Mòrag woke to the faint glow of a lit lamp beside her. At first, she paid it no attention; she needed rest, and they would depart for Mor Ardain just after sunrise. And since Brighid, Zeke, and Amelia (the physician jumped at the opportunity to serve as her personal doctor again) had all insisted that she get a bare minimum of six hours' sleep per night, she knew she ought to ignore it. They wouldn't accept an unwanted nightlight as a good excuse for not sleeping.

But the rustling of a page prompted her to roll over. Zeke sat, propped up against the headboard reading. When he saw her awake, he let the book fall to his lap, holding his place but keeping the cover from view.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Can't you sleep?"

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "If the light's bothering you, turn it out. Your rest is more important than my reading."

She ignored his admonition to immediately roll back over and sleep again. Her eyelids still felt heavy, but not so heavy as the curiosity that he was awake. Zeke rarely had trouble sleeping. And the last time she found him awake in the middle of the night, he'd quietly expressed his love for her for the first time. So he likely had something on his mind now.

"What are you reading?"

When he didn't answer, she reached over and tipped up the book herself to glance at the cover. He tried to stop her, but she caught a good enough glance of the summary blurb—from conception thru birth and beyond—to realize that it was some sort of parenting or baby self-help book. He wasn't much of a reader to begin with, but that was far outside his usual genre.

"Did your father give you that? More unsolicited advice?"

Zeke shook his head, clearly a touch embarrassed that she figured it out. "No. I, um, I got it from Hardhaigh's library."

Oh. So he was researching. And he had been for days, by the sound of it. "If you have questions, you can ask me, you know."

"It's just really embarrassing to be so clueless about it all," he admitted, shutting the book and setting it on the nightstand. "I mean, I always knew the basic gist of it, but the more I read, the more I feel like I'm getting in way over my head. It kinda boggles my mind that you can just, you know, grow a baby inside of you. And it happens so fast, too. This says that our baby's like the size of a plum or a nectarine already. And I had no idea the nausea was that bad."

"It's actually going away now," she said reassuringly. "And it wasn't nearly as bad this time."

That much was undeniable. Maybe it was simply a benefit of more physical maturity, or the lack of paranoia regarding what other people would think when they found out about the pregnancy. Regardless, the morning sickness was mostly gone, and it wasn't half as bad as she remembered. A good thing, too, since Amelia already hounded her about healthy weight gain this pregnancy. The physician seemed determined to prevent an early labor, muttering something along the lines of 'your labor and delivery aged me ten years and I will not be risking that again.'

"Would you have told me if it was bad?" Zeke asked.

"...Probably not. Morning sickness is perfectly normal, so there's nothing to do but wait for it to subside."

"How can you be so calm about all this?"

"Experience begets wisdom, I suppose."

"I don't mean being calm about just the pregnancy. I'm talking about being parents, Mòrag. We're going to be responsible for the life of a little kid."

"Wait—are you scared?"

She sat up and faced him. The look in his eye was deadly serious. It almost felt dirty to say the word "scared" aloud about her husband. Zeke was a lot of things, but frightened wasn't usually one of them. He always found ways to make light of the most frightening realities with a little joke. For him to be scared—no wonder he was awake in the middle of the night.

"Yeah, Mòrag. I'm terrified."

"But I thought you were excited about the baby."

The words came out more pitiable than she intended. Only then did she realize how much it meant to her to have someone excited to share this experience with her. Knowing he was happy about it had made the unpleasant memories a little easier to bear. To think that he might be unhappy or even regretting it now...

"Don't take it the wrong way. I am excited," he added hurriedly, shaking his head violently at the misunderstanding. "But it's possible to be excited and bloody freaked out at the same time. I just can't help but wonder if we're actually ready for this. As a couple, I mean."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's just so soon. It's been what, six months since we got married? Sure, we've come a long way in that time, but we're still figuring out how to do us. How to really be on the same page together. To throw a baby on top of everything—"

"Complicates things, I know," Mòrag agreed. "But it's nothing we can't work through, right? And an heir was always the intention. Like you said, we've come a long way in just six months. We'll have nearly half a year before the baby arrives. That's a generous amount of time. So let's use it to work on our relationship. To give 'us' the concerted effort our child deserves. Thankfully, life is peaceful now. So let's take advantage of that peace and make sure we're ready."

He nodded, but the furrow in his brow didn't fade.

"You know, it's strange. I've always thought that ruling Tantal would be the most important thing I ever did. And that's still important. But...but now—" His voice faltered, and he brought his hand to her stomach. "Mòrag, I think this, our baby, is probably the most important thing you and I will ever do together. And I'm sure you'll be a great mom. But me—who am I kidding? I'm not sure I have what it takes to be a good dad."

"Why not?"

"Do you promise not to laugh?" If her nod reassured him, his face did not show it. "I-I've never actually held a baby."

"Seriously?" She had to blurt the word out as a gut reaction to keep her promise not to laugh. Not one baby in his entire lifetime? "Not even when we visited Fonsett with Rex? Corrine's place was swarming with children."

"Nope. Pandy and I always played with the older kids. I didn't trust my luck to play with the littlest ones."

Now that she thought about it, she did recall that the children at Fonsett had loved playing hide-and-seek with the Thunderbolt; no matter where he hid, he always found a way to give himself away—a cracking twig, accidentally falling off the cliff into the Cloud Sea, a burp, or a passing adult asking him what he was doing climbing up a tree. The kids liked him and begged him to join their play whenever the Aegis party had a few moments to spare. But he'd never bothered with the toddlers or younger (and to be fair, Pyra usually laid claim to the babes in arms to coo and make faces at them before anyone else could blink).

"It's not that hard. Babies are delicate, but they're not made of glass. You'll be fine."

"...I don't want to be like my dad, Mòrag. I don't want to mess this up."

Ah. So this went even deeper than simple inexperience with infants. She took his hands in hers. An uncharacteristic layer of sweat coated them. "If it's any comfort, I know you'll be a good father."

"How can you know that?"

"Back when we were still just engaged, after you saved Niall's life by getting him on an unmarked skimmer, do you remember what you told me?"

"I said I thought you'd be a good mother. Still believe that."

"But you also told me why you thought that," Mòrag continued. "And you said that a good parent is able to give a child an environment where they feel safe and loved, even when everything around them is frightening. And you...you managed to make me feel safe and loved again. If you can do that for me, with all of my history, then there's no reason you can't do the same for our child."

"You feel safe with me?"

She nodded again. "I don't think the bad memories or nightmares will ever go away completely. But when you're around, it's easier to overcome them. That's how I know you'll be a good father."

"...Thanks, Flames."

"Now, why don't you put that book away and turn out the light? We've got a long day of traveling ahead of us tomorrow. We can talk about this more on the way home."

"Okay."

He dogeared his page in his book and set it on the nightstand. But before he turned out the light, he pulled down the covers past her waist. Then he planted the tiniest, gentlest kiss on her belly.

"What are you doing?" Mòrag asked.

"Saying goodnight to the baby."

"The baby can't hear you yet, you know."

"Doesn't matter."

He turned his head as if he were trying to listen for little kicks or movements. Mòrag didn't have the heart to tell him he wouldn't hear any yet. The tenderness was too sweet to correct.

"Hey there, little Flamebolt," he whispered. His breath tickled her skin. "You're so loved already. And I promise I'm going to try my damned hardest to be the daddy you deserve."

"Flamebolt." Mòrag said the nickname aloud. Parts of their own battle monikers mashed together—how very typical. "Normally, I don't care for your nicknames, but that...that has a nice ring to it."

She smiled as she brushed an unkempt lock of hair out of his eyes. Yes. Things were very different this time.

Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

Well, not exactly. This water would have quenched her thirst—but there was so much of it rushing at her that opening her mouth to drink would drown her. She'd never been much of a swimmer, but she fared well enough to help. And someone needed her help. They were bobbing about in the waves, sometimes sinking, other times gasping for air. But who was it? Why couldn't she see them? They were just a few strokes away.

She pulled desperately at the water, ignoring the hiss and burn of it against her skin. But her arms found no purchase amid the tempest. The current tugged her backwards, further and further from the struggling boy. Or was it a girl?

Nothing made sense.

Something sucked her under the surface. An instinctive scream tore her mouth open, and water rushed in, stabbing at her lungs. There was the horrifying thought that Blades couldn't drown. If she didn't surface, she might find herself caught in that limbo state between dying and death. But the person above wasn't a Blade. They could die.

...No, she wasn't in the ocean. She was lying against something cold and hard, and her hands were bound behind her uncomfortably. Judging by the way her limbs tingled, they were ether-blocking cuffs.

Water droplets still seeped out of her dress and hair. She would dry quickly; her infrared radiation would burn away the moisture. But no, they'd been tossing waves of water against her every few minutes to keep her weakened. The ocean had just been a nightmare, a result of their routine dousings.

Who were they again? She ought to know. And even now, outside the terror of the dream, that person still needed help. She delved deeper into her own thoughts, desperately searching for the explanation for all this. It had to be here somewhere. But the deeper she got, the more waterlogged her thoughts became.

The waves sucked her under again.

Gasping for air. Fighting the current. Then, stillness. And voices she didn't recognize.

"Why don't we just filet the bitch? Torture her? Damn Architect knows anyone here would love to slice her up."

"The boss has something special in mind for her. Apparently we're supposed to dump her alive in the Ardainian capitol as soon as he gives us the signal."

"What the hell? Alive? But that's like inviting her to come back and roast us."

"I dunno what he has planned. But he seems to think that sending her back will be more painful than keeping her prisoner here. Some nonsense about psychological torture or whatever."

"Ardunshit. That man's losing his mind. He's gonna get us all killed."

"It's either this or prison. I'll take my chances here."

Her Driver. Why wasn't she with her Driver? The Boss. That tidbit was important, too. She knew who he was, and yet his name eluded her. Wasn't he…? Another deluge of water—real water this time, not the dream—cascaded over her. Pain seared through her as the steam hissed. All conscious thoughts swept away.

The second their airship rolled into dock at Hardhaigh Palace, Mòrag knew something was wrong. At midday, the tiny imperial port ought to be filled to bursting with activity: merchants delivering choice wares, engineers making routine inspections and repairs, guards patrolling, and ships rambling in and out—everything like ants milling about in an overwhelmingly busy but perfectly controlled flow. But nothing about the current scene spoke "order." Soldiers restrained merchants as their companions forcibly searched each trade vessel. Nopons squealed angrily at the blatant suspicion, calling it unwarranted. Guards dashed about, eyes peeled for some unknown menace. Incoming ships were denied landing rights, stranded to circle aimlessly in the clouds or find an alternate mooring. And worst of all, the emergency siren blared.

Mòrag swallowed hard, trying to force down the wave of bile that rose in her throat. An agonizing delay followed while their airship pilot negotiated for clearance to land. For merchant and diplomatic vessels to be denied landing was one thing. But an Ardainian vessel? That could only mean…

Code black. The worst lockdown protocol the military had.

"I'm telling you, this is the Inquisitor's airship!" the pilot protested over the radio. "Let us land!"

"I'm under strict orders. No dockings under any circumstances. Sorry, sir. Closest place you can dock is the warehouse district."

Mòrag ripped the receiver from the pilot's hand. "My orders preempt any previous orders you've been given, soldier. Now clear us to land!"

Being a figurehead for the military certainly had its perks sometimes. The airship rolled down its gangplank in a matter of minutes.

Her feet sprung into action before she told them to. Her back snapped to attention. Her face took its typical impassive expression, a facade to hide the turmoil beneath. Mor Ardain's Special Inquisitor was required to be a beacon of stability and order, even in a crisis. Whatever caused this chaos, the army needed her to come in and take control of the situation. Despite her own rising sense of panic, she couldn't fail in that duty. Zeke fell in stride beside her, unusually quiet.

"What's going on?" she asked the nearest captain, shouting over the din of sirens.

"I don't know, ma'am. We've only been told it's code black. No details why. Someone inside will know."

Niall would know. A code black protocol would have him sheltering in place, surrounded by every on-duty member of the Carraig Special Guard. And at this time of day, he'd be in the throne room, tucked away from the nearest windows and sheltered by the bodies of his own guards. Aegaeon would practically be sitting on him to ward off physical harm.

A code black meant all the elevators would be shut down, meaning they'd have to take the long way around to the throne room. Inside the palace, the chaos was the same. Any non-military personnel stayed put, practically rooted to the spots they'd been in when the sirens went off. Moving was a risk; code black gave soldiers the right to shoot on sight if need be. Thank goodness she was in uniform today. And Zeke, well, he looked like himself. No one would mistake him for an enemy.

Everyone they passed wore the same panicked but ignorant expression. But as they moved further into the palace halls, those expressions morphed from panicked ignorance to something different. Something like fear and worry. And whenever she made eye contact with someone, that worry shifted into the thing she hated least of all.

Pity.

Her facade wavered. She needed to see the throne room, and her feet couldn't get there fast enough.

But when they burst into the room, the relief she'd been anticipating deflated inside her like a popped balloon. There were no guards surrounding the throne. No Niall, either. It was all but deserted—all except for two Blades, one in front of the sovereign's seat and the other a few feet away.

Only Pandoria acknowledged their arrival with a tense nod and a questioning expression that told both Drivers she was just as confused as they were. But Aegaeon—impassive, never-rattled Aegaeon—stood staring at his hands. His eyes didn't blink. And if not for the long cut on his cheek, it would have looked like he was crying. Even when they were close enough to touch him, he didn't acknowledge them but just kept glaring at that one singular spot on the floor, as if his mere gaze could dissolve it. His wound showed no signs of closing; his entire body was so focused on his thoughts that his subconscious couldn't focus the ether on healing.

"Aegaeon! What happened?" Mòrag demanded. She gripped him by the shoulders, shaking him. At least the Blade would give her an answer.

The Blade finally snapped out of his trance. "I'm so sorry, my Lady. I tried to protect him, but he was too strong," he whispered.

"W-what are you talking about? Aegaeon, give me a straight answer. Why is everyone rushing about in a panic? Everything's in chaos. What happened?"

"...The Emperor. He's been kidnapped," he choked out.

Niall. Kidnapped. That word meant...for a moment, she couldn't seem to recall what it meant. No, her brain refused to remember the definition of the word. It was bad. That she knew. Very bad if it had Aegaeon on the verge of tears. And now her mind was trying to force her not to process the concept, defending her from something that she knew she didn't really want to hear.

And then it hit her.

All at once, the room spun. Her vision dimmed. Every last particle of energy seeped out of her muscles, making it hard to stand. A shrill bell rang in her ears. Someone was talking, but she couldn't hear them.

Kidnapped. Captured.

Her son.

No. That couldn't be true. She ensured that he was well guarded even during her absence. Between Aegaeon, Brighid, Pandoria, and his personal security detail, no one should have been able to touch him. Or had she been too complacent lately? Of course she had—asking for so much leave time in the span of a couple months. Irresponsible. Foolish. Stupid. And yet, it wasn't that. There was something else that she couldn't quite place. A different cause. One that boiled deep in her gut, threatening to make her vomit.

"Mòrag. Mòrag, talk to me!"

Zeke shook her shoulders now, much like she had done to Aegaeon only seconds prior. Or had it been an hour prior?

"Aegaeon, what happened? How did they get past both you and Brighid?"

A pang of realization shone in the Blade's eyes. "I-I haven't seen Brighid in days. Nobody knows where she went. So he got the jump on me."

Brighid wasn't here? That explained the capture. If the fire Blade had been present, any assailant would have a snowball's chance in hell—literally—of overpowering her when threatening the Emperor. Brighid had Mòrag's own protective instincts when it came to Niall; Aegaeon didn't. And how could he? He couldn't possibly share his current Driver's regard for his former Driver when he remained ignorant of that relationship.

"Damn it, Waterworks," Zeke interrupted. "Tell us something useful. Who got the jump on you?"

"I don't know. It all happened so quickly."

"I just found him like this," Pandoria volunteered. "By then, there was no one here."

Before Mòrag could gather her cyclone of thoughts, the hall was overrun with soldiers reporting in. Each had found something slightly different: a disturbance in the ether field protecting the palace borders; an unlocked door in one of the secret passages behind the library; two sets of footprints in the tunnel from the Emperor's personal chambers to the external city wall.

"Only authorized personnel know about those passages," said the captain of the Carraig Special Unit. His expression resembled an enraged Feris. "That means that whoever did this was one of us."

"Or he used to be," another Carraig guard chimed in.

"We have Drivers and Blades following the trail already, my lady. Our finest."

Pah! A shitload of good your 'finest' did protecting him here.

No, not the painful voice again. She couldn't fight it back now. Not when something needed to be done. And yet the only thing happening was a lot of talking. And it all blurred together. She was vaguely aware of Zeke stepping up and giving orders. A good thing, too—the words formed in her brain but refused to come out of her mouth.

I need to go find him. Brighid and I need to rescue him.

Come to think of it, where was Brighid? That question remained unanswered. So many questions lacked answers. But which one needed answering first? Nothing hurt more than ignorance.

In a matter of minutes, the council chamber was nearly empty again as Aegaeon and the other soldiers rushed off to tackle their assignments. Only she, Zeke, and Pandoria remained. There was little reason to maintain a facade of control anymore, and her body knew it. Her shaking knees finally gave way. Zeke caught her and attempted to pull her to a chair. But she wrapped both arms around him, vaguely hoping that his embrace could mask the trembles coursing through her muscles. She needed warmth right now; everything inside her head was cold.

"We'll get him back, Mòrag. He's going to be fine."

"But how? We don't even know who took him. What if they try to hurt him?" The voice didn't even sound like hers. It was breathy, squeaky, choked. But somehow she managed to force the tears down. She would not, could not start crying in front of Pandoria or Aegaeon.

"Focus on what we do know," Zeke urged, finally managing to push her into a chair. "We know that they want him alive, right? Otherwise they would have killed him on the spot, not kidnapped him. That gives us time. And we also know that there's some sort of trail, and we'll follow it into hell if we have to."

"Yeah," Pandoria added. "Once we track the creep down, Zeke and I will paralyze him with the Ultimate Fury Slash of legends, and then you can burn him to death. Then everything will go back to normal faster than Zeke can fall off a cliff."

"I-I should go. I should help with the search," Mòrag said feebly. She tried to stand again, but Zeke pushed her back down.

"Hang on, Flames. That's not a good idea."

"Don't patronize me! I'm only a few months into my pregnancy. It's not slowing me down yet. I'm fine. The baby's fine."

"This isn't about the baby. I'm trusting you to know your limits on that. But stop and think for a minute, Mòrag. You saw how chaotic everything is right now. We gotta get everyone back under control, or Hardhaigh's gonna implode on itself. And with the Emperor out of commission temporarily, who's technically in charge?"

"...Me."

Zeke nodded. "And you hand-picked each member of the Carraig unit, right? They're the best out there. Besides you, of course. So let them do their jobs. Let's focus on getting the situation under control here, and then we'll launch a rescue mission as soon as we have enough information to go on."

As much as she wanted to rush off and just do something, he was right. Throwing herself into the search would leave the palace in an uproar. And that chaos would leave the capitol vulnerable—they'd be sitting ducks for a second attack. If she didn't keep her own emotions in check, she could take the blame for any casualties that followed. Such was the burden of royalty. Niall wouldn't want her to threaten Mor Ardain's safety simply because she couldn't keep a level head.

She had never been any good at waiting. Not that it mattered, really—the afternoon flashed by in an absolute blur. A member of the Carraig unit returned with the news that the trail of the emperor's captor led into the Aramach's fortress in Crá Gleann. Mòrag simply nodded at the news and dismissed the man without any additional orders. She suspected as much. If only Niall hadn't ordered her not to take them down months ago.

"I should have razed that entire valley when I had the chance," Mòrag muttered.

"Don't beat yourself up about that, Mòrag. You had now way of knowing this would happen. Regardless, let's get General Haig on the ethercom so we can plan a rescue mission. He's been working in that zone for months now. He'll have good insight into how to fight our way through them. If we're lucky, we'll have Niall back in less than twenty-four hours," Zeke responded hopefully.

Luck? With this fellow? That's hardly likely.

"...Let's get him on the line."

"That won't be necessary," said a voice at the opposite end of the hall.

Brighid. But not Brighid as they'd last seen her, with a grin on her face and an expression that seemed like she was already planning how to dress the royal baby. Now Brighid looked...drained. The ether-blocking handcuffs on her wrists were probably mostly to blame. Dirt and grime lined her dress. Blood did, too. A number of cuts and bruises lined her frame, unable to heal completely due to the lack of ether. Mòrag shuddered. The sight reminded her of the time they'd gone to rescue Rex and the others, only for Brighid to nearly get taken by the Urayans. Come to think of it, that conflict could have been avoided if not for the Aramach's meddling. The Aramach had been behind that, too.

Why were the Aramach always behind everything?

"Brighid! What happened to you? Are you all right?"

The Blade didn't answer the question. "I-I'm too late, aren't I? He took Niall, didn't he?"

Mòrag nodded, wishing that Brighid would open her eyes for once. Her expression was damnably hard to read. And wait—had Brighid expected this? Did she know something about Niall's captor? The suspicion knocked her like a punch in the gut.

"Pandy, get those cuffs off her."

With a quick zap of ether from Pandoria, the cuffs fell away. The effect was instantaneous. Brighid's hair dried immediately, and the cuts and bruises faded. But the moment her hands were free, Brighid brought them to her face, as if she was trying to hide tears and rub her temples all at once.

"Damn me. This is all my fault. Damn everything," she whispered.

"...Brighid, what are you saying?"

"You didn't find my letter."

"What letter? You're not making any sense. What's going on? Who did that to you? Why would this be your fault?"

"Could we talk? Alone."

"There's no time for that. We have to act quickly. So please, explain what's going on," Mòrag pleaded.

Brighid looked back and forth from her Driver's face to Zeke and Pandoria, clearly perturbed by the unwanted audience but fully aware that Mòrag wasn't about to back down. Mòrag was just shy of commanding her to explain, really.

"...I-I went to Crá Gleann while you were gone. I infiltrated their fortress alone, but I got caught."

"Alone? What would possess you to do such a stupid thing?"

Brighid flinched at her Driver's criticism but continued. "I wanted to take out their leader so you wouldn't have to face him. I was trying to protect you. I've always tried to protect you. And I've always failed. Mòrag, the leader of the Aramach...it's him. It's Pachnall."

The name, once spoken, caused a mix of expressions. Pandoria's face contorted in confusion. Zeke's face widened in recognition, then morphed in concern when he looked to Mòrag. And Mòrag's face took on a look Brighid had only ever witnessed once: the moment Niall threw himself in front of Bana's artificial Blade.

"Th-that's not possible. You—you told me he was dead," she stammered.

Brighid's head drooped. "I said he was gone. But that day he escaped. He stole the Artigo, and over the years he used his influence to create the Aramach. He's still alive."

All afternoon long, the nausea had been building in Mòrag's gut, growing like a snowball rolling down a mountainside. And when the reality of Brighid's confession sunk in, the contents of her stomach all came rushing out. The bile burned in her throat like a swallowed flame.

He's alive.

He's alive, and he's still out to get you. Told you that you still needed me to protect you. You still need me after all.

Mòrag straightened and wiped the vomit from the corner of her mouth, not bothering to discard the soiled glove. She glared at the Blade.

"You lied to me. You lied."

Brighid winced again. "I never actually told you he was dead. The Emperor and I wanted you to heal. You were hurting, Mòrag. We couldn't bear to watch the nightmares eat you alive. So when he escaped, we let you believe he was executed. I did it for your own good. To protect you. Please understand that."

"I nearly killed myself because of that man. And now you mean to tell me that he has my son?"

"Y-yes. I never thought he'd be able to pull it off."

Mòrag's voice fell. "You've known this entire time, haven't you? You knew that Pachnall was the one in charge of the Aramach, but you never told me to cover for your lies. Brighid, how could you?"

"I just wanted you to heal, Mòrag," Brighid argued weakly. "And you have. Just look at you. You're about to be a mother. You've come so far."

Zeke kept silent throughout the entire exchange, but in that moment, he watched something snap in Mòrag's demeanor. He thought he'd seen her angry before during their own spats—most of them petty ones—but this...this was different. The nicknames "Flames" didn't suit her anymore; her glare turned icy, and all the color vanished from her skin. Her hands clenched in their customary position behind her back. Her jaw clenched even tighter. Her voice, however, was eerily calm.

"You let me heal on the basis of a lie. You let me live in a false sense of complacency. And because of that betrayal, my son is now in the hands of my abuser."

"I'm so sorry, Mòrag. I'm sorry. But I swear I did it to protect you."

"Why should I believe anything you say? You've been lying to me for over a decade. Who's to say this is the only lie?"

Brighid had no answer to that at first. "I know how to get into their fortress. We can get him back. Together."

Mòrag shook her head stiffly. "We will get him back, but you will not be coming with us. I can do without your so-called help."

"Mòrag—" Zeke interjected.

"Stay out of this," she hissed. "Brighid, you are to return to your quarters. Pack your belongings. I want you out of Alba Cavanich by sundown."

Brighid fell to her knees, mouth and eyes agape. Tears started flowing from her eyes faster than her internal radiation could evaporate them. "Y-you can't mean that."

"Get out of my sight."

"Mòrag, please don't do this. I-I can't leave you," Brighid whimpered. "You're everything to me. Without you, my life is meaningless. Please don't send me from your side! Please."

Zeke spoke up. "Mòrag, this is ridiculous. I know you're pissed, but don't kick her out. That's too drastic."

"Is it?" she demanded. "At a time like this, I need to know that every single person inside this palace is someone I can trust. And she's made it quite clear that she doesn't deserve my trust."

The fire Blade looked as though her Driver had just ordered her to die on the spot. And for a very tense moment, Zeke wondered if she would have the strength to move—either out of defiance or obedience to Mòrag's harsh demand. And what to do? Tell Mòrag outright that she was making a mistake? She was barely holding it together as it was. And who could blame her? In the span of two hours she'd learned that her child had been kidnapped and that her abuser was still alive. So much stress would turn most people into a complete wreck. For now, she looked like she put a brave face on it, but he could see the terror and anger bubbling underneath the surface of her mannerisms. The last thing she needed right now was an argument about her Blade. And she had every right to be furious. But to banish her Blade—surely after a week or two, Mòrag would regret that, right?

Brighid delayed for an agonizing amount of time, her eyes pleading for Mòrag to reconsider. But the Driver continued to wordlessly glare back just as she would stare to intimidate an enemy. It was a withering look, really. The Blade finally did as she was told. But no one missed the sound of weeping as the door shut behind her.

Zeke sprung into action.

"Pandy, go after Brighid. Make sure she doesn't leave."

"But Mòrag said—"

"I'll take care of Mòrag. She'll calm down. For now just make sure Brighid doesn't leave the palace, okay?"

Pandoria's light bulbs flickered. Then she nodded. "Fine. But once all this calms down, you owe me a serious explanation, okay?"

Until then, he'd honored Mòrag's request to keep her history a secret, even from Pandoria. But with everything that his Blade just witnessed, there was no avoiding an explanation. Suddenly he felt a bit guilty. Maybe he should have told Pandoria; Drivers and Blades shouldn't keep secrets from each other.

"You betcha."

Zeke returned his attention to Mòrag—and not a moment too soon. She'd retreated to the chair, but it didn't do her much good. Her breathing quickened by the second, and her pupils dilated. But one sight perturbed him more than anything: she'd rolled up one of her sleeves and was digging at the scars. Her fingernails left behind harsh red streaks after just a few seconds. Instinctively, he grabbed her wrists and pulled them apart. She tried to wrench free, but he held tight. Her pulse throbbed wildly underneath his fingers.

She's nearly panicking. I've got to calm her down. But shit, what am I even supposed to say?

He silently cursed whatever higher power was calling the shots to Mòrag's life. Whether that was fate, the Architect's will, or something else didn't matter—it was unfair. She'd already endured these horrors once. Whatever metaphysical entity was making her suffer through this all over again ought to be ripped from its pedestal and electrocuted for eternity. Mòrag deserved a break, not a breaking point.

A pang of selfishness also mixed itself into the anger and pity he felt for her. What if this made her sink back into her old habits? What if she started to shut him out again?

No. He couldn't focus on that now.

"Mòrag, stop," he said as she tried to dig at the scars again. "Don't do that."

"Let me go!"

He laced his fingers in hers and gripped tightly. "Mòrag, look at me. Don't you dare go back there. Look at me."

Her eyes finally met his. He willed himself not to flinch at the raw terror in them. For a long time, she didn't say anything.

"Mòrag, talk to me. Please don't shut me out."

"Architect, the nightmare is starting all over again. Maybe it never even ended," she murmured at last.

Zeke stifled a shudder of his own at the mere idea of her bad dreams. Her nightmares had been infrequent lately; she'd really only had one bad one since the war with Uraya. He hated that memory. He slept heavily, but her whimpers and thrashing had still managed to wake him. If that became the norm again...he couldn't bear the thought.

"We're going to get him back. I'll help. This Pachnall bastard doesn't stand a chance."

"You don't know that man like I do. H-he's terrifying. He's ruthless. He'll stop at nothing to get what he wants. Architect, will I never be rid of him?"

"Yes. Because we're going to march into Crá Gleann and send him to hell for good this time."

"It's not enough. What if he hurts Niall?" Mòrag retreated back into her own thoughts again. Her expression worsened as a new thought occurred to her. "What if he hurts Niall the same way he hurt me? Niall's so small and innocent. He couldn't take it. Architect, he must be so scared."

Damn it. There wasn't a good answer to any of this. So much for helping her feel safe.

"Give Niall some credit. He's no pansy. He's a brave kid. You raised him to be, right? He'll hold out long enough for us to rescue him. And look...um, I know it's not exactly comforting, but I don't think he's going to hurt Niall. It seems like he's trying to get to you."

Gah, I'm not helping. Damn it all.

"He's been haunting me all along. I-I thought he'd never be able to hurt me again."

"And he's not going to lay a finger on you, Mòrag. I swear it."

"Because you'll stop him?" Mòrag asked. He couldn't tell if it was a disbelieving scoff or a childlike expression of faith in his protection.

"No. We'll stop him. Together. Or if you want to take him down yourself, that's fine, too. I'll back you up. But either way, you're going to go up there and show that bastard that he messed with the wrong person."

"Just promise me Niall's going to be okay. If anything happened to him, I'd—" her voice broke, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

For the longest time, he'd respected Mòrag's feelings for Niall, but the depth of her dedication to him had baffled him. So had the relentless self-sacrifice. He looked down, trying to think of the right thing to say. Then he caught a glimpse of her belly. It wasn't exactly what most people would call a 'baby bump'—the book said something about athletic people taking a long time to show—but it was enough that the seams on her uniform were starting to look a bit tight. And in that moment, he understood that protective instinct. If anyone tried to hurt this growing little piece of himself, he'd probably go on a rampage, plain and simple.

"Cross my crystal," he replied.

Architect, help me keep that promise.