As requested, Zeke spent the bulk of the flight to Crá Gleann reading through the battle plan to rescue the Emperor.

The plan itself was simple. Almost crude. But he was grateful there was one; he'd half expected Mòrag to rush off and cut down everything in her path in a reckless assault on the enemy's head airship. Once the initial shock of the news had worn off, however, she seemed to gather her composure enough to fulfill her duties as the head of the military. He almost would have admired her ability to shut out her emotions and focus on the task at hand. But he could still sense her anxieties boiling underneath the surface. And it worried him.

It was no surprise, then, that she formulated a somewhat haphazard plan. But her generals backed it. If there was one thing the Empire took seriously, it was rescuing their Emperor. Zeke found it ironic; the Imperial Senate might want to unseat the young ruler, but the military that Senate commanded would risk life and limb in a shoddy plan to save him.

"Damn complicated military states," he muttered to himself.

"What's that?" Mòrag plopped down into the seat beside him.

He tried not to stare at the dark circles under her eyes. Instead, his eye settled on the chroma katana sheathed at her waist. So much for getting her to talk things over with Brighid. Pandoria had succeeded in calming the fire Blade down (and keeping her at the palace), and he'd managed to convince Mòrag to back off the banishment order, but that was the only progress. The Driver and Blade hadn't said a single word to each other since.

"I-it's nothing. How long 'til we land?"

"Half an hour or so, according to the pilot."

"Then in three or four hours you'll have Niall back in your arms."

She simply nodded and stared at a divot in the metal flooring below them, apparently unconvinced.

"Did you get any sleep at all on the way over here?"

A simple head shake in response.

"Did you even try to?"

"How can I at a time like this? And it's not like you've slept, either."

"Yeah, but I'm not growing a baby inside me," he pointed out.

"But you're babying me. Stop being overbearing. I'm fine."

"I'm not—"

He stopped himself. She wasn't fine; anyone could see that. And who would be, given the circumstances? Couldn't she see that it was okay to show a little emotion right now? No one would think any worse of her for it. Part of him wanted to drag her to the captain's quarters and hold her there until she fell asleep. Even an hour would help. And didn't he have the right to be a little concerned about her wellbeing right now? Granted, he expected they'd have this argument sooner or later, but they shouldn't have it now. Not when they were sleep-deprived and both on the edge of their tempers. And not when there was something more pressing to argue over.

"...You are going to let Brighid come on the strike force to get Niall back, aren't you?"

"You'd probably ask her to come along yourself anyway. So there's no use trying to stop it. As long as she doesn't get in my way."

That much was true; he was the only reason Brighid had even been allowed to come on the mission to begin with:

"What is she doing here?" Mòrag had asked when she saw the fire Blade boarding the airship bound for the Aramach's valley. "I thought I made it clear that I don't want her help."

"I asked her to come along. Or are you going to tell me which Blades I can and can't bring?" he'd retorted.

"But she's not your Blade."

"Well you certainly aren't acting like she's yours, now are you? I want Brighid's help on this mission. If I go, she goes."

That had shut her up. He'd wanted to scold her for acting so harshly towards her Blade; she was practically throwing a temper tantrum. But he kept his mouth shut and hoped that Niall's rescue would soothe her temper. Yes, that had to be it. This was just a bad combination of hormonal mood swings and her protective instincts. She'd go back to her old self once they recovered Niall. Or she'd at least be willing to hear Brighid out, surely.

The second the airship moved into a landing pattern, Mòrag sprung into action. She spent the better part of the morning cursing the slowness of military bureaucracy. Even though her subordinates moved as quickly as they could, the preparations ate up far too much time. Every moment they wasted preparing meant another moment that Niall might be—

No. She wouldn't think about that. She couldn't. Those thoughts paralyzed her, so she had to bury them. For his sake, she had to keep moving. After touching base with General Haig in the command center, they could set the whole plan into motion. So she made a beeline for the largest tent in the camp.

I'm coming, Niall. Please be all right.

"Mòrag!"

A blur of movement from her peripheral vision interrupted her walk. She mentally scolded herself for not spotting the person rushing at her until he was right on top of her; how could she expect to run a rescue mission with such tunnel vision? She needed to stay alert to her surroundings—especially people. Speaking of which, the person who'd charged at her had a familiar voice. Only when he wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug did she realize who it was. There was only one person besides Zeke who ever dared to embrace her so boldly.

"Rex! What are you doing here?"

Her body had felt icy all day. Maybe it was Brighid's absence making her cold, or the stress of it all had numbed her to all else. But when Rex pounced on her with that hug, she felt a little surge of warmth. Or maybe it was hope. If he was here, then—

"I would think it was obvious, Flamebrain." Nia's voice. "We're here to help you get the Emperor back."

"But how did you even know to come? I thought you all went home."

Zeke spoke up. "I called them and asked them to meet us at Crá Gleann. You ordered all of the Empire's strongest water Blades to come here, right? I figured Nia and Dromarch are the strongest ones we know. And I called everyone else up, too, while I was at it."

Mythra finally joined the little group with Tora and Poppi trailing behind her. She hadn't bothered to chase after her Driver, who must have broken into a run the moment he spotted them. But apparently, she overhead enough of the conversation to pipe in as soon as she was with them.

"You didn't honestly think we'd leave you to handle this yourself, did you?" the Aegis asked. "Rex has been antsy ever since we heard. It was all Pyra and I could do to get him to pack a bag before hopping on Azurda's back and flying all the way over here."

Rex scratched his ear sheepishly. "Of course we rushed over here to help. Mòrag's part of our family, right? Zeke, too. So when we found out her brother was in trouble, we just had to come over and help. Plus, we owe the Emperor big-time."

"Part of your family, eh chum?"

"Our totally dysfunctional family," Mythra sighed loudly. "Speaking of which, I know it's not exactly the time or place for it, but congrats, you two."

"Thanks, Mythra," Zeke answered half-heartedly.

Mòrag didn't answer. The Aegis was right; even though this was the first time they'd seen their friends since announcing the pregnancy, it certainly wasn't the right time for celebrating. And she was too focused on the fact that in spite of it all, somehow their friends still didn't know the truth about Niall. How long that would last, however, was anyone's guess. After all, they were about to go charging into Pachnall's lair. While she could keep Zeke and Pandoria sworn to secrecy, she couldn't control what the Aramach leader said while they rescued the Emperor.

For a moment, there was the temptation to put her friends on other teams and keep the Carraig guard with her for the strike team to rescue Niall. She could silence her own soldiers with a gag order. Her friends? Not so much. But no—she couldn't ask for a better strike force than her companions. Between her and Zeke's abilities, Rex and the Aegis's powerful attacks, Nia and Dromarch's healing, and Tora and Poppi's ability to fight even in ether-deficient situations, Pachnall wouldn't stand a chance. It would be sheer foolishness not to bring them on the strike team to rescue Niall. They were the best fighters available to her now. Not to mention Rex would hate being excluded from the team in the thick of the danger.

"...Thank you for coming. All of you. I-I'll let Zeke brief you on the plan. I have a few final arrangements to make with command," Mòrag said at last, then shuffled off to the tent she'd mentioned.

Zeke stayed with the others, reading her unvoiced request to have them join the strike team. It had been obvious in her expression. And naturally, that was the whole reason he'd asked Rex and everyone else to come. If she had to face Pachnall again, he wanted her to know she didn't have to do it alone this time. Now, her family—dysfunctional and not blood-related though it was—would back her up.

"Not to be rude, but Mòrag looks awful," Mythra said as soon as the Inquisitor was out of earshot.

"Mythra! That was super rude!" Rex scolded. "But Zeke, is she gonna be okay?"

"You know how she is. She's all composed until something happens to Niall. A threat to him is the only thing that gets her rattled," Zeke explained, trying to dodge the question.

"Well sure, we all saw her break down when it looked like he died," Nia added. "But this...this is worse."

"Friend Mòrag in stabby mood, Tora thinks."

"Not like normal Mòrag at all," Poppi added.

"Zeke, what's going on?" Rex asked again.

"...Look guys, it's really complicated. The bastard who took Niall, well, it's someone Mòrag knows. And he's a really dangerous guy. So she's really worried. And it certainly doesn't help that she's going on like forty hours without sleep, too."

"Is it really safe for her to be here? You know, with the baby and all. It's not healthy for anyone to go that long without sleep, much less a pregnant woman."

"I dunno how safe it is, honestly," Zeke admitted. Somehow, knowing the others worried too made him feel a little better—maybe he wasn't being overprotective after all. "But it would be a lot less safe for me to try to convince her to stay behind. Because she would kill me for suggesting it."

Rex nodded. "Well, I guess that's all the more reason for us to help and make sure we get the Emperor back safe and sound. And fast."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

"Oh, and um, you'll probably notice pretty quickly, but Brighid and Mòrag are...they're a bit upset with each other at the moment. So if they don't act like themselves over the next couple days, please don't bring it up. I'm sure they'll work through it once this stuff clears up, but until then, it's—"

"Complicated, right?" Nia interrupted.

"Yeah. Just don't make things worse by making a big deal about it, okay? Mòrag has enough on her mind as it is."

Rex nodded. "Got it. So, what's the plan? If it means helping Mòrag feel better, I'm ready to bust some heads."

You and me both, chum.

Zeke relayed the sparse details of the plan to his comrades, not even bothering to fake his usual enthusiasm. When the operation began, every available water Blade would inundate the valley with as much moisture as possible. That was the first gamble. In theory, by dousing the entire area, the flammable materials within the region would be too soaked to combust. For a few hours, at least. Hopefully. There was an equal chance that it might still ignite.

Next, the primary force of the army's infantry would advance on the Aramach's defensive line, drawing them into combat. Meanwhile, a small strike force would sneak around the conflict and board the stolen flagship, the Artigo. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Pachnall would have the young ruler imprisoned there. Not only was it the best defensive position in the entire valley, but Mòrag also believed it held a special significance to the traitor.

"He always had a flair for the dramatic. Holding the current Emperor captive, the child of the rightful Empress, on the previous Emperor's stolen ship...he'll get some sick enjoyment from it. He'll be on the Artigo," Mòrag had explained.

If Pachnall had the Emperor anywhere else, they'd find themselves in serious trouble. Best not to dwell on that possibility; they lacked any contingency plans. It was this, or nothing. That said, dispatching Pachnall would cut the head off the Aramach snake. They could neutralize the criminal empire and rescue the Emperor in one fell swoop if all went well.

"Once we get onto the airship, we'll be flying blind. We think they'll be in the ship's command center, but anything could happen. If you're not up for that, we can have you guys lead a squad out in the main force or something," Zeke finished.

"Shellhead, we're good at flying blind. Half of our plans never even work out anyway. We show up, start executing our plan, and then all hell breaks loose. But we always come out okay in the end. This won't be any different."

Mythra switched over to Pyra. "Mòrag needs our help. We won't let her down. We're in. Just give the word."

A warhorn sounded, shrill against the stillness of the evening air. "That'll be the cue for the water Blades," Zeke commented. "Let's go find Mòrag."

Nia nodded. "Dromarch and I will go help flood things over, and then we'll catch up with you when the main force moves in. Sound good?"

"Perfect. Let's get this show on the road."


"It's about time you woke up," a voice murmured. "Although I suppose with your job you don't get nearly enough rest."

Niall wanted to slip back into sleep; its embrace still hung heavy around him. But the unfamiliarity of that voice pushed some of the cobwebs from his mind. It wasn't Aegaeon. Not one of his personal guards or aides, either. Once his eyes opened, he realized that he didn't recognize the ceiling above him. Something about it seemed familiar, but it wasn't quite right. It looked Ardainian, but an older national style.

His gaze moved to the speaker. That sight woke him up. And how could it not? The face had burned itself in his memory. The sharp features, the brilliant blue eyes...yes, that was it—what he'd noticed even during the chaos as this man overpowered Aegaeon and captured him. Those eyes gleamed with an intensity he'd only ever seen in one other person. And something about them looked...familiar. The man stared at him intently.

Niall took advantage of that silence to get a better look at his surroundings. With the initial haze of sleep gone—no it wasn't sleep, it was a drug-induced stupor, he realized—he recognized the basic layout of his surroundings. These weren't the walls of a building, as he originally suspected. The curves of the walls and ceiling and the exposed, militant lighting gave it away as an airship. An old Ardainian one, by the look of it. And a grand one in its prime.

"...This was the Artigo. My father's ship," Niall said at last. The words stuck in his throat. He needed water, but he dared not ask for it. Somehow, his captor drugged him; maybe he'd used water.

The man laughed, a punctuated sound that lacked mirth. "You're a sharp one, aren't you? Not that I'm surprised, given your heritage."

Niall stretched as much as his restraints would allow. From the elbows down, he could move his arms and hands; someone had tied him by the chest to a chair in the center of the room. His ankles were bound, too. But other than that, he was free to move. It was only marginally uncomfortable. That seemed odd. Shouldn't a captor be trying to keep him as subdued as possible?

"You're wondering why I haven't bound you head to toe," the man observed.

"I could hop around if I tried hard enough."

His captor gave that strange laugh again. "You're probably stubborn enough to attempt it, but you're in the bridge, kid. You'd never make it all the way off this airship. Not without help."

"...Mor Ardain does not negotiate with criminals. So whatever ransom you're hoping to gain, I advise you to forget about it. You have nothing to gain by holding me prisoner. You can't possibly withstand the might of the Imperial army."

"Ha! You're so like her that it almost hurts."

"Like who?"

"Your mother," the man replied simply.

"You knew my mother? Who are you, anyway?"

Niall hoped the curiosity wasn't too obvious in his voice. Queen Annabelle had died when he was just eight years old, so he didn't have many clear memories of her. And the Emperor never talked about her much. Mòrag didn't, either. So for this man, a leader of a crime syndicate that had managed to kidnap him, to know something about her...it was odd.

"My name's Pachnall, and I know your mother. Although it's been a while since I've seen her. Impressive lady. Exquisite, really."

"Then perhaps you'll be saddened to know that she's dead."

Pachnall raised an eyebrow. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Of course I do. I helped carry her coffin to our family crypt."

"...She really never told you, did she? I knew that the Empire believed you were Annabelle's child, but I figured she would have told you, at least. She always placed such a priority on honesty, after all."

"I am Annabelle's child," Niall insisted.

"Yes, by adoption. But not by birth."

"Th-that's—"

"The truth," Pachnall retorted. "Look, kid. I know you're smart, so try to piece things together. What would I be trying to gain by capturing you like this? We've already established that it's not for a ransom. And I'm not so stupid as to think that the Ardainian military won't come try to rescue you."

"...You want them to come here. You're using me as bait for some sort of trap."

"A trap for a very specific person, actually. Someone who's had a very special impact on both of our lives. And someone who I know won't be able to resist coming to save you."

"Mòrag."

Pachnall sighed deeply at the name, eyes closed and a nearly blissful expression on his face. No—it wasn't quite blissful, Niall realized. There was something else to it that he couldn't quite place. Something twisted. Maybe this man was one of those unsavory admirers his sister had? It was no secret that she had a few over the years; most of them ended up with restraining orders, imprisoned, or otherwise intimidated away by the Empire's strongest Driver and her Blade.

"Ah, how I've missed hearing her name," Pachnall continued. "Tell me, does she still do that cute little stretch when she thinks no one is watching? Where she stretches out her arms and cracks her knuckles? It made her back arch so perfectly. I always loved it when she did that."

The earnestness of Pachnall's tone made Niall's stomach churn. If not for his bonds, he would have tried to strike the man. And it took him a moment to realize why that statement sickened him so much; Mòrag did do that exact gesture. It happened rarely, in those few moments she dropped the formality she wore so well. But for someone like this criminal underlord to know her mannerisms so intimately...

Only then did Niall recognize the papers on the wall for what they were. At first he assumed they were plans or reports from Pachnall's subordinates. But no—they were something much worse. Something that confirmed his hypothesis that Pachnall was not a savory individual. The realization made him want to vomit.

"Just who are you?" He almost dreaded the answer.

"I'm the first man Mòrag ever loved. We were building a life together, a family. Some pompous fools forced us apart. I tried to move on, to be with other girls...but no one ever compared to her. She captivated me. So I'm winning her back. I even built this new empire for her. It's not the Ardanach's empire of course, but with her help, the Aramach empire can be just as mighty. She can be our Empress."

"Y-you're out of your mind," Niall insisted. "My sister never had any lovers. I'd have noticed. And she'd never fall for someone like you."

"No lovers? Then why did she bear my firstborn? If she didn't love me, why did she keep my child?"

"My sister would never do something so vulgar. And she doesn't have any children yet."

"But she does. And I'm looking right at him."

Niall laughed, a reaction which surprised him. Why laugh now? Maybe it was just the stress of being held captive that made his normal guarded reactions melt away. And the connotations of what this man—this lunatic—said were preposterous. Weren't they? He couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous it sounded. Mòrag was the paragon of propriety, a proper Ardainian princess. She'd never. Not with him, surely.

But there was this tiny sliver of doubt in the back of his mind. Pachnall's eyes did look so familiar.

"No. I'm Emperor Nealon's son. Mòrag's my sister."

Pachnall's face twisted into an odd pitiful look. "On paper, yes. You're Nealon's son by adoption. That damn Emperor stole my woman and my son from me. I was glad when he finally died...You poor thing, living in complete ignorance this whole time. I'm sorry she never told you. Everyone has the right to know where they come from. Unlike her, I won't keep the truth from you. I'm your father, Niall. Mòrag is your mother."

"That's—"

His voice faltered. That sliver of doubt grew. Pachnall wasn't lying—at least, none of the tells for lying were present. And he should know; he'd been trained to spot liars through their mannerisms. It was a necessity for surviving court life, especially at his age. But Pachnall's eyes weren't dilated. He didn't avoid eye contact or fidget. His vocal intonation remained unchanged. Either he was a very good liar, or he genuinely believed what he said. Or maybe it was true.

An old memory surfaced, spurring that doubt a bit further:

"In truth, it should have been you sitting in this chair right now."

"The Imperial line has always passed from father to son. On the day Your Majesty was born, that's exactly what happened. I knew that day would come. It came as no surprise."

No surprise, indeed. If what Pachnall said was true, then it certainly wasn't a surprise to Mòrag. Far from it. And he always had nagging doubts that the throne should have gone to someone else. Maybe his gut feeling was right all along. But would Mòrag really lie to his face that way? That couldn't be true. Mòrag was the one thing in his life that had always stayed the same. His pillar, his constancy. The one person he trusted and relied on more than anything. Pachnall had to be lying, not Mòrag.

But the question kept surfacing. What if it were true?

"...I can see why you don't want to believe me. So just relax. Your mother will be here soon enough. And once we've gotten rid of the extra fools with her, we'll sit down and talk things through like a proper family. She'll explain."

"You're not my family. You're a lying psychopath."

"Believe what you want, kid. It doesn't change reality."

Niall cleared his throat to make another rebuttal, but at that moment, an Aramach guard burst into the room and saluted.

"Boss! Report from the field!"

"Spit it out, worm," Pachnall ordered.

"They've already broken through the vanguard vessels. The Special Inquisitor and her team are advancing at a breakneck pace. Our best can't even hold them off. They'll be on board this ship any minute now."

"Hear that, Niall? Your mother's almost here."

"Mòrag's going to destroy you. She's unstoppable. You have no idea what she'll do to you for threatening me."

"I taught her everything she knows, boy. I'd like to see her try," Pachnall retorted smugly. "Oi, Rico. Tell the others to get into position. Then drug him again."

"You sure, Boss? I figured you'd want to make him squirm in front of her. Or something."

"Leaving him conscious is far too risky. After all, he's her son. And mine. Runt might not look like much, but he's made of strong stuff. If anyone could find a way to break free, it's him. Can't risk him ruining our little family reunion."

A sharp pain stuck in his arm, and the world went hazy all over again.


"This is the ship, right?" Rex asked, shaking the water from his hair for the tenth time that hour.

Mòrag nodded, blinking as water ran off the bridge of her nose towards her eyes. The truth was they were all soaked; the Imperial water Blades had unleashed wall after wall of moisture into the valley. But that felt like hours ago now. Now rain fell instead, which ensured that the valley remained a sopping wet mess of muck that smelled like sulphur and rancid meat. Soaking the area did ensure that fire-based attacks didn't cause deadly explosions; however, it slowed their progress immensely.

But the bulk of the moisture coating Mòrag and her companions was self-inflicted—collateral splash from the tsunamic water attacks she unleashed on each opponent she encountered. Only Aegaeon dared to tell her to back off a touch (and he got away with it simply because he struggled to keep up with the ether energy her arts demanded; he needed her to show a bit more restraint). Her companions hadn't done much fighting. They merely mopped up the stragglers she left in her wake.

The Artigo's door hung open, as if inviting them in. But Mòrag hesitated a moment on the threshold.

Zeke squeezed her free hand gently. "I'm right with you. Shield for your back, remember?"

So he still remembered that line from their vows. How long ago that seemed now. But it was the reassurance she needed.

"Let's go. Everyone be on your guard," Mòrag warned, willing her voice not to waver. "There's no telling what he might be plotting."

"Right. Let's do this!"

And so they plunged into the Artigo's passageways with Mòrag and Aegaeon in front and Brighid taking up the rear. At first, everything seemed to go smoothly; they encountered nothing more than a few sentries, and finding the route to the ship's bridge proved simple.

Then the floor lurched beneath them. Thick rumblings echoed from underfoot. The halls hummed with the flow of energy coursing through the entire ship. Everyone stopped short, trying to regain a steady footing.

"Wh-what the hell is that?"

"The Artigo's airborne," Mòrag murmured. "He's trying to fly us out of the valley. Damn it."

"But what if the army tries to shoot us down?" Rex asked, bewildered. "We're stuck!"

"They won't," Brighid finally spoke up. "Not when they know that both the Emperor and the Special Inquisitor are onboard. Pachnall must know that."

"It's still a bloody problem," Zeke pointed out. "If we take too long, we'll be cut off from the Ardainian supply line. Or worse, we might have no idea where we are. Shit. He's gonna isolate us."

"Let's finish this quickly, then."

They continued on in earnest. Mòrag almost wished this whole scenario would act like a normal rescue, with enemy soldiers jumping out from every possible nook and cranny to halt their progress. Unexpected combat she could deal with. But none happened—their only combat occurred with the occasional sentry. Which meant that Pachnall had given his men strict orders to hold back. He wanted them to make it to the bridge without incident; doubtless he had his own twisted welcome awaiting them there. And if they all survived that, the Aramach would probably all burst from hiding to avenge their leader and cut off their escape. With the Artigo airborne, they couldn't call for reinforcements. Whatever Pachnall had planned, they couldn't avoid it.

But whatever lay in store for them, Niall needed them to overcome it. That thought alone overcame her growing sense of dread as they pushed forward.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the bridge of the airship and poured inside.

A strange noise hitched in Mòrag's throat, as if she had sighed in relief and gasped in fear simultaneously. Relief that her hunch was right; Ciaran and Pachnall were both here at the opposite end of the room. But fear because they stood on either side of a chair—a chair that held an unconscious, bound Niall. From her distance, Mòrag couldn't get a good look at him. He didn't appear seriously injured, but some wounds wouldn't show externally. Especially not the psychological ones.

She spent so much time processing the view of Niall and his captors that she took much longer to notice what had captured the rapt attention of her companions. They all stared at it, dumbstruck.

Papers covered the entirety of one wall, creating a haphazard collage of photos and newspaper clippings. Some looked at least a decade old with faded paper and curled edges; others seemed brand-new, with bold lettering and crisp paper and brightly-colored images. But one didn't have to look long to see that each news story and photo represented the same subject.

Herself.

One of the oldest headlines featured her coming-of-age ceremony. Beside it hung a facsimile of a portrait of the royal family, painted after Niall's fifth birthday. Another blurb told the story of her enlistment in the army, then her accomplishments in the Gormotti conflict, her promotion to Special Inquisitor, the entire journey with Rex and the Aegis...if any single aspect of her life had ever been published in one of Mor Ardain's tabloids or newspapers, it was starting back at her from this comprehensive display. More recent additions to the mix included photos from her birthday gala, and of course, pictures from the wedding ceremony. There were dozens of those, but the most prominent one showed the precise moment Niall hugged her after escorting her down the aisle. The newest magazine clipping showed a so-called "leak" of the royal pregnancy—that wasn't even common knowledge yet. Yes, most of the palace staff knew, as did their closest friends and family. But not the general public.

Pachnall knew almost everything about her life—up to the latest detail. That explained the horrified, disgusted look on everyone's faces. Hers probably looked similar. For a long moment, no one spoke, processing the scope of the man's sheer fixation.

And all the while, the man himself smiled proudly.

"I hope you're as proud of your own accomplishments as I am, Mòrag," he said at last. "Although I must admit that the photos really don't do you justice. Absolutely exquisite, even all these years later."

If not for the fact that he stood too close to Niall to get in a clear shot, Mòrag would have run him through with a spear of water on the spot.

"I'm not here to talk," she retorted. She'd half expected the wall of photos and newspaper articles to rattle her and throw her into a spiral of fear, but it had the opposite effect: it angered her. The man who clearly obsessed over her had her son held captive. And that could not stand. "Give him back. Now. If you do, I'll make your death quick. Refuse, and the way I kill you will make hell seem tame."

"Now, now, princess. You might not be in much of a mood to talk, but I am. Don't be rude. We both know that things are much easier for you when you do as I ask. Don't make this harder on yourself than it has to be."

She drew her sword. "I'm not afraid to fight back this time. I'm not the scared little girl I used to be. Now give him back."

"Not scared?" Pachnall laughed, stepping close enough to her that she could smell him. She willed herself to take shallow breaths; his all-too familiar scent made the nausea bubble up all over again. "Then what's with the shaking? You can't even hold your sword still."

Mòrag couldn't come up with an adequate retort to that; he was right. Better to say nothing at all than to pretend otherwise.

"I know you're eager to fight, my dear. And you'll get your chance for another sword lesson with me. But first, there are other lessons for you to recite."

"I'm not your student. And I'm not going to tell you anything."

"Ciaran. Remind Mòrag what happens when she disobeys instructions."

The Blade drew a dagger from his belt and scratched it across Niall's right cheek, leaving behind a little trail of blood. Instinctively, Mòrag lurched forward.

"The closer you get, the deeper Ciaran's dagger goes," Pachnall warned. "The same goes for your companions."

She stopped short. If only she could get Ciaran out of the way, she could put herself between Pachnall and Niall. But she'd never been completely accurate with Aegaeon's attacks; she didn't trust herself not to hurt the unconscious Emperor in the process. With a whipsword, she might manage it, but…

"Remember, Mòrag. When you don't do as you're told, someone gets hurt. Don't make me mar our son's pretty little face because you can't follow simple instructions. So stay put and answer my questions. Once you do, we'll spar for old times' sake...Now, why didn't you tell our son the truth? Why doesn't Niall know who he really is? Why did you lie to him?"

"I didn't lie to him," she replied. She didn't need to test Ciaran by not answering again. He'd cut again and again whenever she refused to answer. Cornered. This always happened when he was around. "I simply didn't tell him. Knowing the truth would have caused him pain. All I ever wanted was for him to be happy. So I let him believe he was the Emperor's son. To protect him."

Mòrag's gut twisted. Brighid used the same reasoning to keep the truth from her, she realized. But this was different, wasn't it?

"So you let him live a lie his entire life."

...No, it wasn't so different after all.

"If you hadn't kidnapped him, he would never have needed to know," she admitted. "And...and I didn't want to tell him because I didn't want to go through all the bad memories of what you did to me."

"Then you're just the scared little girl you've always been."

Mòrag felt the ether ripple around her—a tiny, gentle touch of affinity. It thrummed against her chest, far too subtle to be seen by the common observer, but a warmth she recognized. And more importantly, she understood the signal behind it. Brighid had a plan. A twinge of hope seeped through her veins.

In her peripheral vision, Mòrag saw one whipsword flash, then the next: the first to knock the dagger out of Ciaran's hand, the second to knock the dropped weapon out of reach. In the same moment, Zeke dashed forward. Before Ciaran or Pachnall could react, the Thunderbolt threw himself between the unconscious prisoner and the enemy. Electricity crackled along the edges of his sword.

"Give him hell, Flames."

She nodded and returned her attention to Pachnall. With the immediate threat to Niall dispatched, the twitching in her sword hand stopped.

"The girl you knew believed it was a weakness to ask for help. But that scared little girl is dead. I'm not alone anymore. I have all the help and support I could ever wish for."

She took the first relaxed breath she'd taken in hours and eased into a fighting stance. Aegaeon stood at attention behind her.

Pachnall gave a proud smile in response. He pulled his rapier from its sheath. "Very well, princess. Show me how much you've grown."