a bit concerned. It almost seems like there's something about this case that you don't want Mòrag to find out. I can't shake the feeling that you're not being completely honest with her."
The Aegis's expression was unyielding but kind and full of concern. Brighid scanned the room, checking every door, window, and nearby table for anyone who might overhear.
"I'm simply trying to protect her. But I wouldn't expect you to understand."
Pyra frowned—not a look of anger, but rather a mix of pity and disappointment at the dismissive answer. "Look, I don't know exactly what it is you're hiding from her. I...I can only make an educated guess. But Mòrag...she's your Driver. If you truly trust her, then I would advise you tell her everything. If you can't do that even for her, you shouldn't be her Blade at all," she warned.
"If I tell her, she'll—"
"If you care about her, it's even more important," the Aegis urged. "Brighid, I know what it's like to be afraid of rejection. I really do. But...if you don't tell her now, you're just storing up pain for later, not making it easier. Right?"
Brighid shook her head. "Why can't I shake the feeling that we've had this conversation before?"
"Because we have. It's almost exactly what you said when you urged me to tell Rex the truth. I never forgot those words. But Brighid, why haven't you followed your own advice?"
"In truth, I told you that because I wanted you to avoid my mistakes," Brighid admitted. "Hiding something from your Driver can come back to haunt you. I didn't want you to go through that pain."
"If it hurts so much, why don't you come clean? Surely secrecy can't make it any better."
"I've let the truth go unsaid for far too long. I've stored up a lot of pain. Too much. I-if I told her now, she would never forgive me."
"It can't be that bad. This is Mòrag we're talking about. You two are inseparable. I'm sure she'll understand. You should tell her."
"...All I want is for her to be happy," Brighid sighed.
"Every Blade feels that way for their Driver."
"Mòrag hasn't had a very happy life, Pyra. There are aspects of her past that still haunt her to this day. With Zeke, though...I think she could find a small sliver of happiness with him, or at least contentment. But not until she moves on from the past."
"And this information you're keeping from her, you think it would keep her from moving on?"
The Jewel of Mor Ardain nodded. The internal debate had kept her up countless times over the past few weeks. And when she did manage to sleep, she had nightmares of her own. In them, Mòrag had been screaming, tortured by the night terrors of her youth. Each time, Brighid's dream self had tried everything to wake her, to comfort her as she always did. But her efforts to rouse her Driver, an adult crying in a child's voice, always ended with Mòrag plummeting deeper into the terror. Brighid herself would wake up in a cold sweat. But the cries still echoed in her mind for hours afterwards. If she told Mòrag, would those bad dreams return?
Or could Zeke shelter her from the nightmares? In the days leading up to the wedding, Brighid had seen little glimpses of something growing between them. Whether it was the first little drops of genuine affection or just a deep platonic regard for each other, Brighid wasn't sure. But either way, Mòrag was learning to trust the partner that politics forced her to take. The fact that she told Zeke her story was proof of that. And then there were the kisses: sweet, mostly innocuous gestures to the common observer, but to Brighid, they spoke volumes. Each one gave her hope that her Driver might finally be healing from the wounds that bastard had inflicted.
But only because she believed that the man responsible was dead. On one hand, it felt wrong to let the truth rip open those old wounds. But on the other, Brighid hated herself for letting her Driver heal under false pretense.
"I can't tell you what to do, Brighid," Pyra continued. "But consider something: would you rather she hear the truth from you or find out on her own? Because this journey is going to end with us toppling the Aramach. And in the process, whatever truth you're hiding is probably going to come out. No matter how ugly or hurtful that truth is, it would be a hundred times worse for her to learn it inside their fortress."
Or I'll just have to kill him before she has a chance to find out.
"...I know. I-I'll give it some thought," Brighid said at last. Not that she hadn't already agonized over it.
"Good," Pyra replied, apparently satisfied with that small concession. "And if it helps at all, I'd be glad to go with you when you tell her. For moral support."
"We'll see about that."
Every time the dragon beat its wings, the air itself seemed to implode. Blood trickled out of one ear; simply staying upright was a challenge. Each gust of wind threatened to throw her to the ground. Not to mention the fact that the flames on her swords just wouldn't stay lit. How was she supposed to fight fire with fire? And why wasn't anyone coming to help? There were people shouting all around her, urging her to "Kill the beast! Slay the traitor!" But each time the dragon knocked her down, they simply booed.
She was in a huge arena, she realized. Only instead of a coliseum, the seats were the benches of Senators, as if this were an Imperial trial. They were the jury, while she herself and the dragon were the accused and the defendant. But it was the arena that would determine which adversary was innocent and which would be damned. Not innocent until proven guilty; both condemned until one emerged victorious.
"Very well. A trial by fire," she grimaced, pulling herself back to her feet. "Bring on the flame!"
It was a trial she had to face alone. Brighid's power lingered here with her, pulsing through her weapons and her chest. But physically, her Blade was absent. She had no one guard her back; she would have to summon her own ether shields. And yet, she didn't need them—not for the fire, anyway. Each time the dragon belched a fiery stream, the flames enveloped her, lapping at her clothes and threatening to reveal the truth about her scarred frame. But nothing burned away. The tongues did not hurt her. She was a flame herself, and the heat only served to fan her fury.
She fought back, brandishing her whips whenever she could not physically close the distance between herself and her opponent. They glanced off the dragon's hide, doing less damage than a mosquito could. Around her, the Senate cried angrily, throwing their golden crests at her like stones. Why couldn't she overcome this monster? What good was a Special Inquisitor who couldn't take down a traitor?
"I'm not a failure!" she screamed.
The flames were all around her now, spewing from her eyes, her mouth, her nose. Gravity seemed to lose its power as she surged upward, almost transforming into a dragon herself. She grappled with her opponent, tearing at his wings. She would rip out his heart if she had to. Whatever it took to expose him.
One crack of her whip, then another. A deep slice at the base of the left wing. There was a sickening sound as the bones and sinews cracked and tore—her weapon struck home. Suddenly they were careening back to the earth. The dragon failed to right himself and crashed at the base of the arena. His other wing shattered in the impact of the fall.
A grounded opponent she could handle. The crowd seemed to recognize this, their cries silencing to take in every tense little moment of the Flamebringer's victory.
She moved to strike the final blow. But when she got close, the felled dragon clenched her between its front claws and tossed her aside as hard as it could. Both Driver and dragon hesitated then, gasping for air and struggling to get upright again. Mòrag tried to take a deep breath. Something stabbed at her side with each inhale. Damn. Broken ribs. One more attack like that and the beast would squash her like an insect.
They circled each other. Waited for the other to make a move. Limped as the gravity of their injuries sunk in.
And then the dragon spoke. "Give the Emperor my regards, little princess. I've already eaten him. And now you can join him in my belly!"
The threat rekindled the flames inside her, and she pounced. Her swords danced of their own accord, slashing at his thick hide. The huge beast had no time to dodge as she hacked away at his scaly neck. Each cut went deeper and deeper until the dragon's head thudded against the arena floor with a serpentine hiss.
The crowd erupted at the victory...but when they got a better look at the dragon's body, the cheers fell away.
There was still a head on the beast. Its bloodied neck no longer held a dragon's face. Now it was a man's. The face grinned, and his household crest gleamed on its forehead, tattooed there in blood.
She bit back both vomit and curses. Her gut reaction was to chop off that head, too. But she stopped short. She knew that face.
Mòrag jerked awake, practically slapping Zeke in her effort to sit up. Her breath wouldn't calm down. This was not a nightmare she ever had before.
She flipped on the bedside lamp, hoping that dispelling the shadows would help calm her down. But the dragon-man's face still lingered fresh in her memory. And even in the dim light, she recognized it. The realization struck her like a punch in the gut.
"You okay?" Zeke asked groggily. "Bad dream?"
She scrambled out of bed. The metal fragment. She needed to look at it just once more to be sure her subconscious mind had not recalled its details incorrectly. If her hunch was right...The piece was cold between her fingers. Even though the ink stamping the crest against the metal was black pigment, it glowed back up at her like a hot brand.
For once, a nightmare had helped her. She shed her pajamas and started yanking on pieces of her uniform. It was time to act.
"Mòrag, what are you doing? It's not even dawn yet. Come back to bed," Zeke groaned.
"I can't sleep. Not now. Zeke, I remembered which house that crest belongs to!" she said, fighting to keep her volume low in her anxious excitement. "Get up. We have to get back to the capitol right away."
"What?" The shock of her statement dispelled some of the sleep from his eyes.
"Only one house in the Empire has a dragon on that section of the Imperial shield. The house that delivered the explosives to the prison, the traitor's crest: it's from the Birall family."