Not for the last time did Brighid curse her own hesitancy.

It had been foolish to hope that Mòrag and Zeke would be gone for much longer. Three weeks was a record-setting vacation for the Inquisitor, after all. To think that she had maybe a week to get in and out of Crá Gleann without Mòrag knowing...Brighid never should have waited so long to question Cor. But with all the proceedings surrounding the peace talks, what choice did she have? Now her window of opportunity to slip away was all but gone.

Maybe she should just leave, do the deed, and explain it to Mòrag after the fact. Apologies could come later, couldn't they?

But Mòrag and Zeke's return prompted her to put the excursion on hold for a while. Simply having Mòrag back in the same building was soothing. And something about Mòrag's presence felt different. Sure, there were the obvious things: the faint bronze tone to her skin after weeks of sun exposure; the fact that she occasionally wore her hair down on calmer days; and the tired but satisfied gleam in her eyes. But there was something else, too. Something more meaningful that Brighid couldn't quite place.

Despite the sheer length of the Inquisitor's leave of absence, life at Alba Cavanich regained a sense of normalcy rather quickly. For a while, that "new normal" was just as busy as the previous one. As always, the peace, once won, required implementation. During the peace conference, Niall had formally agreed to cede Gormott its independence over a three-year period. The process wouldn't begin until the first of the year, but until then, the palace hummed with the activity necessary to make good on that promise. Officers filed in and out of the Inquisitor's office to discuss dismantling military outposts within the region. Senators and counselors met with the Emperor to formalize the arrangement into law. And once a week, there was a progress report for the siege against the Aramach. It always came back the same: progress was slow, but it was working.

A year ago, Mòrag would have thrown herself into the work relentlessly, hardly bothering to sleep or eat. But now, she was finding a balance. Of course, it wasn't an instantaneous change; one of the most frequent arguments the Inquisitor and the Tantalese prince had was where to draw the line between discipline and a healthy dose of relaxation (they never did quite figure out a perfect compromise). Usually, Mòrag's stubborn sense of duty won out. But it was tempered, and everyone in the palace noticed it.

Now the Ardainian military had the necessary forces to sustain the siege line without the help of the Garfont Mercenaries. So Rex, the Aegis, Nia, Tora, and the others all gradually went their separate ways. Rex and Pyra and Mythra returned to Fonsett village. Tora and Poppi joined Professor Tatazo in his new private Blade factory within Mor Ardain's industrial district. Meanwhile, Nia and Dromarch found a little chateau in Gormott; word on the street was that Nia might be invited to serve on the council that would one day become the independent Gormotti government. The Flesh Eater instantly turned up her nose at the idea, protesting that she wouldn't be "a big cheese in that high-society circus." But when both the Emperor and the Special Inquisitor added their own recommendations to that arrangement—it would be good for strong international relations—she promised to consider it.

But no matter where they went, everyone promised to visit, of course.

"With both Mòrag and Brighid and Zeke and Pandoria here, it'll be even easier to have reunions!" Rex hollered on his way out. "See you guys soon!"

As expected, Niall's decision to cede Gormott its independence met with resistance in the Senate. But with the cooperation of Byrne of Ceartas and the new head of the Gardic party—zealous background checks ensured that this new party leader was far above reproach—he was able to overrule the legislature by decree. Niall's popularity among the Senators still remained complicated, but for now, his position was secure.

Life became, in a word, the simplest it had been in years—how Elysium was meant to be. And for two months or so, it stayed that way. So when Zeke's birthday rolled around, Mòrag found herself with enough spare time to plan how to celebrate. Normally, when Niall's birthday came, she spent two weeks in advance pestering Brighid for ideas; picking ideal gifts or, Architect forbid planning a party, was not her strong suit. But this time, she knew exactly what to do and what to give him. Well, partly.

It was the act of giving the gift to him that would be the hard part. Would he like it? Nothing for it. She couldn't exactly delay it much longer. In fact, the anticipation made it hard to concentrate. So she implemented her plan a little sooner than expected.

"We're not going to join Niall for dinner tonight," she told him.

"Why not? It is Thursday, isn't it?"

"It is. But I...I have something special planned. For just the two of us. We'll join him tomorrow instead."

Calm down, Mòrag. Quit stressing about it. Everything's going to be fine.

"Something special? Why?"

"Oh, don't play dumb. You've only been hinting that your birthday is coming up for the last three weeks. So we're celebrating."

"Was it that obvious?" Zeke grinned childishly. Of course he knew it was obvious. Obvious was exactly what he was going for.

"You have all the subtlety of a safe falling from a fourth-story window. I got the hint. So let's go."

"But hang on, my birthday isn't for another two days."

"...I wanted to celebrate a little early," Mòrag replied. "You'll see what I mean in a bit. Just trust me, all right?"

He nodded, but curiosity lined his expression. She led him through the palace hallways, ignoring his nagging questions the entire way. He could be like a child sometimes, especially with how talkative he could be.

"What are we doing in the gardens? Did someone kill our flowers again? It wasn't me. I swear, I checked the weedkiller six times this go round."

"I wouldn't lecture you as part of a birthday celebration, Thunderbolt. And our flowers are fine."

He opened his mouth to protest a bit further, but at that moment, they rounded the corner to the location of their flowerbed. Contrary to Zeke's fears, the moon flowers and dawn hydrangeas were healthier than ever. But that wasn't the surprising bit. Alongside the patch were all the makings of a candlelit picnic: a blanket, cushions, a small kettle of tea, a bottle of champagne and a goblet—just one, he noted—a plate of Addam's embercakes, a sampler of little sandwiches, and a fruit and cheese plate. A small wrapped box lurked somewhere within that pile.

Only then did he realize that the gardens were uncharacteristically empty—there wasn't a single soul in sight, not even the grounds workers. She'd planned this out with her usual attention to detail, even going as far as giving the staff the evening off so they could have the garden to themselves. Maybe she was getting better at romantic gestures after all.

"It's not much, but I wanted us to have some privacy," she explained a bit sheepishly.

"Flames, it's lovely. It's perfect."

She smiled and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Well then, happy early birthday. I have your present here, too, but...let's eat first."

Since their first private meal as a married couple, they'd gotten quite good at keeping work out of their dinner conversations. It proved difficult at first, especially for Mòrag, who'd spent the bulk of her life either working through meals or dining with Emperors (not exactly an environment for riveting conversation). But these days, their no-work conversations flowed naturally: childhood stories, theories about the afterlife, embarrassing mishaps (Zeke had the majority of those), awkward distant relatives...just about anything.

Tonight, however, Mòrag seemed to slip back into her less talkative self. Zeke watched as she crammed an embercake into her mouth, chewing it rapidly even though the spices made her eyes water. That was odd. Mòrag hated spicy food. But she picked up another cake without really looking at it and set to chewing again. Was she...spacing out? Picnic or not, it was unusual for Mòrag to abandon her usual table manners.

"You okay there?"

She gulped down another chunk of embercake. "I'm fine. Never better," she said hurriedly. But her eyes glanced across the picnic blanket at the wrapped present.

"Chew a bit slower or you'll choke."

"I-I didn't get a full breakfast this morning, so I'm a bit hungrier than usual. I suppose."

What? But he'd seen her eat a decent amount of food. Odd.

"Mòrag, what's got you so out of sorts? I thought we were supposed to be celebrating, but you're being weird."

She frowned but didn't refute his claim. "Can we talk about this after we've eaten? Please?"

"...Okay."

'Upset' wasn't the right word for how she was acting. 'Nervous' was a bit closer, but still not quite right. Because underneath the fidgeting—she actually twiddled her thumbs instead of thrusting her hands behind her back—behind that nervous movement, there were vestiges of excitement, or something.

At last they started on the last course of cheese and fruit (neither of them were huge fans of sweets, so it made for a nice substitute for dessert, and not even Mor Ardain's chefs could ruin cheese and produce). Mòrag poured a glass of champagne and handed it to him, then filled a teacup for herself. He looked at her quizzically.

"I-I'd rather have tea tonight," she replied, not meeting his gaze. Then she seemed to gather her courage again. She clinked her cup against his glass. "A toast to you. May this year be your best one yet."

"Our best one yet," he corrected. Then he downed the entire glass in a great gulp.

"Would you like to open your present now?" she murmured.

But before he could answer one way or another, she handed the package to him. It was small, and compared to most gifts given by the royal household, poorly wrapped. Maybe she'd wrapped it herself.

"I originally planned on giving you something else, but...well, I think you'll like this much better. I hope you will."

He nodded and dug his fingers into the wrapping paper. Mòrag took a deep breath. For some reason, the thought of his potential reactions to the gift had kept her up all night. And now that the moment was here, she wished he would tear it just a little slower. Maybe she didn't feel as ready for this as she had this morning.

The paper fell away to reveal a nondescript box; it was her way of forcing him to open it and look at it properly. The lid popped off, and there was a sharp inhale when he got the first glance of the contents. His fingers quivered as he picked it up. It looked so tiny in his hands, but one would think it weighed a ton by the way he held it. Architect, could he read it properly in the lamplight?

His eye darted from her to the plastic in his hand and back again.

"F-Flames, I'm not seeing things, am I? There's...there's two lines here, right?"

She nodded.

"And does that mean what I think it means?"

"Yes."

The used test clattered onto the plate beside him. "You're—we're—"

"Pregnant."

He swallowed hard. "B-b-but we've only been having sex a couple months. That can't be right."

She huffed through her nose, barely containing the laugh that was surfacing. "Technically, all it takes is one time. And I haven't had a cycle since you got back from Tantal. We were efficient, I guess."

He scowled, then smiled, then scowled again. "Shit, that was fast. Are you totally sure?"

"Absolutely. I recognized the signs, and Brighid confirmed it for me. I...I really only used the test stick so I could wrap it up and give it to you."

He kept glancing back and forth between her face and her belly, as if staring long enough might make the information register in his mind.

"I'm going to be a dad." The words came out in a whisper, his tone somewhere between shocked terror and excitement. But the more he repeated the phrase, the terror faded, replaced with his usual over-the-top volume. "I'm gonna be a dad!"

Shouting. That was more like him.

But then the grin faded again. "...Wait. Mòrag, how do you feel about all this?"

A complicated question, that. After the relief and exhilaration of their first intimacy had worn off, Mòrag realized that this was a distinct possibility. She'd never bothered with birth control; out of personal principle, she avoided medications whenever she could. And until now, she never needed or wanted it, given that she'd held everyone—especially men—at arm's length for years. And it would have been counterintuitive to the whole purpose for their arranged marriage if she changed that habit. So this was...well, this was just how things went.

But when the first wave of nausea hit, she'd spent the better part of an hour locked in the bathroom. The morning sickness, the dull ache in her breasts, the slight moodiness—all the sensations unearthed memories she would have rather kept buried. Even her scars seemed to itch at the memories. And of course, the nightmarish voice in her head had used the opportunity to force itself back into her consciousness.

This wasn't like the first time, she'd reminded herself. But to reassure herself of that fact, she'd crawled back into bed with Zeke and lingered there. After an hour or so of cuddling, her heart rate finally calmed down. Then she went to ask Brighid if she could detect a second ether signature, just to be sure.

Now, she was caught somewhere between relief, guilt, excitement, and trepidation. A lot of thoughts ran through her head simultaneously. First, there was sheer relief that this pregnancy was intended. Expected, even. She didn't have to hide it. This had always been the whole point of their marriage: a blood heir with no questions of legitimacy. No matter what, the Senate couldn't question this child's right to the throne. Nealon had seen to that in her adoption papers. And yet, with that relief came a sense of guilt. Her pregnancy with Niall...she'd never felt happy—and this time, there was happiness mixed in with all the other emotions, she realized—his impending birth had never sparked joy. How could she feel happy now? Was she picking favorites by succumbing to her sense of joy at the news? Would the child from her marriage somehow taint her fondness for him? Surely not, but even the mere possibility of that made her feel like she betrayed him. He never chose the circumstances surrounding his birth; it didn't seem fair to him to celebrate her second pregnancy more than the first. But she couldn't help it, either.

Explaining all that to Zeke was challenging.

"I-I was scared at first. I still am, honestly," she admitted at last. "Everything has happened so quickly. And even though I know things are different this time around, there are moments when it all comes rushing back. But despite that, I...it feels right. When I remember that this baby's yours, everything feels safe again. He or she is living proof of how much I've healed. Proof that I can be loved, and that I can love in return. Granted, it's a bit sooner than I would have chosen, but...it's proof that things can get better."

"So you're happy about it, then? At least, sort of?"

"Despite it all, I'm—I'm thrilled, Zeke."

He stood and pulled her into a fierce hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in a circle. The sudden motion made her laugh, which made him laugh, too. In less than a minute, they were giggling like children.

"Damn, we're going to have a cute kid."

"Okay, stop spinning. You're going to make me sick."

He caught himself and stopped short. "Sorry! I just—this is great news. I'm shocked, but it's awesome."

"I can hardly believe it myself."

He still didn't set her down, his eye searching hers. "Gosh, you're amazing, Flames. I love you."

For some reason, the kiss felt different this time: shared surprise, a bit of anxiety, and just as much excitement—like their connection was deeper now. Deep down, they both realized it felt similar to resonating with a Blade. There was that same tug deep in their chests, the pull, the rush, the magnetism. But instead of ether, the connection was quite literally physical...and the physical embodiment of their bond would take far longer to form than a Blade. But that only increased the anticipation.

The smell of something burning ruined the moment. In his spinning glee, Zeke had kicked over the one of the candles. And now the picnic blanket was engulfed in flames.


I'm actually relieved that my Driver went away for a few days. I'm glad she left. What is my life coming to?

Mòrag wasn't the only one dealing with nausea these days; whenever someone mentioned the word "Aramach," Brighid's stomach did a somersault. That sick sensation had lessened the second Mòrag and Zeke left for Tantal, though. They would only be gone a few days; Zeke insisted on telling his father the good news in person, and with Niall's leave, Mòrag accompanied him. It would be tight, but their absence ought to leave Brighid just enough time to track down Pachnall and get back. Then the secrecy could end.

Despite the couple's best efforts to keep the news of their pregnancy under wraps until family members were told—including Rex, Nia, and the others, since both Mòrag and Zeke regarded their companions as family—Hardhaigh Palace buzzed with excitement at the news. Pandoria was partly to blame for the leaked information. Or maybe it was simply the fact that the Emperor grinned from ear to ear at the mere thought of being an uncle. But regardless of the cause, Brighid now had the window of opportunity she'd been waiting for.

Protecting Mòrag was all Brighid had ever known. Now there was simply more of her to protect. And if it took razing the Aramach's entire valley to eliminate Pachnall, she'd do it. Even if it meant scouring her core crystal in the process—which seemed more likely than not. Cor's information would give her a fighting chance, but even so, this resembled a suicide mission.

But the fear of not saying goodbye, of leaving without a single explanation was too strong. And the words to a letter came pouring out of her pen before she could stop them.

My dearest Mòrag,

If you're finding this letter, then it's likely the worst has come to pass. But there are things I must confess, and I regret that I never had the courage to say them directly.

I've failed you, my lady. In the interest of confidentiality, I will not pen my full confession here. But you know where my journal is hidden. If I do not return, go to my chambers. Find it. Read it. In those pages, you'll find my sins laid bare. And while I will not dare to assume your forgiveness, I must beg you for it.

I'm going to Crá Gleann to atone for my wrongdoings. If I don't return, please don't come looking for me. The risk to you, and now your unborn child, is too great.

Serving as your Blade has been the utmost privilege, Mòrag. Blades were created to form bonds with humans, to live with them in harmony. But "bond" doesn't quite do it justice. You are my family, my friend, my everything. My true Driver. As ever, I am but a humble student of your greatness. You are a beacon of strength and resilience, and I know deep in my core that you will be a wonderful mother. I only wish I could be there to see it.

I pray that someday, you'll find a way to forgive me. Everything I ever did was to protect you, to see you safe and sound again. And by the Architect's grace, you are whole once more. It's a dream come true for me. So what I do now, I do to protect that dream.

Ever your devoted Blade,

Brighid

After a little puff of fire to melt the wax seal, she set the letter on top of Mòrag's desk and left the office. With any luck, she could burn the letter and explain in person once they were both home again. But if not, at least the truth wouldn't go unsaid. She'd dug herself into too deep of a hole to back out now. If this expedition was her grave, then sobeit—as long as it was Pachnall's grave, too.

And so she set out.

One of the greatest advantages to being the Inquisitor's most trusted Blade was the near-comprehensive access to Imperial airships on demand. Her position also granted her the right to silence soldiers with a gag order. So when she arrived at Crá Gleann, she was well within her rights to demand that two men fly her to the cliff overlooking the depth of the valley.

"Return to your posts on the perimeter," she ordered once they arrived at the destination.

Despite her turmoil a few hours earlier, now she felt calm, collected. The battlefield had always been a soothing place to her.

"When would you like us to circle back, Lady Brighid?"

She shook her head. "I will not require a secondary escort. You have done your duties admirably. Thank you. You are excused to return to the perimeter...And gentlemen?"

"Ma'am?"

"Under no circumstances are you to speak of this to anyone. As far as you're concerned, I was never even here. Understood?"

"Perfectly, ma'am. Best of luck."

The view from the top of the cliff was almost impressive: dozens of grounded airships, making their last stand against the Empire's might. Clouds of dust swirled about in the wind, joined by little clouds of ether fumes as the last vestiges of Mor Ardain's energy continued to seep out. Perhaps in another few months, the area would stabilize; Brighid could tell that not much energy remained in the Titan's core. Perhaps something had caused the decay to speed up? A few months ago, when she first visited, Mor Ardain still had a fair amount of energy to decay away. She'd checked. Now, it was far lower, as if it had been sucked away instead of being allowed to disperse naturally. Why was that?

Not that it mattered now. She needed to focus on the Artigo. Getting in should be relatively easy thanks to the rapidly fading sunlight and Cor's information. But this elevated position was tempting; why not just summon an enormous fireball and let the entire valley explode? Yes, the resulting fumes would unleash toxic gasses, but she could order the Ardainian line to withdraw. That would take away the collateral damage, and Pachnall would surely perish in the blast.

No. I need to look him in the eye when I kill him.

Cor's instructions echoed through her mind as she descended the cliff face, dimming her flames as she went. This would be much easier if she looked like a common Blade. Putting a damper on her own appearance felt debasing. But hopefully, it would be worth it when she ran Pachnall through. Only then did the thought register that maybe, Cor had intentionally given her false information. What if he wanted to lead her into a trap? He'd said in no uncertain terms that he hated Mor Ardain, and her personage was an Ardainian symbol. But he also claimed he hated Pachnall, too. But as her feet met solid ground again—it was a grueling descent—she pushed the thought away. Even if Cor hoped to get her caught, she stood within the valley itself now. It was far too late to back out.

She hesitated, back pressed hard against the cliff wall as she watched the patrols weaving in and out of the host of grounded airships. One last sentry should face the man opposite him, and then after he made a left turn, there would be a window of opportunity: seventy seconds to slip through. After that, the patrol would cycle through for another fifteen minutes before the opening presented itself again.

There it was. Maybe Cor's information would pan out after all.

But still she waited. Better to confirm the length of the patrols, just to be safe. She only got one shot at this.

Seconds ticked by, agonizingly slow. Aimless thoughts flashed in her brain, like little enemies trying to distract her. At least it wasn't raining tonight. Would Mòrag have a girl or a boy? She hoped for a girl. And what would the child call the family Blades—aunts and uncles? Auntie Brighid did have a nice little ring to it. By now, the others probably knew the good news, which meant that Kora and Mythra were probably already shopping for baby gifts, dragging a clueless Rex along with them. And Zeke had likely assembled a massive list of potential names, each one more audacious than the last. Mòrag probably hadn't given it a second thought yet.

Focus. For her sake, get this right. It should be two more minutes now.

The next distracting thoughts weren't as pleasant. Memories of a much younger Mòrag, hugging her knees in fear. The pathetic whimpers she made in the throes of a nightmare. The sight of her unconscious and bleeding. The injustice of it all. The fault of Brighid's own negligence. It could not happen again.

The nearest guard made his turn a second time. There was the opening again. Perfect.

For the next hour or so, she repeated the process: sneaking past sentries only to duck behind a crate or underneath a ship's wing to wait until the next opening presented itself. She meticulously followed Cor's prompts; to her relief, he'd described each step perfectly. His attention to detail certainly explained why he managed to evade the law for so long. Some of the openings in the sentry rotation were so subtle that even her own keen eyes struggled to spot them. For a human to manage it merited a tiny sliver of respect.

Only when she finally stepped foot on the Artigo did she relax a bit. Ardainian airships she understood. She knew them well; the saying "once you've seen one, you've seen them all" aptly described the Ardainian fleet—even fifteen-year-old ships like this one. Granted, the hardware and technology changed, but the skeleton of ships within the fleet remained the same. The layout almost perfectly matched the modern vessels. Which meant that Pachnall could be found in the captain's quarters on the upper level, the tactics room on the lowest floor, or the bridge. Based on Cor's information, that last option was the most likely spot; apparently Pachnall treated it like some sort of throne, where he could wield his influence while looking down on the men he "rescued."

She drew her swords, doubtful she could avoid a fight in these cramped corridors. But the deeper she ventured into the belly of the airship, the less she seemed to need them. Precious few sounds echoed through the corridors—just the hum of the lighting overhead.

Where was everyone? Surely there ought to be guards milling about. Or did Pachnall refuse to have them, proudly insisting that no one would make it this far into his makeshift fortress? Cor didn't have much to say about the security within the Artigo itself. If Cor could be believed, he'd been granted his own airship to manage when the Aramach entrenched themselves in Crá Gleann. And as a result, he'd only entered the Artigo when called upon—an increasingly rare occurrence towards the end.

At last, she arrived at the final staircase leading up into the bridge.

Architect, please let me find him sitting in the captain's seat.

She reached out into the ether. The energy hummed back at her, rich and plenteous. She could summon plenty of flames here. And fast, if need be. Good.

One halting step on the staircase. The metal screeched underfoot. She inhaled sharply, waiting for a guard above to investigate the noise. But no response came. She took two long breaths to ensure the coast was clear then burst up the stairs with as light of footsteps as she could manage.

At first glance, the bridge was completely empty, its only occupants the idle machines used to control it while airborne. Damn. At this time of night, she ought to have checked the captain's quarters first. Ambushing him in his sleep didn't make for a glorious tale, but...this wasn't a tale she wanted told much, so what did it matter? As long as he paid for what he did, her core could rest easy. One little slice with her sword, and then—

"Brighid. You're right on time."

Her heart rate skyrocketed at the sound, and she cursed herself for not sensing his presence. She didn't need to turn around to know who the speaker was, but she turned anyway. She knew that voice well. He was not the sort of foe to leave her back exposed to. And unfortunately, he wasn't the foe she hoped to see. And worse, he knew she was coming.

"Ciaran." Her words dripped with contempt. This was the Ciaran she knew. And even if it had been another incarnation, she still would have hated the sight of him. Of all the Blades to share a rare eye color with.

"It's been a long time."

Architect, he wanted to exchange pleasantries? He never talked much back in Mor Ardain. Why start now? Was he stalling, buying Pachnall time to get away?

"Where is he?"

"Not even a hello. I see you're still the arrogant bitch you always were."

Her whipswords quivered in her hands in a silent warning. "Don't test me. Answer my question. I will not hesitate to incinerate you."

Ciaran shook his head and laughed. "You are in no position to make demands, Brighid."

The Blade made a clicking noise with his tongue. At that signal, two dozen Drivers and Blades seemed to materialize from every available shadow in the bridge—perhaps they were shadows that Ciaran had fabricated using his dark arts. That would explain why she failed to spot them. The ripples in the ether told her that the vast majority of these newcomer Blades and Drivers wielded water. They swarmed her, cutting off every exit. But no one moved to engage her in combat. Instead, they waited for Ciaran's command, weapons in hand.

No position to make demands indeed, she thought. But to yield to these ruffians, especially when she was so close to her goal—that couldn't happen. And she'd become quite adept at faking confidence.

"Aren't I? I know this ship well, Ciaran. We're one story about the engine room. A single burst of flame from me, and this entire vessel explodes."

"She wouldn't," one of the Aramach whispered.

"She would," Ciaran answered. His tone mixed equal parts contempt and respect. He could read her anger in every mannerism: the way her sword twitched, the simmering flicker of the flames atop her head, and the deep furrow in her brow. He knew she felt desperate enough to try it.

"Like I said: don't test me," Brighid continued. Her eyes darted about the room, poised to react should one of them throw an attack. Nervous flames licked about her fingers, but she let them burn. If nothing else, the sight of them made the Aramach nearest her squirm.

"Don't be a fool, Brighid. You want to survive this encounter because I'm about to tell you what you want to know. And the answer will have you rushing back to Mor Ardain. So douse your flames."

"Where is Pachnall?"

Ciaran grinned. "He's on his way to Alba Cavanich. To retrieve something that belongs to him."

Her flames wavered a moment. He wasn't here? After all the trouble she'd gone to, only to be surrounded by a bunch of worthless lackeys...No. That wasn't the real issue. If Pachnall was going to the capitol, then—

The Aramach member she'd tortured months ago. What was it he said?

"The Boss wants to destroy the Ardainian government. Especially the monarchy."

Especially the monarchy. That didn't mean the crown; it meant the person wearing it. Niall. The realization struck her like a kick in the gut. She'd almost forgotten about that threat; she foolishly hoped that the failed bombing of the Emperor's flagship, the disposal of Birall, the siege line against the Aramach—all of those achievements ought to have foiled Pachnall's plans. For him to continue to go against the crown despite all those losses was foolishness, wasn't it?

It's not the crown he wants. It's Niall. Damn me—how could I be so stupid?

She'd fixated so much on protecting Mòrag from the emotional strain of encountering her abuser that she hadn't entertained the thought that Niall would still be in danger, too. Now that fixation might cost them both everything.

"H-he'll never make it into the palace. It's too well guarded. He'll never make it past her."

Ciaran chuckled again. "Don't lie, Brighid. It's very unbecoming of you. I know full well that Mòrag isn't at Alba Cavanich."

"How?"

"For a Blade with a keen eye, you manage to overlook a lot," Ciaran noted. "Think about it, Brighid. I'm a master of remote ether techniques. And unlike my master, I knew Cor was going to go rogue. So I put an ether bug on him before he left. You never noticed it. He never noticed it. But it helped me learn a great many things."

Brighid willed her knees not to buckle. "Then, when I was questioning him—"

"I saw and heard everything. I knew it all: your plans to come here alone, the path Cor used to sneak out of this valley. I even saw enough of the palace to know that you didn't change a thing about the architecture when you rebuilt Hardhaigh. And we both know that Pachnall knows that palace like the back of his hand—all the corridors, the hiding places, the secret passageways. It's been over fifteen years, but he remembers how to use them."

"That's impossible...to power remote observation from such a distance—you don't have the power necessary to manage such a feat!" Brighid protested. Ciaran was strong, but not that strong, surely.

"No, but a decaying Titan does."

The startling loss of Mor Ardain's remaining energy—Ciaran must have siphoned away the leaking energy to power his remote ether techniques. No wonder the decay was faster than predicted. It wasn't just the environment sucking away the energy deep in the Titan's core. It was him. Ciaran's core had come from the Ardainian Titan. He'd exploited that connection and fed his master everything he needed to know.

The flames licking at her palms burst into full-fledged blazes then. She needed a ride back to the capitol—and now. The Artigo might have been old, but in its prime, it was the pride of the Ardainian fleet. It would be fast enough. And who better to commandeer it than the Jewel of Mor Ardain?

Aegaeon, please hold them off long enough for me to get home. Protect him!

"Naturally, you want to rush back to the palace," Ciaran commented. "You'll have plenty to explain to your Driver once the dust settles. And don't worry. We'll deliver you back to Mor Ardain just in time for her return. But first, we're going to entertain you for a few hours. Men. Let's show her some Aramach hospitality."

On instinct, Brighid flung up an ether shield. But the torrent of water assaulted her from all sides, slipping between the cracks in her defenses. The air hissed as she tried to burn away the attack to no avail. Flames never hurt a fire Blade, but the moisture burned when it made contact with her skin. The shield faltered, but the water kept coming. Her feet swept out from under her. Pain exploded in her skull as her head crashed into the metal flooring below.

A glimpse of gold webbing flashed across her blurring vision. An ether net. An instantaneous void formed in her core, cut off from its usual supply of ether. But it was nothing compared to the emptiness in her gut—she failed. Mòrag would never forgive her now.

That horrifying realization swept her away into the blackness.