Life is a long series of comings and goings.
It was an old Ardainian saying, and for the Empire's Special Inquisitor, it rang especially true. Only in days of peace did the Inquisitor—both Mòrag and her predecessors—remain in the palace for an extended period of time. Lately, life had been nothing but comings and goings, a relentless collection of arrivals and departures from Alba Cavanich to wherever her work took her. Even when she was stationed at the capitol, she went back and forth between the council chamber, her office, and the military headquarters. Normally, she didn't mind it; the variety granted her some mental engagement in what could easily become a paperwork-only position. But at the moment, the back-and-forth was becoming irritating.
The fact that her emotions were also stuck in limbo only made it worse.
But as always, she forced herself to focus on her duties when they arrived back in Alba Cavanich. The most urgent matter? Preventing the Aramach from leaving their current position. Even if Zeke believed that they had no intention of leaving Crá Gleann—and Mòrag had a sneaking suspicion he was right—Mor Ardain couldn't afford to track them down all over again. To that end, Azami and a few other Blades stayed behind as lookouts. Meanwhile, Mòrag intended to dispatch as many military forces as could be spared, deploying them in key positions to prevent anyone from getting in or out of the valley without Imperial leave.
But therein lay the problem: there weren't enough forces to spare. One quick glance at her tactical maps said as much. Even now, she stared at the little pieces she'd spread across the crude map of Crá Gleann, hoping against all reason that her glare alone could make them spontaneously multiply.
As a child, her lessons included routine games of chess. They were her favorite—her competitive nature reared its head even then—but as an adult she realized that each chess match had served to covertly teach her strategy, unit deployment, defense, and other tactics. Her tougher instructors had even made her play with only half her pieces so she could learn how to turn the tides of an impossibly outnumbered battle. She tried to recall those lessons now; her allocable forces looked like that half-empty chessboard in the middle of an intense game. She had enough pieces to keep the Aramach's king—the Artigo airship—in check, but checkmate remained elusive.
"Say Mòrag, I've got a suggestion," Rex volunteered one afternoon. She was glad that he'd waited to barge into her office until after her meetings were done for the day; the Imperial guards did not take too kindly to unannounced visitors—not even the driver of the Aegis.
"Let's hear it, then."
"I know the Empire's strapped for troops. But it's critical that the Aramach don't get away, right?"
She nodded. "We're doing what we can to set up a defensive blockade around their hideout. The goal is to prevent them from going in or out. Then we'll neutralize them when we can pull troops from the Urayan front."
"Kinda like a siege, right?"
"Exactly."
Rex frowned. "And judging by the little pieces on that map of yours, you don't have enough men to do the job properly."
Her expression matched his as she looked at the map again. The Aramach weren't occupying a huge landmass, but siege blockades required a pretty substantial force to effectively prevent anyone from going in or out. She had enough men and airships at her disposal to form a mediocre perimeter around the valley. But if the Aramach wanted to break free, they could do so easily at the weak spots—even without the region's unstable properties working to their advantage. Rex was right; it wouldn't work. Not for long
"No. I'm afraid we don't. If I could pull two decades of soldiers from the Urayan front we might be able to manage it, but General Haig has made it quite clear that none can be spared for now."
"That's where I think I can help."
"Unless you can somehow convince Uraya to wave a white flag or agree to a ceasefire, I'm not sure what you can do alone."
Rex grinned. "Don't forget that I'm still technically in charge of the Garfont Mercenaries. Yeah, we're not an army, but keeping these scoundrels cornered sounds right up our alley. And you know we've got enough folks to fill in the gaps."
Charming Rex—his relentless optimism was only ever overshadowed by his dauntless generosity. If folks had half his heart, life in Elysium would be a lot simpler.
"Rex, I can't ask you to do that," she replied. "And I doubt I have the budget to pay that many mercenaries. Not without senatorial approval, at least. And acquiring that is never easy."
"You qualify for the family discount. Obviously I'd need you to pay something, since the firm's still Yew and Zuo's livelihood. But I can eat some of those costs for your sake."
"Why would you do that?"
"Salvager's code, for one thing!" he exclaimed happily. But then his gleeful expression faded. "Friends have each other's backs. They help out no matter what. And I don't feel like I've been much help through all this."
"That's not true, Rex. You've been an incredible help. I'd be lost without your assistance."
"I dunno about that. If only I'd been more careful in the demilitarized zone, you wouldn't have had to come rescue us, and then Uraya wouldn't have gotten mad at Mor Ardain. There wouldn't be a war if not for my sorry arse. Then you'd have all the soldiers you need to take care of the Aramach right away. I can't get involved in a conflict between Mor Ardain and Uraya. Picking sides in that...it wouldn't be right for Pyra, Mythra, and me to do. But giving you some of the mercs to keep the Aramach in line—that I can do. It's not much, but maybe it'll help make up for the mess I've caused."
Rex grew a lot in the last year, but the pout on his face now made him look like a child. When Mòrag first met him, she'd both envied and pitied him. Envied, because how could the Aegis pick a naive, stubborn child who barely knew how Blade weapons worked? Of course, that envy had faded quickly when she realized what a burden it was to be the Aegis's Driver—to bear the hopes and prayers of a dying world. Shortly after, she came to pity him; it was far too heavy of a burden to place on a boy. Then she came to admire how resolutely he'd shouldered that burden, stubbornly carrying it all the way to Elysium and losing much of his childish innocence in the process. That should have been the end of it. But here he was, still bearing the burden of being Pyra's Driver. His potential power still scared both nations, and now he was caught in the crossfire between them simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was unfair. And he was not to blame for any of it. Mòrag told him as much.
"I still feel awful," Rex protested. "Please let the mercs help, Mòrag. Let me help clean up this mess."
"...I'll bring the suggestion to His Majesty," Mòrag decided. The look in his eyes—he needed the reassurance that his actions were helping, not hurting. And the Empire could use the assistance. Hiring mercenaries wasn't unprecedented, either. "Could you give me a better idea of how many men you'd be offering, along with a cost estimate?"
The young salvager nodded, and the optimism came rushing back into his gaze when he realized that his offer might be accepted. "You betcha. I'll touch base with Yew right away."
He scurried off to do as she asked, practically colliding with Brighid at the office doorway. There was a very awkward exchange as he tried to apologize (her Blade still intimidated him a tad when she caught him off-guard). Brighid gave a polite little smile while he practically tripped over himself in embarrassment.
"Lady Mòrag, Emperor Niall wishes to see you," Brighid said, unfazed by Rex's flustered exit.
"I wondered if he'd send for me soon," Mòrag commented, replacing the lid over her tactical board. Maybe after some time tackling other tasks—and some new pieces to add thanks to Rex—the inspiration for a winning strategy would come to her. "Thank you, Brighid. I'll head there immediately."
She expected that Niall would want to discuss the current situation with the Aramach. When they first arrived back at the capitol, she briefed him right away; he'd given her tentative orders and arranged for an urgent meeting with his council. Armed with their advice, he probably had more concrete instructions for her now.
She was correct—mostly.
Niall cut to the quick of the conversation, not even waiting for her to finish her customary bow before he started talking. Oh, how she missed the times when they could speak informally about the day together. Everything was so direct, so businesslike now. Pleasantries were a liability during war. They, too, were pieces on a chessboard—pieces that had to act as the board dictated.
"Your report was incomplete, Special Inquisitor." Niall's voice was unusually icy.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're implying, Your Majesty," she recited. She simultaneously racked her brain for any details she failed to mention.
"Brighid told me more about the terrain. You said that the volatility made it unwise to conduct a bomb raid against the region. But you failed to mention that a single stray flame the size of a match could be deadly."
Oh. That. She included it in the written report, but she hadn't mentioned it in her oral report to him. Was he angry that she'd left it out?
"My apologies, Your Majesty. But that information was of little consequence. It can easily be worked around."
"And I'm sure General Haig will do so expertly," Niall replied.
"Haig? But I thought he was stationed at the border."
"He still is. I plan to have you swap assignments with him. He will handle the Aramach, and you will transfer to lead the combat against Uraya."
"Majesty, I really must protest. Tracking down the Aramach—"
"Is done. Yes, they still need to be defeated. But I will not be sending you to do so."
"With all due respect, that responsibility is mine. I ought to handle it. I want to."
Niall shook his head. "Your passion for this case is admirable, Mòrag. But now that I've heard the full report, I have to agree with Prince Zeke. I think the Aramach are targeting you specifically. For them to pick a region that's so anti-fire...I fear that's no coincidence. And I refuse to send you directly into a trap that's set for you."
"Please do not let your feelings for me cloud your judgment. You said it yourself. The Aramach are a terrible threat, and it behooves Your Majesty to dispatch our best forces against them. And I am the best soldier our army has. My safety is of little consequence."
She normally hated the idea of using her label as "Empire's most powerful Driver" as a bargaining chip; there were plenty of Drivers who, with a Blade as powerful as Brighid, would probably rival her for the title. But the thought that Niall would order her not to finish off the Aramach personally made her chest ache. Yes, Haig would do an excellent job, but...It felt like she needed to be there.
"It behooves me to dispatch the best forces for the task. So I will not send you directly into a trap with your name on it," Niall insisted. "Tell me: if our roles were reversed, would you not refuse to send me?"
"...I would send someone else. Someone for whom the trap had not been set. Someone with water affinities," she admitted.
Niall shook his head. "Then please don't ask me to send you. I need my sword and shield a while longer."
"As you wish."
He visibly brightened, relieved. "Thank you. I believe this is for the best. After all, the Senate intends to surround the Aramach's hideout and starve them out. I do not wish to see your magnificent talents wasted on a siege."
"I thought the siege was only a temporary measure until we could reassign some troops. We agreed that the threat needed to be dispatched quickly."
"If we have the Aramach locked down in Crá Gleann, they are not much of a threat anymore, correct?" Niall continued without waiting for her answer. "For once, the Senate and I are in agreement. They wish to keep casualties to a minimum, especially with the toll Uraya has taken on our current forces. If we engage the Aramach in armed conflict, then we run the risk of destroying the entire region. But by locking them within their ramshackle fortress and starving them out, we may not only reduce casualties but also recover everything they've stolen from us."
"As you wish, Your Majesty. How soon shall I depart for Uraya?"
"The day after Hugo's Day. General Haig will brief you when you arrive. Once you are apprised of the situation, he will depart for Crá Gleann."
Mòrag hoped her disappointment wasn't visible on her face. She had her orders, and as much as she wanted to contest them, the Emperor's will was law. And who knew? Maybe if the siege against the Aramach lasted long enough—and it might—she could still punish some of them herself.
"Boss, I don't like this. We're sitting ducks."
"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Baragh."
Pachnall's expression was dismissive; he quickly returned to the palace maps he'd been studying so meticulously. Cor resisted the urge to grab those maps and shred them. What use was it to pour over pictures of sewer tunnels and architectural schematics to Alba Cavanich when the Imperial army had their hideout completely surrounded? Pachnall ought to be pouring over maps of the area to help get them out of this mess. Or at least ordering spies to sacrifice themselves in attempts to find a way past the Ardainian perimeter. But surely, planning a heist at a now-unreachable palace was the biggest waste of time imaginable.
Something about the Aramach's boss had changed, as if a component in his machine-like brain had snapped. It started the day their spy in the palace got caught. And every day it spiralled a little further out of control. The changes were subtle at first: missed meals, fixating on the best way to entrench themselves in this valley, and unusual irritability with members. But that irritability worsened into outright anger—he even lashed out at his own Blade a number of times. His men avoided him as much as possible; his outbursts often caused physical damage, and it was better to let a Blade take the brunt of that anger. At least Ciaran could regenerate from it.
Even now, Pachnall seemed intent on ignoring the greater danger: they'd backed themselves into a corner. And now, thanks to the Imperial army and the mercenaries tagging along with them, no one could get in or out of the valley, not even by airship. Their food stores would only last so long. And anyone who ventured too close to the Ardainian perimeter quickly learned how masterful the enemy snipers were.
After years on the run, Cor recognized the feeling of being trapped. But now a nagging suspicion told him that he and the rest of the Aramach were the bait.
"We've gotta get out of here, boss. What happened to those guerilla tactics you planned? We can't win against them. Not here. Not like this," Cor urged.
"Why would we leave now?" Pachnall laughed. "The stage is set. I'm precisely where I want to be. That's her army, Cor. And she'll be at its head. Why would I leave when she's finally on her way to see me again?"
I doubt she wants to see you, Cor thought to himself.
"What if they starve us out? She might not come."
"Nonsense," Pachnall scoffed. "She's set her sights on us. We may be hungry for a while, but she'll come. I just have to be patient."
"...You're using us as cannon fodder, then."
Pachnall finally looked up from his maps. "Not you, of course. You've become my left hand, Ciaran is my right. I won't waste such valuable pieces on my chessboard. But the others, they're merely pawns. They owe their lives to me. And now I'm just going to collect on that debt."
It didn't take a master chess player to know to see the lie in Pachnall's metaphor. Any chess piece was expendable except for the king, especially if it meant drawing in the enemy's queen or king. And Pachnall wanted both: the Emperor and his Special Inquisitor. He would sacrifice Ciaran if he had to in order to capture them.
I'm not a damn piece on a chessboard. And I won't be sacrificed.
The game had been fun, Cor had to admit. But now it was time to stop playing. He loved high stakes, but he drew the line at gambling his own life.
But where to go? A single step into Mor Ardain would have him shot on sight. And he knew that every other country had extradition agreements with the Empire; it looked like he was going to die here, at the hands of the Empire, or in a prison—also at the hands of the Empire. If only there was someplace he could go where Mor Ardain couldn't touch him. Or if he had some kind of leverage to bargain for amnesty.
And then it hit him. He did have one form of leverage: information about the Ardainian crown. Information that could be particularly damning if one of the Empire's enemies found out about it. He wasn't supposed to know, but he had put all the pieces together simply by watching Pachnall's twisted fixations over the past several months. And he knew just where to sell that information.
Maybe Uraya was a nice place to live.
If Mòrag was going to be forbidden to squash the Aramach personally, she wanted to do the next best thing and take the fight to Uraya right away. Anything to be productive. But Hugo's Day prevented it. Such was the typical Ardainian way—to demand utmost efficiency but to place equal importance on fickle things like holidays. At least it came quickly.
Mor Ardain regarded Emperor Hugo as something of a folk hero. As a result, Hugo's Day was primarily a festival for the people. Throughout the capitol, people traded little tinkered machines they'd crafted, and the streets reeked of Rhogul à la Ardainaise (no one truly liked the dish, even though it had come a long way in five hundred years; most ate it for tradition's sake alone). The only reason the air remained tolerable was the full stock of Eternity Perfume sold by traders from the south. Meanwhile, in the fields outside the capitol, brave youths entered a fighting tournament; the winner would be offered a chance to become an Imperial Driver. The final rounds of the tournament usually proved to be a fine display of swordsmanship. In peaceful years, Mòrag would attend (much to the surprise and anxiety of the contestants). That gave her an opportunity to speak with the winner, who almost always resonated successfully with a Blade. Many of the tourney's victors ended up becoming some of their best soldiers, and she enjoyed tracking their careers despite what some might call "humble origins."
It seemed like a silly tradition, but deep down, every Ardainian knew that Emperor Hugo would have loved it. So they kept it. Meanwhile, among the nobility, Hugo's Day was another stuffy holiday that the statesmen pretended to observe, using the state dinner as a thinly-veiled opportunity to further their own political agendas.
Every year, Mòrag hated going. Because every year, someone found something to criticize her for. Typically, it was some complaint over her attire. Special Inquisitor or not, most thought she ought to wear a formal gown. And every time, she wore her military dress uniform—mostly just to spite them. Why should this year be any different?
She adjusted her collar, wondering who Niall had asked to be his escort for the evening. It felt so odd to imagine him going with anyone but herself. Had he just asked the most convenient or amiable girl his council recommended? Or was there someone he took particular interest in? He was old enough for such feelings. She mentally kicked herself for neglecting to ask. The public would definitely take an interest in the first non-relative to appear with the Emperor. What if she wasn't worthy of him? Or what if she was just a golddigger?
Stop it. You're being petty. Niall can handle asking a girl to a silly dinner party. Just because you can't manage small talk doesn't mean he can't. And it's one party. It doesn't mean anything.
Zeke emerged from the bathroom, looking very uncomfortable in a button-up, pants, and overcoat. He probably toyed with the idea of leaving several of the buttons undone. But if not for his obvious taste for the formal garb, he would have looked rather sharp.
"You look—"
"Like a pinhead," he scoffed.
"I was going to say you look nice," Mòrag said, "but I suppose we can go with 'pinhead' instead."
He grinned. "Meh, I'm going to be outshone by my date anyway, so I'm not sure why it matters. Because you look great."
"It's just my dress uniform. Hardly different from what I normally wear. Now come on. We're going to be late."
To Mòrag's relief, the state dinner passed without incident. She received a few passing questions about affairs with the Aramach or the Urayan conflict, but for the most part, the night was simple. And Niall's dinner companion set her mind at ease, too: Lady Maeve Byrne, daughter to the head of the Senate's Ceartas party. She was a year or two older than the Emperor, but from what Mòrag knew of her, she was level-headed, politically savvy, and well-regarded by peers and adults alike. And even though Niall excelled at pretending to be amiable towards everyone, Mòrag could tell he genuinely enjoyed her company.
A decent choice for his first non-relative dinner companion, Mòrag decided. The press would still probably draw a wide range of ridiculous conclusions from her presence, but at least they wouldn't have much negative to say about the girl.
When the dinner itself ended, the nobles lingered and chatted. It was tedious. So when the first opportunity presented itself, she escaped to the veranda to get some air. Zeke saw her go. He followed, recalling how he'd followed her out of her birthday gala several months ago now. He was so nervous then that he'd blurted a proposal. In that tense second, he regretted it. But now he didn't—for a lot of reasons, really. If nothing else, his proposal kept her from marrying a scoundrel who didn't care for her needs. Because he knew she would have gone through with the marriage no matter who the arrangement was with. Architect, she was so damn brave. And so selfless that it nearly ached.
Did she ever do anything selfish? Simply because she wanted to?
"Leaving the party already? I thought the Inquisitor's presence was required," Zeke commented when he was at her side.
"I'm required to attend, not stay all night. Parties have never been my thing. If they aren't for me, I usually make myself scarce pretty quickly."
"Can't blame you there. Most people seem to come simply so they can hear themselves talk."
"I've got too much on my mind to be much of a conversationalist, anyway."
"Comes with your job, I suppose. Although if I had to guess, I'd say you're particularly worried about everything regarding Niall."
There was a lot that was confusing about Mòrag, but that much he could guess. She liked to feel in control of her circumstances whenever possible, and while the circumstances surrounding both Uraya and the Aramach were chaotic, she could take active measures on both fronts. But the possibility that Niall's identity might be leaked...she was helpless against that possibility. For now, anyway.
She nodded, confirming his suspicions. "If anyone found out, we'd have chaos. You know, at times like this, I wonder if I did the right thing by keeping him. If I'd let him go...maybe he would have had a much happier life. No one would be looking to assassinate him. And questions of his legitimacy wouldn't really matter. He'd be free to do whatever he wanted. Did I give him his best chance in life? Or would he have been better off in a normal family?"
"You've always been there for him. That counts for something, right? And if you had given him up, do you think you would have been able to live with yourself?" Zeke asked.
The concept of a Mòrag who'd never really known Niall seemed so unreal. She would have been Empress. But would she have become the same strong, silent, resilient, and kind woman he saw now? The warrior he admired so much? Or would she have been a mighty, militaristic ruler like her forefathers?
"Dwelling on the what-ifs is of little consequence. But I certainly can't really imagine life without him, either. And his self-doubts aside, he certainly has the makings of a great ruler. I just wish he could have the same confidence in himself as I have in him."
And I wish you could see yourself the way I do, Zeke thought.
He hesitated, wondering if now was the right time to suggest that. He'd given it a lot of thought since hearing Birall hiss his accusation about incorrectly documented births. But he had no idea how Mòrag might respond, either. On one hand, it was really just a matter of paperwork. On the other, Mòrag was so self-reliant. She might not want his assistance, especially for this.
But maybe, just maybe, it would help alleviate some of the fear. He had to try.
"I've been thinking about you and Niall alot, actually," he began, trying to find the right words. "For your sake, I hope it never gets that messy. He's a good kid. And you're right. He makes a great ruler. He has you to thank for that, really. I mean, sure, the Emperor raised him. But without you, he wouldn't be nearly as kind or as brave as he is. And—"
"Are you nervous about something? Because you're rambling," Mòrag interrupted. "Get to the point, Zeke."
It was that obvious? Great. Now he had to go through with it. So much for thinking through the right phrasing.
"...One of your biggest concerns is that he'd be forced to abdicate the throne, right? On account of that legitimacy rot and all."
She sighed, propping her elbows against the banister. "Yes. That, and the fact that I'd have to explain the truth to him. I have no idea how he would react."
"Um...I've been thinking—Mor Ardain's law allows for adopted successors to rule, right? Like, they're considered legitimate heirs?"
"Yes. They're not preferred, but if a ruler chooses to appoint an adopted heir as a successor, it is a legitimate practice. I'm living proof of that," Mòrag explained.
"Well, I hope that the truth stays under wraps for your sake. But if it did...if they tried to oust Niall because they found out about his parentage...um, I'd be willing to adopt him."
She shot back into an upright position and stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape.
"But only if you wanted me to, I mean," Zeke added hurriedly. "And it's not like I'd expect Niall to treat me like his dad or anything. I just figured if, from a legal standpoint, he was our son, he'd be a legitimate heir on paper. Legally, they wouldn't be able to force him off the throne. He could stay Emperor."
She blinked once, twice, as if the information was bouncing around in her brain without registering.
Shit. Maybe it was still too soon to bring it up.
"Y-you would do that for us?" she asked at last. He'd never heard a tone of such quiet disbelief.
"Of course I would. For you."
"But you'd be taking a bastard child into your household. If you did that, you'd, well, people would—"
"What, they'd talk?" Zeke took his turn to interrupt. "You know I don't give a damn about what other people think. So let them talk."
"...Why are you doing all this? Why are you being so good to me?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Even in the dim lamplight, he caught a glimpse of the tears lingering in her eyes.
"Don't you know? Mòrag, I care about you. A lot."
She made an odd choking noise and shook her head violently. "Don't. You really shouldn't. Not if you know what's good for you."
"I shouldn't care about you? Why not?"
Now the tears were really falling, and she wouldn't look him in the eye. "I'm a dangerous person to love," she choked out. "People who care about me either hurt me, or they end up getting hurt. It happens every damn time. So don't waste your care on me. I don't want you to get hurt."
He took her hands in his, wishing his touch alone could stop the trembling. It made his chest knot to see her like this—she actually believed that. "Mòrag, I'm not going anywhere. And I'm sure as hell not going to hurt you."
"That's what they all say. But they're all gone. L-loving me is dangerous."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take." He gave her hands a reassuring squeeze.
"Please don't," she whimpered. "I don't think I could live with myself if anything happened to you because of me."
"Mòrag, nothing's going to happen to me."
He gently pulled the glove off her right hand and let it flutter to the ground. Her eyes asked a thousand questions as he guided her now-bare fingers to his chest, coming to a stop over the core crystal fragment that gleamed there. She tried to pull away—she always seemed wary of touching the stone in his chest—but he held her hand firmly, letting her feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint pulse of ether through the crystal, and the steady, constant rhythm of his heart.
"Do you know what that is?" he asked quietly.
"Your heartbeat. And your core crystal fragment," she stated matter-of-factly, already trying to banish her sniffles.
He shook his head. "It's more than that. It's proof that I'm not like the others, Mòrag. It proves I'm a survivor through and through. I mean, think about it: I bloody nearly died because I got ambushed by assassins after I left home. But I lived. For ten years, I lived with a man who tried to destroy the entire world, and somehow, I never got bumped off. I got hit by a giant boulder and catapulted off your Titan, and all I did was bruise my tailbone. I got stabbed by Jin. Still lived. I've fallen off more cliffs than I care to admit, despite being scared of heights, and yet I'm still here, in one piece. Maybe the other people you cared about are gone, but that's not going to be me. I'm a survivor, Mòrag. I care about you, but I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
At those words, she collapsed against his shoulder. Whether it was a collapse from relief or lingering doubts, he couldn't really tell. But she lingered there. Her hand never left his core crystal, as if she was hoping the pulsing blood and ether would become permanently etched into her fingers.
"Thank you. I'll give your offer some thought," she whispered at last.
"No rush. And I hope you never have to take me up on it. But if it comes to that, it's an option for you."
After a while longer, her forehead lifted from his shoulder, and she lazily kissed his neck. He stifled a gasp; she probably didn't mean to do that, right? Surely she was going for his chin or cheek and missed. Now was not a good moment for a more romantic gesture, not right after all those tears. But maybe the gesture was intentional—Mòrag's odd, slightly skewed way of expressing affection or gratitude. She probably had no idea how it made his gut twist.
"Should we get back to the party? Or call it a night?" he asked, hoping the question might prompt her to pull away. The scent of her hair—he was keenly aware that it was a subtle mix of rosemary and mint—he needed to get air that didn't smell so much of her.
To his relief, she withdrew. The pained expression was gone now, replaced by one that seemed more at ease than she'd looked in weeks.
"That depends. Do I look like I've been crying?"
"Nah. You're good."
"Then let's go back," she replied. "I never got the chance to talk to Lady Maeve, and it would be rude not to say hello."
"Gonna give her the what-for as his protective older sister? Threaten to broil her alive if she breaks his heart?" Zeke teased.
She rolled her eyes. "It was an invitation to a simple dinner party, nothing more. And Brighid does the broiling. Not me."
"Hah! Come off it, lady. He's getting to that age, and it's killing you. Admit it."
"...Fine. I admit it feels odd. But I came into this marriage for the express purpose of giving Niall time to find a mate that he chose himself. So I won't interfere."
"You say that, but judging by your current expression, I feel badly for Maeve if she ever upsets him."
"Well, then. I suppose you'll just have to come with me and make sure I don't scare her too badly."
She picked up her glove, pulled it back on, and slipped her hand into his as they rejoined the festivities.
