A/N:

Hey everyone. I don't usually post author's notes on here, but this time, I think it's necessary. For me, this chapter is the point of no return. Big canon divergence incoming. Consider this a trigger warning for mentions of sexual abuse and self-harm/suicide again. It's been in the tags all along (I chose not to include it as an archive warning for the whole work because this chapter is really the only one that includes it). I don't want to spoil the chapter for you, but I did want to put a warning in all the same as a courtesy to those who might be sensitive to these issues.

I won't sugarcoat it; some of this chapter's sections are just plain raw. Characters—even well-intentioned ones—make questionable or even harmful decisions. That said, this will be the darkest section, so I hope you'll stick with me. Things get better—not instantly, of course, but they do.

*deep breath* No going back now.

Chapter 12: The Ardanach Family Secret

"Full disclosure, I hate being carried. Now put me down," Mòrag protested.

"I thought you liked being traditional. So I'm just carrying you over the threshold."

"It's our room, Zeke. Not a house. Now stop being dramatic and put me down."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Zeke released her. In his usual dramatic fashion, he'd scooped her up after exiting the reception hall, never bothering to put her down until the bedroom door was shut behind them.

The reception itself had been, to everyone's surprise, less animated than the gala. Brighid's "securing" of Turters was a contributing factor—no one needed to check the champagne glasses for stray reptiles. And without Zeke constantly at her side, Pandoria was much more reserved than usual.

The other members of the Aegis party, however, found a few ways to make trouble. As soon as the champagne was poured, it became readily apparent that Mythra and Kora intended to capitalize on old traditions, clinking their glasses with any implement they could find. More than once, Rex or Dromarch confiscated their cups, typically after a harsh glare from Brighid—the over exuberant Blades hardly gave the newlyweds a chance to eat or chat with their guests. But Kora stubbornly persisted, swiping glassware and silverware wherever she could find it. This caused a game of cat-and-mouse, with the young Driver desperately chasing Kora around to prevent further disruptions...unsuccessfully. Meanwhile, Mythra and Pyra bickered inside themselves, with each Aegis trying to take control over their body—Mythra to continue the quest for public smooches and Pyra to put a stop to it. The Aegis might have kept perfectly still, but the bursts of ether she emitted as she popped back and forth between selves proved just as distracting as Kora's antics.

Most of the Tantalese guests had not seen many Nopon, making Tora something of an anomaly. He was quite eager to share his own culture with them, but more importantly, to demonstrate Poppi's capabilities. Any bottle rockets Poppi had left after their outburst in the chapel were set off, and when those ran out, she demonstrated her boosters and her ability to transform between forms. Each transformation was louder than the last.

Nia was the real surprise. Instead of causing trouble, she kept Niall company—for which the young ruler was secretly grateful. He'd been hoping that for at least one evening, his Senators and courtiers would avoid talking about works or politics. When he was alone, they pestered him. But with Nia at his side, he enjoyed some peace and quiet. And it was no secret that, of all their little group, Nia was by far the best dancer. Niall was equally good—a fact Mòrag had always envied—so the pair, though quite different in appearance and upbringing, managed to impress quite a few onlookers.

Other than Kora's antics and Tora's excitement to show off his "Nopon know-how," the party proceeded as planned. Or perhaps Brighid simply put a stop to the tomfoolery before it even happened; Mòrag wasn't really sure which. Ultimately, the dinner, dancing, and drinks lasted for several hours before the party began winding down, and the couple made their exit.

Which had brought them here, to the suite that was now their shared apartments.

"So...we're married now. Sounds kinda weird, eh?"

"J-just don't go calling me 'Mrs. Zekenator' in public. I won't answer to it."

"What about when we're alone? What do I call you then?"

"My name, silly. Or if you must use a nickname, I suppose 'Flames' is fine."

"Heh. I thought you hated that." He moved closer. "Well then, Flames, we've been kissing all night. You still up for more than that?"

She nodded, wondering if she should have taken the extra glass of champagne she'd been offered. It might have helped soothe her nerves.

"...Since we talked last night, I haven't been able to stop thinking about this," Zeke whispered.

"Me neither," she admitted. Deep breaths, Mòrag. Or else he's going to know how nervous you are. Just...just follow his lead.

Zeke kicked off his shoes and pulled off his overcoat and shirt; Mòrag did her best to follow suit. Her fingers shook, slipping on the tiny buttons lining the back of her dress. Why were there so damned many of them? Having to undress in front of him made her feel vulnerable enough already. Looking like a fool doing so only made it worse.

"Let me help."

He circled around her and picked up where she'd left off. His fingers were shaky, too—a realization that calmed her a little—but he made quicker work of them than she could alone. As the fabric fell open, he brushed his lips against the skin he'd exposed, gently trailing down her back until he reached her chemise. The gentle touches left goosebumps behind, despite the warmth they caused. She pulled away when enough buttons were open to step out of the dress. Once she had, she picked it up and hung it gently over a chair. It seemed disrespectful to leave it in a messy heap on the floor. And she was stalling. The kisses felt nice, but would the rest be as pleasant?

You can do this. The first time is the hardest. Just get it over with.

By the time she finally turned back around, Zeke was already down to his boxers.

"You're eager," Mòrag murmured, unable to look him in the eyes. Her gaze settled on his chest and abs. Architect, he was...attractive, she had to admit. But his core crystal implant was distracting. It felt like, somehow, Pandoria was there, smirking and egging the prince on.

"And you're...well, damn. You were hiding a woman underneath all that armor after all." Zeke approached her, his eyes widening. There was a faint blush on his cheeks.

Mòrag felt her own cheeks redden, too. It wasn't like she was naked yet. Her chemise still hung loose about her, and she wasn't sure she had the nerve to remove it herself. "Of course I was, Zeke. What are you blushing for? Pandoria shows more skin than this with just her clothes."

"Architect, stop talking," Zeke said. Before she could react, his lips were pressed against hers. Mòrag stiffened, then returned the embrace, still shocked by how good it felt to kiss him. Her heart fluttered, and that pleasant warmth enveloped her again, now all-encompassing and intensifying with each second. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all…

She wrapped her arms around him so her fingers traced the lines of muscle on his back. The skin felt smooth and hot underneath her touch. They were so close now—only the thin fabric of her chemise separated them as his hands explored the curves of her back and hips. Zeke broke the kiss, breathless and grinning. Mòrag returned a feeble smile of her own. He opened his mouth to speak.

"I thought you said to stop talking," she quipped, this time initiating a kiss herself.

A noise rumbled in Zeke's throat, and Mòrag felt the floor go out from under her as he lifted her and set her on the bed, his lips never leaving hers. Eager as he had appeared, Zeke was in no rush. The first time only happened once, after all. And her mouth—she'd eaten more cake than she'd let on, but even without it, her taste was so sweet. He wanted to savor it. She hummed as his tongue scraped across her teeth.

He hadn't expected to feel quite like this. The sex had been a political expectation, and while he knew he'd enjoy it, he had not expected to find himself craving her so intensely. But now that she was underneath him, looking a bit shy, he felt his desire rising.

This time he traced his lips down her neck to the strap of her slip. She moaned and gripped his back again. But to his disappointment, she made no move for his boxers. Aside from the kiss, she hadn't initiated anything, just responded to what he did. Maybe she was unsure what to do? Contrary to what its gossip columns implied, Ardainian society did emphasize strict physical propriety, especially for unmarried individuals. He had no reason to believe Mòrag had not conformed to her country's expectations until now. The thought sent nervous energy tingling up and down his spine. He slowly traced a hand up her leg, pulling up the hem of her chemise. She shivered as he continued upwards, his fingers finally settling on her underwear. He hesitated a moment, then slipped underneath the seam to touch her.

Up until then, Mòrag had been mostly quiet, purring almost like a cat at his touches. But when he bypassed that last garment, she let out an odd yelp and clenched her legs together. Her fingernails dug into his bare back, drawing blood.

Startled, Zeke sat up and looked at her. He'd never heard her make such a pained noise, not even when she had been wounded during their quest for Elysium (and she'd incurred injuries frequently, adept as she was at drawing monster aggression). But now, her eyes were wide and glassy, and she wasn't quite looking at him, but somewhere just beyond him. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Zeke thought that, at that moment, she looked younger than Niall.

"Mòrag? You okay?" He asked, startled.

"I…I can't do this," she gasped. Her voice was quiet, much higher than usual.

"What? I—"

"Get off me," she pleaded. "Please! Get off, get off, get off!"

Bewildered, he rolled over in a hurry. The second he did, she scrambled into a seated position against the headboard, hugging her knees, panting.

Dammit—she wasn't ready. Is this a panic attack? What do I do? He wanted to say something, anything, to make her feel better, but no words came. And hugging her probably wouldn't bring any comfort, either. Suddenly it felt very wrong to touch her; in this state she might lash out at even an innocent contact. So he simply kept silent, helpless to do anything but wait until her breathing slowed and her pupils relaxed. It felt like hours. But once she finally recovered, she blushed crimson, covering her face with her hands.

"It's been fifteen years. Why can't I just do this?"

"Mòrag, it's ok. If you're not ready, we don't have to do it tonight...I'll just go crash in Pandy's room. She won't mind. We can try again later, okay?" He moved to leave.

"Don't go!" she exclaimed. "Let me ex—"

"I'm not going to force you, Mòrag. I don't think guys should ever do that, married or not. It's a mutual thing, yeah? So we'll do it whenever it is mutual. The Senate can wait that long for a baby Zekenator."

"It's not that. I…I'll admit, the thought of sex with you makes me extremely nervous, but—"

"Your reaction just now shows me that 'nervous' might be too soft a word."

"Okay, I'm terrified to have sex with you," Mòrag admitted. "But not because of you! It's me. I liked kissing you far more than I expected, so I really thought—I hoped that I might be able to with you. But...Look, i-if we're really going to do this whole marriage thing and be intimate with each other—both physically and emotionally—then I need to be honest with you."

"We all have secrets, Mòrag. You don't have to spill yours on my account."

Tell him the truth. He deserves an explanation.

This voice was new, so unlike the other one. It offered no criticisms, no hateful words, no self-preservation. Just a gentle verbal prompting to do what she already knew was the right thing. But how would he react? Would his gaze, which now held so much concern, harden into contempt the second the truth came out? Or would he understand? It would be so easy to say nothing; he was willing to get up and walk away until she was ready.

He needs to know why you aren't ready for this. Tell him.

"You're my husband now," Mòrag struggled to say the word aloud, "and this isn't something I should keep hiding from you. I…I'm not actually a virgin."

Zeke rolled his eyes. "That's what's bothering you? I mean, yeah, I thought you might be. But what difference does it make? Only your prudish Ardainian high society really cares."

"That's not even half of it. Everything you think you know about me is a lie."

Zeke just grabbed his pillow and shifted into a comfortable position so he sat cross-legged facing her, waiting for her to proceed.

"Niall…isn't my cousin," Mòrag said at last.

"What does Niall have to do with us?"

"Architect, don't interrupt."

She took a deep breath to steel herself to utter the truth that only Brighid knew.

"Niall is not my cousin or my brother. He's my son."

Zeke's eyes widened as her words sunk in. But he held his tongue. His expression passed no judgment; it simply awaited an explanation.

"By now, you may have heard a few whispers about me around the palace, calling me a slut and a whore. But it's not like that, I swear. I-it's a bit of a long story, really…"


Sixteen Years Earlier

"Did you hear the news? The Jewel's back!"

The entire tavern fell silent. Alba Cavanich's watering holes were a great source of information about the royal family and the Senate, thanks to the staff members who frequented them after work.

"What? Who's her new Driver?" the barmatron asked. It was no secret that she adored the Lady Brighid.

"The princess."

"The little Lady Mòrag? Come off it," another woman added. "She's barely twelve years old. Far too young, if you ask me."

"Well, unless Lady Annabelle can miraculously conceive, the princess is the next in line to the throne," someone pointed out. "And the royal household is always making their children resonate with cores very young. The previous Emperor resonated at nine."

The oldest guest in the tavern took a long gulp of his ale and scoffed. "I don't care if it's a prerequisite to the throne. It's a bloody crime to expose a child to such a violent state of affairs."

A palace staffer chimed in. "I'd dare say the princess has already witnessed more violence than you have, old man."

"Whad'ya mean?"

"My boss told me that her father, Lord Eandraig was murdered right in front of her. He died fighting off an assassin, probably sent by those damned Brionac radicals."

"Oh, that poor little dear. She probably wants to be a Driver to avenge him," a woman sighed, clasping her hands against her bosom in sympathy. "They were always so close after Lady Morgan died. Orphaned so young."

"I think the Emperor intends to adopt her," someone else added. "At the very least, she is his ward now."

A ninth speaker piped up, "I heard that the princess hasn't even cried once. Not when Master Eandraig died, not at the funeral, nothing."

Unlike much of the gossip that filtered out of the local taverns, those rumors were completely true, although many of the details were murky. Despite the fact that Emperor Nealon and his wife, Lady Annabelle, had married more than two decades earlier, they remained childless. Lord Eandraig Ladair and his child were, as a consequence, the Emperor's only heirs. Some of the more radical, enterprising Anti-Royalists saw that as an opportunity: eradicating the heirs would require the monarch to name a non-royal successor. Better yet, killing off the entire family could topple the Ardanach household in a single blow.

No one could tie the attack to a specific Senator, making it impossible to prosecute. However, irrevocable damage was still done: Lord Eandraig, a brilliant Driver, fought off a small squad of elite assassins. Not a single scratch was inflicted against the Emperor, his wife, or Mòrag—Eandraig took each wound himself, dragging his attackers down with him. He died minutes afterwards.

Rather than crying, the young heiress announced her intention to become a Driver. When asked why, she simply whispered,

"No one's going to die protecting me. Not ever again."

The Emperor could not argue with the resolve in the girl's gaze. From birth, she'd been taught to be strong, to never let anyone see any weakness. The Ardainian throne could never be perceived as easily overcome. Strong feelings and emotions had to be subdued, kept secret. It seemed Mòrag was doing just that, channeling her grief into a constructive pursuit. But for Eandraig's daughter and the likely future Empress, not just any Blade would do. So despite the protests of his counsellors, Emperor Nealon presented Brighid's core to her. There was never any doubt in Nealon's mind that Mòrag had the aptitude for it. He could see the potential in the fire of her eyes. So as a last gift to his brother, he would train her, teach her to be not just an Empress but also a warrior. It was what Eandraig would have wanted.

In a matter of days, however, it became apparent that the girl was something of a prodigy. She picked up skills at a voracious rate; Arts that took most adults years to master unfurled from her whipswords as naturally as breathing. And she threw herself at the training, too. In the spare moments between her tutoring in law, history, tactics, etiquette, economics, and all the other courses that accompanied her station, Mòrag could be found at the training grounds, swords in hand.

Brighid herself quickly became synonymous with Mòrag's own shadow. From the moment she manifested from her crystal, the Blade was struck with curiosity. This Driver standing before her...she looked so determined, so eager to prove herself. And yet she was so young—pretty in her own right, but not yet grown into the charms of her own gender. Secretly, Brighid found it cute how seriously the girl took everything; it was a fact which often got her into trouble. As powerful as she was, Mòrag tended to throw herself recklessly into fights, throw a few overwhelmingly strong Arts, and exhaust her ether in a matter of seconds. In most cases, it worked; but before long her opponents would no longer underestimate her on account of her age. If they dodged her first few attacks, she was left vulnerable. Brighid took it upon herself to rid her Driver of those reckless tendencies.

The Driver and Blade quickly became fast friends. It had been a long time since Mòrag had known any meaningful female companionship. Emperor Nealon's wife had gone to live in Gormott on account of her frail health, and her own mother died when she was relatively young. Likewise, the princess generally found her female peers tedious to be around; most noblemen's daughters preferred to gossip or go to dances. But Brighid's mature, calm nature suited her Driver's driven one quite well. And having another woman in the palace spared the Emperor from a very uncomfortable conversation when Mòrag's femininity blossomed, too.

In spite of Mòrag's reckless fighting style, it was only a few weeks before the Emperor decided he could not teach her anything more.

"I've made arrangements to bring in a private instructor for you, Mòrag," he told her after their last lesson together. "I think you'll learn a lot from him. He's a very good friend of mine."

"If I might ask, who is it, Your Majesty?"

"For now, he's the strongest Driver in the Empire, although you may soon rival him for that title. Sir Pachnall is his name."

"Sir Pachnall." Mòrag gasped in recognition. "But isn't he—"

"A general in our forces, yes," the Emperor laughed. "If memory serves, he's the youngest ever to achieve the rank. Our military will certainly miss him, but I can think of no better instructor for you. In fact, when I proposed the position to him, he insisted on training you himself. He, like me, believes the future Empress deserves nothing but the best."

"I am honored that you think so much of my skill, Uncle. But I owe much of it to Brighid."

Emperor Nealon smiled. "You inherited your skill from your father, my dear. And his sense of modesty."

Mòrag's eyes fell. "...I miss traveling with him. What I'd give to see the world with him, one last time."

"He planned to take you to Gormott the day of the attack, did he not?"

She nodded, tears threatening to surface. She dutifully blinked them back. "There was a lake there he promised to show me. Yewtle, I think. But it makes no difference now. When will this new instructor arrive?"

"Next week."

Sir Pachnall won his way to his current military standing on two grounds: his skill as a Driver and his charisma. And when he arrived at Hardhaigh Palace, that charm quickly won him the favor of everyone within, Mòrag included. With a smooth grin and a flash of his deep blue eyes, he put even the most guarded staff members at ease. He was like a character from a storybook: courageous, powerful, and, when he wanted to be, funny.

Under his tutelage, Mòrag's skills as a Driver thrived. Her recklessness turned into tempered, calculated strikes. Her proclivity with her Arts improved, too: not only did she learn how not to exceed the limits of her Blade's ether, but she also mastered the ability to complete the same Arts with less ether to begin with. Pachnall showered her with praise, but only when she earned it. In her mind, he was the only one who treated her as just Mòrag, not the future Empress. He reminded her of Eandraig.

Word about town was that between Brighid and Pachnall, the young princess found the support, guidance, and companionship she needed. The attempt on her life had rattled her deeply, but between her Blade and her teacher, she felt safe again. And for the better part of a year, that proved true.

However, as the anniversary of Eandraig's death approached, the princess's demeanor took a sharp turn. She had never been a talkative child, but she became downright taciturn, and when she did speak, she often failed to mask her own frustrations. Tutors reported that she neglected her lessons—all except her fighting lessons, which she threw herself into with renewed intensity, almost anger. She began to skip meals entirely, and those she did attend saw her eating relatively little. Most people at Hardhaigh Palace theorized that, since the princess never seemed to outwardly grieve for her father following his death, all of her pent-up emotions finally unleashed at once. Even the Emperor believed that it was a combination of deferred grief and adolescent hormones.

Brighid, too, found her Driver's reactions to be quite concerning. In their short time together, she had learned that Mòrag was not one to talk much about her feelings—a side effect of being expected to hide her emotions from the public at all times. But through their affinity bond, Brighid could sense much of what Mòrag didn't verbalize. Reading Mòrag's feelings was very much like listening to music, a symphony of pleasant tones mixed with somber motifs. Only lately, the symphony was so badly out of tune that Brighid's stomach curdled to listen to it.

On one of Mòrag's moodier days, Brighid had arrived at the end of her patience. She had been trying for months—without success—to decipher the cause of her Driver's poor behavior, and Mòrag stubbornly insisted that nothing was amiss besides being in the middle of her cycle—a fact Brighid knew to be false. Mòrag had never lied to her before.

The deception pained her. So when Brighid walked into their shared apartments and found Mòrag with her journal in hand, she snapped.

"Mòrag Reilynn Ladair, I am ashamed of you!" She ripped the book from her Driver's grasp. "Snooping in on my past lives? You, of all people, who values privacy so highly should know better than to intrude on such a thing! How dare you?"

Brighid instantly regretted it.

"I didn't—I just—" the girl stammered, her hands shaking. She burst into tears and fled the room.

Brighid looked down at the passage Mòrag had been reading when she caught her. It was silly, nothing more than a simple account of a shopping trip she took to find a birthday gift for her previous Driver—not the sort of thing her current one would find interesting.

But it was what she found inside the adjacent page that truly made her regret snapping at her Driver.

"I need help," scrawled out on a single scrap of paper.

But why on Alrest didn't Mòrag say so directly? Granted, the princess could not admit weakness outright—but did that really apply to her own Blade, in the privacy of her own quarters? Brighid stared at the words. Three short syllables. The script was shaky and blotted, as if writing the phrase had been done covertly. The ink wasn't fresh, either. Mòrag must have written it days or even weeks ago, only just now working up the courage to place it in her journal in hopes that she would find it.

And I had to go and lose my temper the moment she did. Now she might be too upset to tell me anything, Brighid thought bitterly. Architect, what do I do?

By the time Brighid finally decided that she ought to confront Mòrag about it right away, her Driver had gone to the training grounds for her afternoon lesson with Pachnall. The teacher and student were already sparring when she arrived, their weapons throwing sparks with each strike. Brighid scowled. Pachnall had insisted on much more ether-free fighting as of late, insisting that Mòrag's physical technique needed more polish than her ether-based attacks. It was true, but Brighid disliked being excluded from the daily sparring sessions. She needed to keep her skills sharp, too.

"Now, princess," Pachnall critiqued, "A good Driver does not telegraph her movements in advance. I should not see your attacks before you make them. Focus."

Mòrag pressed again, this time executing the same stroke from the left side. Pachnall parried easily and countered, knocking her off her feet. In a split-second he had his foot on her chest and his sword an inch from her neck. She tapped out, pinned.

"You're distracted today," Pachnall said, helping her rise. He put a hand on her forehead. "Are you not feeling well?"

The princess batted his hand away. "I'm fine. Just tired."

Brighid cleared her throat. "Could I speak with Lady Mòrag for a moment, Pachnall?"

The teacher shook his head. "We're in the middle of a lesson, Lady Brighid. You know I hate pausing a session."

"Then allow me to join in. I'll speak with her as soon as we're finished."

"Maybe fighting with Brighid would help me out of my slump," Mòrag suggested. "She always improves my accuracy."

"Very well. Just keep it conservative on the ether levels, all right? I don't have Ciaran with me to block."

Brighid agreed to the terms. She never intended to spend much of the training session really fighting, anyway. Whatever it was she needed help with, Mòrag clearly wanted privacy for. Brighid intended to respect that—provided she could even get Mòrag to talk after her own angry outburst. So as the spar began anew, Brighid simply tried to push comforting, supportive emotions through their affinity bond, like wordless messages only they could hear.

Any time Brighid opened herself to connect with Mòrag emotionally, her own Driver's feelings came rolling back at her like a two-way stream of music. Mòrag's side of the bond boiled with her usual melody, only this time played at a frantic tempo and in a minor key. But there was something else, too...were those new notes, another melody?

Brighid broke the connection; certainly she'd heard wrong. But when she reached out to her Driver again, she caught the same tones, so faint and yet distinct amidst the louder notes of fear. This second tune was hardly a melody at all—just a single, pure note, pealing like a bright little bell in a steady rhythm.

Mòrag's ether signature had changed.

Architect, it can't be...But if it were true, it explained a lot—the moodiness, the defensive attitude, the lying, the stubborn insistence that nothing was wrong.

When the lesson finished, however, Mòrag made herself scarce with the excuse that she needed to freshen up before her evening meal with the Emperor. It wasn't until late in the evening that Brighid finally found her opportunity to speak with her alone.

"Lady Mòrag, we must talk," Brighid said at last. She'd hesitated for what felt like hours, wondering what on Alrest she was supposed to say. Where should she even begin?

"I'm sorry I snooped in your journal," Mòrag said flatly, putting down the book she'd pretended to read. "It was inconsiderate, and I won't do it again."

Brighid sat down beside her young Driver. "It was rude to look at it without my consent, and I forgive you. But that's not what I want to talk to you about. I found the note you left there...and I think I know what it's about."

Mòrag looked away, as if she wanted to deny the note's existence but couldn't.

"Lady Mòrag...there's no good way to say this, so I'll be direct. You know that all life forms emit an ether signature, yes?"

Mòrag nodded. "And all life emits and absorbs ether energy. It's how we can share ether during combat. That's the first thing you taught me when we bonded."

"Well...when we shared ether during training earlier today, I noticed something. I thought I sensed it a few weeks ago. But today, I became sure of it. Your body...I feel two ether signatures coming from you."

Mòrag bit her lip, as if she hoped Brighid couldn't see it trembling.

"Mòrag, are you pregnant?"

"...I think so."

Brighid hesitated. There wasn't a good way to phrase her next question. And in truth, she didn't really need to ask. Mòrag had never expressed interest in her male peers. She wouldn't conceive willingly. But Brighid was certain about the second ether signature. Even now, she could feel it pulsing faintly through their bond; the peals of the little bell had an undertone similar to Mòrag's, and yet it was unique. A pregnancy could only mean…

"Did someone...rape you?"

Mòrag's gaze didn't leave her stomach. She gave the subtlest of nods that only a Keen Eye could see. And then came the tears.

"...What happened?"

More tears.

"Mòrag, I know we haven't been together very long, but I hope you understand that you are my sole reason for being. Without you, I wouldn't exist. And as your Blade, I swear, I will protect you from now on. But I can't do that if you don't tell me who did this," Brighid pleaded.

Mòrag looked her Blade in the eye. "If...if I tell you, can you promise not to tell anyone else? He told me if I said anything, if anyone found out—" a fresh sob broke her sentence off.

Brighid pulled her Driver close. "I can't promise that, my dear. I may require others' help in order to get you the help you need. But only those who can help. And I'll stay by your side every minute of the day if I have to in order to keep you safe. I swear on my core I won't let him hurt you." Never again, Brighid thought.

Mòrag didn't reply, sobs still wracking her body. Brighid couldn't help but notice how small the girl felt in her arms. She was just a child herself. Mòrag's next word was a whisper, but the sound shattered Brighid's heart.

"Pachnall."

Guilt washed over Brighid as she held her trembling Driver. Pachnall had been...well, suffice it to say, she'd considered him a friend. She'd sparred with the man, entrusted her Driver's safety to him. The Emperor sang Pachnall's praises, so she assumed he was good. Mòrag had trusted him implicitly, looking to him as a second father figure. And he had betrayed that trust in the worst way.

Damn that man, Brighid thought. And damn me for not seeing him for the monster he is.

No one in history had ever seen the Jewel of Mor Ardain cry. Mòrag was the first. She couldn't hold back the tears as the reality sank in. As much as she wanted to deny that Pachnall of all people could be responsible, the pieces fit. From the beginning, Pachnall had doted on his student. Everyone in the palace loved and relied on him. He was both a prestigious Driver and a well-respected member of the military; after a few more years, he could have easily won a position in the Senate. So no one had ever objected to the fact that on a normal day, Pachnall had at least an hour alone with Mòrag, often more than that.

"Please stay here with me," Mòrag begged. "I...I don't want him to find me in here again. I can't take it anymore. I-it hurts so much."

It took all of Brighid's restraint to prevent flames from bubbling around her fingers as the anger broiled within her—wrath at Pachnall, of course, but also at herself. He'd been here, torturing her Driver while she was only two rooms over. And she had no idea. She'd been complacent, blissfully ignorant. What kind of Blade failed her Driver so? How had she not noticed?

"I'm going to protect you, Mòrag. He's never going to lay a finger on you again."

That night was one of the longest of Brighid's life. A better half of it was spent trying to soothe her Driver; the months of bottling up the anger and fear all came rushing out at once. After half an hour, the shaking stopped. Then the tears dried up, replaced by pathetic sniffles and sporadic hiccups. Finally, the girl fell into a restless slumber, still clinging to her Blade. Even after she fell asleep, Brighid remained at her side, brooding over what needed to be done. She almost dared Pachnall to enter the room now. Oh, the pain she would inflict on him if he did—the palace would be talking about his screams for a millenium.

When morning came, Brighid spread the misinformation that Mòrag was sick in bed and was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Convincing her Driver that she had to leave her alone for a short while took some doing; only after Brighid had appointed two soldiers to stand guard outside did she even consider it. To help her feel even more secure, Brighid walked around the room with her, locking every single entrance from the inside. Brighid took the one key with her, and Mòrag kept the other on her person.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. I'm going to go take care of this," Brighid promised. "No one will be able to come in or out except you or me, all right?"

With her Driver thus protected, Brighid wasted no time. She went straight to the throne room and burst in, never bothering to announce herself or bow. The Emperor was already hard at work with his counsellors, who glared at the audacity of her entrance.

"Brighid, I trust there is a good explanation for this," Emperor Nealon warned, holding his guards at bay with a raised hand.

"Your Majesty, I must speak with you at once. Alone."

She got her wish; the room emptied quickly, although she received a few angry glares from the older counsellors.

"You seem troubled, Lady Brighid. Whatever is the matter?"

"You need to arrest Pachnall, Your Majesty."

"That's 'Sir Pachnall' to you, Brighid. You may be the princess's Blade, but even you should show—"

"I will never show respect to that monster after what he's done."

The Emperor raised a single eyebrow, demanding an explanation.

"He's been abusing Mòrag, Your Majesty. He raped her," Brighid whispered. She forced back the tears that threatened to surface again.

"That's impossible. Pachnall is a good man and an old friend of mine. Yes, he's fond of her, but he would never do such a vulgar thing. What busybody told you this? On what grounds are you making these baseless accusations?"

"She told me herself," Brighid retorted, trying to control her frustration at his flat denial. "And if her word is not enough for you—and it ought to be—there's physical proof. She's pregnant."

The Emperor collapsed into his chair; the armor that hid his emotions from view shattered, broken by that startling revelation.

"Y-you're certain?"

Brighid nodded. "If you don't order for his arrest, I'll do it myself."

"My bodyguard and I will accompany you. I...I need to look him in the eye and hear his confession myself."

Brighid could hardly stand to wait as the Emperor made preparations: a small selection of elite guards, ether nets for Ciaran, and a haphazard plan to overwhelm him should he attempt to flee when they confronted him in his apartments. When they arrived, however, Pachnall took one look at Brighid and seemed to decide that fleeing would only get him killed.

"I take it my ruse is up," he said, an amused smile on his face. He held his hands up in peaceful surrender, taking a step back. "Come inside, Your Majesty. You look like you wish to talk. Let's not disturb the others."

One of the guards clapped ether-blocking cuffs around the man's Blade. If Pachnall intended to put up a fight now, he'd be severely weakened. The remaining guards surrounded him, awaiting their master's orders.

"Pachnall, please tell me this isn't true. Tell me there's some mistake," the Emperor said, his voice breaking somewhere between rage and betrayal.

"What do you want me to say? That I never touched her? I have done many things, Nealon, but I have never lied to you. I won't start now. I'll tell you everything. But what do you want to hear first? How I played every last one of you for fools? How it felt to take the fragile virginity of a princess? How—"

"Silence!" the Emperor shouted. "Architect damn your soul for what you've done."

"Save your curses. The Architect's already damned us all."

"Why do this, Pachnall? You could have easily won the love of any woman you desired...I don't understand."

The man's normally charming smile morphed into a cruel grin. "I wouldn't expect you to. Unlike most people, I like rare, expensive meat. And I like it fresh."

Brighid snapped. A roar escaped her lips as she lunged at the man. He had no time to evade when she pounced on him, clapping her hand around his neck. Every ether particle in her body, no—her entire core—screamed for vengeance. The flames she'd held back when consoling Mòrag now rushed out in full force, lapping at the skin on his neck and chin as she hoisted him off the ground. Pachnall clutched at her grasp in a desperate attempt to break away for air. But the crystal in her arms surged with heat. When he touched them, the air stunk with the scent of burnt flesh. And her grip was unrelenting.

"Lady Brighid, stop. You're going to kill him."

"Tell me, Your Majesty, if a dog bites a child, do we not put it down?" Brighid demanded. "Please allow me to do the same to this cur!"

"He's a citizen and Driver of the Empire. He must stand trial."

"A trial—after what he's done? A trial's too good for him. Do you honestly think I can sit back and watch while they give him a life sentence?"

"I swear to you, I will bring the full weight of my office to bear when he is sentenced. But only after he is tried."

She squeezed Pachnall's neck harder, letting the heat of her palm dig into his throat. His face shone bright red as he clutched at her white-hot grip. His eyes met hers, pleading for oxygen, for relief. Brighid shuddered. Doubtless he had seen that same desperation in Mòrag's eyes as he ravaged her. But he ignored her pleas. Did he not deserve to have the same done to him? Brighid wanted nothing more than to burn him, to feel his neck crumble in her hands, to feed his ashes to dogs. It was more than he deserved.

"Brighid. Stand down."

The Emperor's voice was firmer now, resolute, unyielding. She trembled. It would be so easy to just kill him, and yet…She shot one more burst of flame through her palm before tossing Pachnall against the wall as hard as she could. The Emperor's guards rushed forward to cuff the man long before he could even catch his breath.

"I hope they burn him at the stake," Brighid spat. "And when they do, I'll gladly light his death pyre."

The ensuing days passed like a fevered dream as the Emperor attempted to deal with the situation as discreetly as possible. A very private trial occurred, and although the identity of Pachnall's victim remained sealed during the proceedings, there were, inevitably, whispers. But to Brighid's relief, an execution date was set for a few weeks later.

If not for Mòrag's reaction to the sentencing, Brighid might have felt vile for praying for that verdict. But the day the judgment passed, Mòrag slept more soundly than she had since confiding in her Blade. Neither Driver nor Blade slept well often these days—the former due to nightmares and the latter from holding her as she slept, comforting her when the dreams turned sour. But when Mòrag heard that justice was going to be served, she had the first dream-free night she'd had in weeks.

It's not complete justice, though. An innocent girl is left to deal with the aftermath of someone else's lust. Architect, is this the world you intended? Is Alrest meant to be this cruel?

It was a thought Brighid had frequently as she debated how to make her Driver feel safe again. Mòrag did not volunteer many of her thoughts and fears, but through their bond, it was not hard for Brighid to deduce most of them. The Imperial throne was a symbol of strength and honor, and the Emperor was held to the highest standards of propriety, discretion, and purity. The royal family was held to those same standards—Mòrag even more so as the crown princess. When word got out that she was pregnant, the public would lose faith in her as the future Empress. Humans had a wretched habit of assuming the worst of each other. And even if they believed the true cause of the pregnancy, she'd be painted as someone weak and easily manipulated. Neither image was congruent with the Ardainian "ideal ruler." And then there was the matter of the child—equally complicated, but likewise unavoidable.

Mòrag deduced the repercussions of her situation quickly; for someone so young, she took her duty as the future Empress seriously. Thus, as her belly grew, so did her fears. Brighid could sense those anxieties, but she felt helpless to do anything to prevent them.

"…Will you be coming with me?" Brighid asked. There was no reason to explain the question; they'd both been counting down the days and hours until the execution.

Mòrag shook her head. "I can't face him again. Please come tell me when it's done."

"As you wish."

"…I hope he rots in Morytha."

It was probably for the best that she not attend; although the execution would be a private affair, people would question why such a young woman witnessed that dark experience. Better to preserve her anonymity for as long as possible. And that destructive gleam in Mòrag's eyes when she spoke of the man rotting in Morytha—it was justified, but Brighid couldn't help but think that seeing him executed might fan that violent streak, not quench it. She didn't want violence to be the way Mòrag found peace again. It was already bad enough that she had begun carrying an extra, concealed knife with her everywhere.

"I'll be back soon," Brighid said quietly, then excused herself.

She had not gotten far before one of the palace pages ran up to her.

"The Emperor wishes to see you at once in his council chamber, Lady Brighid."

Brighid nodded and changed her course. Over the past few weeks, she and the Emperor had reached a unique understanding. Brighid had never truly liked the Ardainian ruler; she found him aloof, especially compared to the stories Mòrag told of her father Eandraig. Nealon certainly wasn't a doting father, adoptive or otherwise. Perhaps if he'd been more involved in Mòrag's personal life and less concerned with grooming her to be an Empress, he might have prevented this current mess. Or Mòrag might have asked for help sooner. Not that Brighid could criticize him too harshly; she was just as fooled. It was a guilt they'd both share as long as they lived.

As a result of that understanding, the Emperor became less guarded around her. So when she entered the throne room and found him frowning, head in his hands, Brighid instantly knew something was wrong.

"…He escaped. Pachnall, Ciaran, they're both gone."

Brighid's stomach turned to lead. "What?"

"They broke out in the third watch last night. I don't know how they accomplished it. The guards believe they had help from within the palace."

"Then start a manhunt for him," Brighid said. "Order that he be shot on sight. He must pay for what he's done."

The Emperor shook his head, resigned. "He stole a ship from the docks. He's likely on another continent by now, beyond our reach. And with his Blade's talents, it will be nigh impossible to track him."

"…Mòrag's going to be terrified when she finds out. She had nightmares about him when he was in custody. How much worse will they be when she knows he got away?" Brighid asked, speaking more to herself than to the Emperor.

"…Then we let her believe that today's execution occurred as planned," the Emperor said simply.

"You want me to lie to her?"

"You're said it yourself: she needs to feel safe again. And on Imperial soil, he is as good as dead. If his 'death' brings her closure, then sobeit."

Brighid took the longest route possible back to Mòrag's quarters. What to do—comply with the Emperor's wishes or tell her Driver the truth? She would never forget Mòrag's cries during her nightmares; those would only get worse if she learned Pachnall was alive and free. If she believed he was dead, however, the nightmares might go away with enough time. But Brighid also vividly recalled how much her core stung when Mòrag lied to her. How could she do the same to her Driver? And what if Mòrag ever found out the truth?

By the time she arrived back at her Driver's side, she still had not decided what to do.

"Is it done?" Mòrag asked. "Is he gone?"

Her eyes were so desperate for the news. Not begging for the truth; begging for an escape from the man that plagued even her sleep. Her expression—it held a twisted sort of hope, like a little candle flame she relied on to guide her out of the shadows in her nightmares.

Brighid couldn't bring herself to quench that hope. "He's gone," she whispered.

The princess released the breath she'd been holding and nodded. "Good. Thank you for going in my stead."

Oh Mòrag, if you ever learn the truth, I pray you'll forgive me for that.

The nightmares never completely went away, but there was a marked improvement in the quality of her sleep. She finally slept alone again, only calling on Brighid to join her when the dreams were particularly bad. But despite the improvements in her sleep, Mòrag's demeanor remained somber and withdrawn. Many of her habits changed drastically. She studied independently in her room, with the exception of the subjects taught by female tutors. She still trained with Brighid, but they completed each session in an open space within the gardens; memories at the training grounds were still too fresh for both of them. And they always trained alone. There would be no more combat instructors.

Mòrag never expressed much interest in fashion, makeup, or grooming, but any taste she did have for it vanished. She abandoned makeup entirely and took to wearing her hair up. Brighid hated seeing it that way; her soft, almost ebony-toned hair was one of her prettiest features. But why she chose to hide it went without saying. Mòrag also traded out her skirts and dresses for boxier pants and tops that masked much of her figure.

And as the days ticked by, that wardrobe became another cause of distress.

"Mòrag, what's wrong?" Brighid asked.

Her Driver stood, only half-dressed in front of her mirror, crying. She pulled at her waistband, trying in vain to pull the fastening shut.

"I-I can't zip them anymore," she gasped, still tugging at the pants as if she could stretch them enough. "I'm starting to show. Now everyone is going to know. And they'll think I'm a dirty slut. What am I supposed to do?"

"Mòrag, no one is going to say—"

"A slut can't be Empress, Brighid."

"Stop calling yourself that!" It was a louder, harsher tone than she intended, but it hurt to hear her own Driver verbally disparage herself.

"But it's true. I've failed Mor Ardain."

"You haven't failed anyone, Mòrag. You're not to blame for any of this."

"Then why am I the one being punished?"

Brighid pulled her Driver into a hug. The girl's abdomen might have been expanding, but the rest of her was not. Her ribs were too prominent, barely hidden by her layer of hard-earned muscle. Perhaps it was time to back off training together. Or was it just the byproduct of the dreadful morning sickness?

"…I don't understand it, either."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"We'll think of something, dear. I promise."

She can't keep going like this. Something has to change.

There was the distinct temptation to simply take her Driver and run away. If they disappeared from Mor Ardain, then most of the pressures smothering Mòrag would disappear, too. What if they simply left, went somewhere where no one knew her? Where she could feel safe again? Yes, there would still be the issue of the pregnancy, but at least it would be inconspicuous. But Mòrag would detest the idea. She loved her country too deeply to abandon it and live in hiding.

That night, when Mòrag retired for the evening, Brighid scheduled a private audience with the Emperor for the following morning to discuss her Driver's situation. Then came the errands she had put off while Mòrag was up: fetching nausea medication from the court physician (who'd been sworn to the utmost secrecy about the princess's condition), returning an odd book to the library, and due to the day's events, collecting new clothes for her Driver.

Not many shops were open in Alba Cavanich at this time in the evening, but Brighid found a small, casual boutique that would do the trick. Of course, she couldn't be seen buying maternity clothes—people would connect the dots for sure doing that. But just one size bigger would buy them some time to make alternate arrangements. To her dismay, her presence drew the attention of the shopkeeper. She never managed to go anywhere in the capitol without drawing attention—such was the fate of an Ardainian symbol of power, royalty, and strength. Normally, Brighid didn't mind being a part of national folklore. But tonight, when subtlety was her main objective, it was a hassle. Shopkeepers tended to be busybodies, and buying clothes for the princess instead of calling on the palace tailors would raise suspicions.

Thankfully, the man simply directed her to the products she needed with a few mumbled remarks to the effect of "princesses shouldn't run around in men's clothing" and left her to her own devices. With a silent whisper of thanks that he was feeling lazy, Brighid took her purchases and returned to Hardhaigh.

Out of nowhere, Brighid stumbled. Not a trip from clumsiness—she was too refined and polished to lose her balance in a flat, carpeted hallway—but from the strange sensation that washed over her entire body. All at once, the ether energy in her surroundings seemed cut off from her core; the energy in her body, however, seemed to be seeping out of her pores at an alarming rate. Her breath came in shallow gasps, as if there was no longer oxygen in the air. Years later, Brighid would compare that helpless feeling to the suffocating environment of Spirit Crucible Elpys. Today, however, the feeling sent her into a panic. Blades did not just faint without a cause. Certainly fatigue from battle could be a contributing factor, as could hunger. But dinner occurred mere hours ago, her training with Mòrag even earlier.

Mòrag. Brighid reached out through the ether, struggling to locate her Driver's ether signature from across the palace. Normally, their resonance was strong enough that she could pinpoint her location even from opposite sides of the castle. Mòrag's ether signature usually shone like azure flame.

But now it flickered like a wavering candle.

Brighid dropped her parcels and broke into a run. What a scene it must have been, to see the most refined lady in the palace tearing through the halls at a breakneck pace. Servants shouted to learn what was the matter. Confused guards tried to follow, falling behind in seconds. But Brighid paid them no heed. Reaching Mòrag as fast as possible was the only thought she could process.

At first glance, the princess's apartments seemed in perfect order—the sitting room neat, the desk organized with books, all the lights out. But the bedroom was not so. At this hour, she ought to have found Mòrag sleeping, or if sleep evaded her, in bed reading. But the unmade bed held no Mòrag. And the metallic scent of blood hung in the air.

"Mòrag, where are you?" Brighid asked.

No answer. A frantic glance around the bed told her why.

With such a young Driver, Brighid had not yet seen active battle in this lifetime. But something told her a battlefield was not as horrifying as this. A discarded knife. The girl's white nightgown mottled with crimson blotches and streaks. Her pale skin, her ragged breathing. The deep gashes on both wrists, still seeping blood.

"No, no, no," Brighid whispered. She pulled the girl's limp form onto her lap and grabbed at the bedsheets, clenching the linens around the fresh wounds. Stray sparks of nervous flame shot out as she tried to rip off a piece and tie it tightly around one of her Driver's arms. Anything to staunch the bleeding.

Another wave of exhaustion rolled over Brighid, but this time it was much worse. Black circles dimmed her vision. The room spun. The physical form of her fingers and feet wavered and thinned. Her arms and legs pulled toward her torso of their own accord, as if her entire body was trying to recoil inward on itself. She was returning to her core crystal.

If Mòrag lost any more blood, she would die. They both would.

"Please, Mòrag. Stay with me."

The fire Blade grasped a thin wrist in each hand; flames burst into being around her fingers. A sickening sizzle echoed through the air as the fires evaporated the blood, then sunk into Mòrag's flesh instead. It reeked. A gargled cry escaped Brighid's lips, but if its cause was from her own pain or her Driver's, she wasn't sure. One, two. Two brief seconds—an eternity as they both hovered between life and death.

Bile rose in her throat when she let go of the girl's arms and saw raw, pink flesh gleam back up at her. Architect, I just burned my own Driver. I hurt her! And yet, the dizzying sensation had not worsened. Every breath both Driver and Blade took remained ragged and strained, but the breaths continued.

The guards posted at the door rushed in. One shook his head as he surveyed the scene. "I'll go get the doctor."

"I'll fetch His Majesty," the other volunteered.

Brighid hardly noticed when the guards left or when they returned. She cradled her young Driver in her lap, clinging to her as if the force of her embrace alone could keep Death from pulling her away. If only she were a healing Blade, she could instantly reverse the effects of the blood loss. But all she could do was reach through the ether, the thin line of their affinity bond coursing from Brighid's core to Mòrag's chest like a lifeline.

They were saying something to her now, asking thousands of questions. But she couldn't hear them. She didn't want to. The guards were pulling on her arms, the physician prying the girl out of her grip and setting the limp frame on the bed. But Brighid simply stared at that thin blue thread, coursing any ether energy she could spare through it.

The next few hours passed like a delirious, hazy dream. Afterwards, Brighid remembered very little of it. The Emperor mumbling prayers over and over. A blood transfusion. Stitches. Ointment for the burns. Bandages. A clean nightgown and fresh sheets. Gradually, the tension in the room lifted. Breathing came easier, and Brighid's dizziness reduced to a manageable level. More importantly, the line between Brighid and Mòrag grew thicker and brighter.

"Her pulse has steadied. It's stronger now, too. The next six hours are critical, but I do believe the worst is behind us," the doctor announced.

"Praise be," the Emperor whispered. "And the child?"

Brighid reached out through the ether. Both ether signatures hummed back at her—soft, but steady and distinct. "Alive."

"Lady Brighid, I can't begin to imagine what it must have felt like to cauterize your Driver's wounds. But the princess owes you her life. Much longer and she would have been beyond my reach. You made the right choice."

She didn't respond. What was there to say?

"Give us a moment, please," Emperor Nealon ordered. The doctor and the guards filed out of the room. "...Brighid, I want you to take Mòrag to Gormott."

"After all she's been through, you want to send her away?"

"Don't misunderstand. I want to give her a chance to heal. Mor Ardain cannot afford her that opportunity. Gormott could."

"How so?"

"The estate on Gormott is remote, tucked away along the shores of Lake Yewtle. You have yet to meet her, but my wife, Annabelle, moved to the continent on account of her health several years ago. She tells me that it is a private place with very few visitors. Mòrag would be safe there, hidden from the public eye. No one but myself, you, my wife, and a very select few servants would even know about her pregnancy. We could protect her reputation."

"And what about the child?"

Nealon frowned. "Gormott has done wonders for Annabelle's health. For all the public knows, she is well enough that she could 'miraculously' conceive."

"You mean…"

"I will lie to the world. I can make an announcement that a royal baby is on the way and let the public believe that Annabelle is pregnant. And if Mòrag and Annabelle were both staying in Gormott, tucked away in the privacy of the Imperial estate, then no one would know the child's true identity—merely that we welcomed a royal heir."

"You'd be asking her to live every day with a visual reminder of her own rape. She'd have to call it her sibling. That's hardly a solution."

"I understand that, Brighid. But Mòrag's position makes this a very complicated issue. An illegitimate child, if not accounted for at all times, is a liability to the throne. If the child were handed off to some peasant family, who's to say that in another decade its identity wouldn't become public? The circumstances would be beyond our control. Then we would encounter the same issues we're facing now. Mòrag would still be dragged through the mire of public scandal—even more so for lying about it. But with this arrangement, the child's illegitimacy vanishes. He or she becomes a legitimate member of the Ardanach royal family, and we have full control over any incriminating information."

"Legitimacy, liability, incriminating information—do you even hear how cold you sound? It's a baby. And Mòrag's hardly more than a child herself. Don't talk about them like they're articles in a policy bill!"

"…In the scenario I've proposed, if the truth were to be found out, the blame would fall to me. It is the only thing I can think to do to guarantee she'd be protected from a scandal."

Brighid considered his statement. If the Emperor himself lied to the entire world and the truth was found out, he would be crucified in the court of public opinion—possibly even forced to abdicate his throne. The indignance towards him would be so great that there would hardly be any left to spare for Mòrag. This was Emperor Nealon's gambit.

"What if Mòrag refuses?"

"…It is not my right to command Mòrag regarding the child's fate. The choice is hers. If she elects to give the child up and try to forget that this ever happened, then I will not stop her, nor would I blame her. But I fear with that choice the truth may come back to haunt us."

"The truth will always haunt us, Your Majesty. No matter what we choose...But on one thing, we are in agreement: Gormott may help her heal."

"I will make the arrangements as soon as the physician says she is well enough to travel. Please see to it that I'm informed when she wakes." The Emperor rose to leave.

"You ought to stay with her."

"The crown is what drove her to this act of desperation. It should not be the first thing she sees when she awakes."

"But what about the face of her uncle? Her family?"

The Emperor shook his head. "I will go and contact Lady Annabelle and inform her that Mòrag will be coming."

Damn Ardainian pride, trampling over its own children by holding them at arm's length, Brighid thought as the man departed. Her own bitterness startled her. The passages in her own journals showed a Brighid that loved the Empire deeply, so fiercely that she rarely ever questioned it. Why, with her previous Driver, she'd helped lead the Gormott conquest, burning villages—even people—in the name of Mor Ardain. But today, that love for country ran shallower than it ever had. No longer was she Mor Ardain's Jewel, Mor Ardain's tool. She was Mòrag's Blade. And that singular loyalty was all that mattered.

It was a long night of waiting and praying, but during the wee hours of the morning, Mòrag regained consciousness. For a while, neither Driver nor Blade said anything. Brighid simply slipped her hand into Mòrag's, wishing she could somehow erase the burn marks she caused.

"You saved me, didn't you?" Mòrag said at last.

Brighid nodded.

"I-I thought I wanted to die at first. But...when I started to pass out, I realized that I was also scared to die. So I prayed that you'd find me."

"Why do this, Mòrag?"

"...If I died, this whole problem would go away. Uncle Nealon could go back to ruling. The Empire would be better off without me."

"But what about me? Mòrag, I'm not better off without you."

Guilt glimmered in Mòrag's eyes. "I didn't think about that...I'm sorry, Brighid. I did not think how my actions would affect you, my Blade."

"I'm not just your Blade, Mòrag. I'm your friend, your partner, your family. And I need you. So please, please don't leave me behind."

"I'm just so scared, Brighid. Scared of living, and scared of dying."

"You're allowed to be scared. But...Can I speak freely for a moment?"

"You of all people have earned that right."

"The day we resonated, do you know what my first thought was? I thought, 'This little girl is going to change the world.' And in spite of everything that's happened since then, I still think that's true. Call it destiny, or fate, if you will. But I can feel it in every particle of ether, in my very core. There has to be more to your story, Mòrag. I refuse to believe otherwise."

"If there's more to my story, it's too dark for me to read."

"Then let me be your candle. We'll find our way through this together."

Days later, when the best opportunity came amidst a host of doctor's exams, Brighid explained the Emperor's plan—the move to Gormott, his proposed approach to hiding the pregnancy and the baby's identity, all of it. Her core ached to throw such a challenging decision on her Driver. And yet, when so much had already been forced on her, it would have been wrong to steal this choice from her, too.

"I have always wanted to visit Gormott," Mòrag sighed, considering the proposition. "Father intended to take me...Is it nice there?"

"According to my journal, it's beautiful. There are lush green forests and pristine lakes as far as the eye can see. And they don't have factories there to fog up the atmosphere, so the sky is always a brilliant blue."

"If I stayed there, do you really think it will keep people from finding out?"

"There's no guarantee," Brighid explained, "but the chances of it being discovered would be much smaller in Gormott. And I think a change of scenery would be good for you."

"Maybe new quarters in a new place will help the nightmares go away. You'd be coming with me?"

"My only place is at your side."

"...Then we're Gormott bound."

A/N:

Hey all, long note incoming, but there are some things that need to be said here. First off, the concept of Mòrag actually being Niall's birth mother came to me first, intended as a long one-shot. I almost didn't write it, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head. I was simultaneously dreaming up this Mòrag/Zeke arranged marriage plotline...and well, the pieces just fit together.

Now for the harder parts. Several chapters back, I first alluded to Mòrag's backstory. But when this fic started gaining ground (more so on AO3 than here, but still), I debated about scrapping this section. I really did. I could have switched out the cause of her self-harming behaviors without much difficulty. That would have been much easier to write. Unfortunately, though, the problem of childhood abuse is not something that can be neatly swept under a rug and ignored. Every day, kids and teens and even adults are profoundly hurt by people they trust: coaches, teachers, celebrities, even relatives. My heart breaks at the thought. And recently, particularly in my area, we've seen growing reports of these things happening.

I can't look away from this issue. I won't ignore it. That's why I chose to leave it in Mòrag's story. Unfortunately, a story alone isn't enough to solve the problem. But if writing this chapter helps me be more aware of and empathetic towards those around me—if it helps me support and protect survivors—then my story helps in the tiniest way. If it helps you do the same, even better.

More importantly, I want this story—for all its fun and fluff—to tell a tale of hope. Here at the darkest point, it may be hard to see that. But rainbows come after storms. People who've been broken—whether through abuse, loss of a loved one, broken relationships, depression, or even just the hard knocks of life—can still see brighter days. If you or a loved one has experienced this, know that you are seen, believed, and supported (and if you haven't, be watchful, loving, and supportive). Our darkest moments do not define us. Things can get better. And I promise, there are much happier times ahead for Mòrag, too.

There's going to be at least one more chapter of flashback/Mòrag's past. There are some bittersweet sections to it, but it's considerably brighter in its tone. After the dark headspace I've been in writing this chapter, I for one am looking forward to writing Chapter 13, "The Girl at Gormott."

If you've read this far, thank you. I hope you'll stick around for the rainbow.

—Jeli