A/N: Merry Christmas! Here's a climactic chapter to celebrate! (Okay, so technically it's not Christmas anymore in most of the world, but it still is where I live-barely-so it still counts).

"We should help her!" Rex shouted.

"Chum, hang back. If she gets in a tough spot, we'll help," Zeke explained, "But for now, let her handle it. This is Mòrag's fight."

"Right," Pyra agreed. "We'll make sure none of Pachnall's men interfere, then. You get the Emperor untied, all right?"

Even if they had wanted to engage Pachnall in a five-on-one battle, they would not have had the opportunity. As soon as Mòrag's katana clashed with Pachnall's rapier, the halls echoed with the sound of enemies charging up the stairs. Their aim was clear; they intended to surround the Inquisitor and her companions inside the bridge, cutting off any sort of escape. Rex and Tora took defensive positions inside the doors. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed with the onslaught. But they held firm, unwilling to yield a single inch. Meanwhile, Nia and Dromarch positioned themselves so their healing waves could reach both Mòrag and Aegaeon and the salvager-Nopon pair. Zeke set to work on Niall's bonds.

The activity surrounding the duel produced its own sort of chaos, but it was nothing compared to the sheer intensity of the duel itself. Pachnall and Ciaran held nothing back, and Mòrag and Aegaeon responded in kind (keeping Nia busy defending everyone else from collateral damage). In seconds, the ship's entire bridge was flooded. But the unsteady footing did not faze the two Drivers. They pressed on, relentless.

For several sickening minutes, Mòrag wondered if this conflict would drag on for years, just as her nightmares had. Maybe they were fated to fight into eternity. After all, their skill levels matched almost perfectly. In a normal fight, that realization would have comforted her. Pachnall did not have age on his side; her stamina ought to outlast his. But the fight dragged on, and he met each of her sword strokes with a block and counterattack of his own. The force behind each strike never wavered. She would gain two strokes, two steps against him. Then he would gain them right back.

Worse, Pachnall was not an opponent she could bait into stupid decisions. Like herself, his fighting style was patient, technical. He couldn't rely on brute strength—not with a thin, agile weapon like his rapier. He would bide his time, waiting for the perfect opening in her defenses.

And he found it.

It was a stupid mistake, really. Pachnall's rapier had caught in one of the spikes of her katana. She twisted her weapon, hoping to wrench the blade from his grip. Instead, the tip of the rapier spun quickly, nicking her in the crease of her elbow. She bit back a curse. The first to bleed in a duel usually came out worse. Blood oozed down her arm and soaked her gloves. Much longer and it would threaten the strength of her grip. Her heart drummed faster. Her throat tightened.

"Come now, Mòrag," Pachnall taunted. "You'll never beat me with that silly katana. Bring out your original Blade!"

Fighting alongside Brighid usually increased her accuracy and agility. But would it have the same effect when mere hours ago she'd been fighting with her Blade?

Can you really trust her? She lied to you. Niall's life depends on this. What if she screws this up?

Mòrag gripped the katana tighter, second-guessing herself. Instinct told her that, loathe as she was to admit it, Pachnall was right. Adept as she was with a katana, the fluidity of Aegaeon's water-based attacks never quite suited her fighting style. And now, it directly contradicted the sheer fury that raged through her entire being. Her emotions did not synchronize with Aegaeon's. Not against this opponent. She needed a Blade whose anger towards this man matched her own, whose desire to protect Niall was just as unquenched. She needed fire.

"Give him hell, Flames."

Weapons flew through the air with wordless, practiced ease. Aegaeon jumped back and Brighid took his place. In the same moment, Mòrag caught the whipswords. The change was instantaneous. Her earlier anxiety about first blood cleared. Her muscles responded immediately, switching styles fluidly, as if the nuanced, technical adaptations between katana and whipsword were as easy as blinking. Brighid's ether surged through her body; they burned in perfect harmony. Each strike grew stronger than the last. Pachnall fell back one step, then two. Blue flame ate away at darkness like dead grass. Whereas before the two opponents seemed evenly matched, now it seemed the roles of master and student had irrevocably reversed.

The din of the battle around them died down as Tora finished off the final Aramach attacker, but neither Driver paid it any attention. Mòrag was winning. And they both knew it.

Fifteen years ago, she struggled to read the man's movements. His eyes always managed to distract her from the sly twists and feints he made. But today, his sword tactics were laid bare before her. Not a fraction of a ped's motion escaped her notice. And more importantly, his tactics matched those he used a decade ago. She recognized every single maneuver. So when he spun on the spot—a twist on the left leg that could buy him enough momentum to slip under her pauldron—she saw the precise window of opportunity.

Could it really be so simple?

In the split-second when his back was turned to her, she sliced. The whipsword found purchase in the leather of his boot.

Just a bit deeper.

A tiny flicker of flame burnt away the last fibers of leather. The slick sound of metal slicing flesh followed, punctuated by a howl of pain as his achilles tendon gave way. Pachnall's entire body crumpled. He dropped his sword. As he went down, she caught his stomach with the opposite sword. Shocked as she was that her first strike had worked, she missed any major organs, but blood trickled from his side as he landed face-up.

Her sword was at his throat in an instant. She'd won.

She paused. How many times had she imagined this moment in the hours since learning the man was still alive? This was an act of justice; her blade on his neck simply finished the order to execute him. She wanted to see his blood in pools on the floor; maybe it could wash away the nightmares for good. For all he'd done, he deserved to die. He'd lived on borrowed time long enough. Hadn't he?

The face that haunted her nightmares for so many years—she could finally scour it from the earth. And in each and every bad dream, the face beneath her sword tip always contorted with hateful lust. But now, the face twisted in an expression she knew all too well. The same expression enemy soldiers wore on the battlefield before she killed them. A look that only humans made, and then only when they came to grips with the imminence of their own mortality.

Fear.

When it came down to the end, Pachnall was just a human after all—a monstrous one, but still a human.

"Mòrag, finish him off! What are you waiting for?"

She jerked her mind back to the situation at hand; contemplating morality and mortality was a task for the aftermath, not the battle itself. But she moved too late. In the tiny window between when she raised her sword and brought it back down, Pachnall kicked. His boot made contact with her right side, toppling her.

Shit. Not my ribs again.

She cursed herself for hesitating and rolled over to face him. She saw the maneuver coming—they practiced it hundreds of times in the beginning stages of her training. She knew the counter maneuver to evade, too. Executing it would be easy against an opponent with an injured leg. But it only ever worked from a standing position. And with the pain stabbing through her side, getting on her feet again was—

A flurry of blue.

Brighid threw herself between them, throwing the other Driver off balance. His arms clapped around the Blade's body instead. Then everything was a blaze of heat and hatred as the two wrestled for dominance over the other—Brighid trying to sear any patch of skin she could reach and Pachnall clutching for the dagger at his belt. The air reeked of scorched flesh. Any water that remained on the man's skin and the floor burst into steam. The sweat and blood did, too. Between that cloud and the sheer intensity of the heatwaves, Mòrag couldn't tell which competitor had the upper hand.

Until Brighid shouted in pain.

"That's enough of that. One more move and I cut!"

The steam cleared to reveal the scuffle's outcome. Somehow, Pachnall had managed to pin down Brighid's arms with one arm. He had paid dearly for the dominance, however: pink, blistered patches of skin lined his chest and arms. He would soon have new scars to match the one on his neck. With the other, he clenched his dagger against her core crystal, stabbed right into the space between her flesh and the crystal. Blood seeped from the wound, leaving purple streaks along her skin. Any sudden moves and the dagger would plunge deeper into her chest, or worse, into the crystal. Not exactly a gamble Brighid wanted to make.

"Brighid!"

"Stay where you are or Brighid gets it. All of you."

Not again. How does he keep doing this?

Surely he couldn't manage to kill her, right? Pandoria had a good quarter of her core crystal missing—Brighid could survive a little damage. Or could she? It was common knowledge that Blades could regenerate from any injury as long as their crystals remained intact. But just how much damage crystals could sustain—that detail, no one seemed to know. Pachnall threatening to hurt Niall was one thing; deep down, she knew that Pachnall didn't want to kill him. He seemed to believe he had some claim to the boy. Brighid, however, had no such connection. The only connection the Blade had was the scar she'd burned into his neck. He wouldn't hesitate to kill her in revenge for that, or at least attempt to.

The mere possibility that he might succeed paralyzed her all over again.

"Ciaran. It's time for the last resort," Pachnall ordered, still breathing hard from the struggle. "Remind Mòrag what happens when the Ardanachs underestimate me."

The dark Blade turned to the Artigo's control panel. The breath hitched in Mòrag's throat when she realized which section his fingers touched: the armaments. The airship might have been old, but it was still equipped with rudimentary versions of Mor Ardain's current artillery cannons. She looked out the window. During the fight, they must have damaged it; one panel was completely shattered, and the other was lined with jagged edges. But despite the marred glass, she could clearly see the scene beyond it—where the Artigo's cannons inevitably pointed.

The Ardainian defensive line. Their fleet.

The lights in the Artigo flickered as the circuitry surged energy towards the weaponry. A loud hum accompanied the lights. The all-too-familiar burst of a discharged shell followed it. The shot rocketed forward, hurtling towards a ship in the vanguard. Fiery red tails trailed behind, painting their destructive path. Not that it would hit, Mòrag thought; all warships were equipped with ether defense mechanisms. The artillery would bounce harmlessly against an ether shield. Those shields were nearly impregnable.

The explosion proved her wrong. Red, orange, yellow—a disgustingly beautiful cloud. Then smoke and debris.

"B-but the shields," she stammered, still on her knees. Why wasn't she doing anything? Why wouldn't her body obey?

Pachnall's response dripped with smugness. "You forget that Ciaran specializes in remote ether manipulation. And thanks to the energy spilling off this dead Titan, he can interfere with ether flows titan peds away. Taking down your shields is child's play to him now."

She wished it was a lie. Since when was Ciaran so powerful? But the proof stared back at her. And yet—it wasn't quite true, either. This wasn't Pachnall's "last resort." He must have planned this all along.

"If any of you moves another finger without permission, another Ardainian ship goes down. So don't try anything funny."

Yes, that was it. They played right into his hands. The Artigo hadn't taken to the skies when they boarded to separate them from their army; it flew to this height so Ciaran would have the right position to take aim at the fleet below...but only after the royals all climbed onboard. That was the linchpin in Pachnall's plan. The Ardainian fleet was more than capable of blowing the Artigo out of the sky. Destroying a single, old ship wouldn't even count as target practice. But with all three heirs to the Imperial throne—all four, technically—onboard, the brass on the ground wouldn't give that order. They might as well sign the Empire's own death warrant. Ciaran could keep on firing away at the fleet without risking retaliation.

A nefarious, backhanded plan. And one that she should have seen coming. If only she'd kept a level head when planning this mission, she might have remembered how sly Pachnall was. And the man served as a general in her army even before she wore the uniform. He knew how the military would act even before she made a single order.

McCallum. Macnealy. Buchanan. Vass. Lennox. And those were just the ranking officers on the ship Ciaran destroyed. How could she explain to their families her own gross miscalculation? What could she say to the mothers—that she'd rashly rushed off to save her own son, costing them theirs in the process? All because she didn't anticipate her foe.

...Someone needed to retaliate. If Pachnall fell, if Ciaran vanished with him, the shields would go back up. No one else would die.

One look at her teammates told her that they realized the same thing. But the panicked glances they threw from Brighid and Pachnall to Ciaran and back again showed that they felt as trapped as she did. One wrong move, and Brighid might die. The soldiers aboard the next airship—Ciaran had already taken aim to fire again—certainly would.

Here they were, arguably Alrest's most powerful squad of fighters, trapped because they couldn't stoop to their enemy's underhanded tactics. Zeke glanced back and forth from his current position to where Ciaran stood. The gap looked small, but he knew he couldn't cover it before Ciaran would retaliate. Not with Niall slung over one shoulder and Ciaran eyeing him like a hawk. He wondered if maybe he'd given away his speed too early. If he so much as flinched, someone would get hurt.

"Why are you doing this?" Mòrag asked, her voice unusually quiet. "What did I do to you to deserve this?"

"I didn't give you permission to speak," Pachnall replied, like a teacher reprimanding a child who hadn't finished her homework.

Another explosion punctuated his statement.

"No!"

"You bastard! Architect help me, you're gonna pay for that!" Zeke shouted.

Pachnall turned his attention to Zeke, his dagger never leaving Brighid's core. "Ciaran's remote ether manipulation doesn't usually work on humans. But you should be warned that it works quite well on Eaters."

"You're bluffing. Only Fan had that kind of power."

The man grinned. "That Indoline wench? Sure, Ciaran's ability is a bit different from hers, but it still works. Why don't we give you a firsthand demonstration?"

This time, Ciaran didn't wait for his master's command. Before Zeke quite knew what was happening, three small spheres of purple ether latched onto the fragment of core crystal in his chest. The effect was instantaneous. Nothing like Fan La Norne's Blade restricting abilities, though; Zeke knew that feeling well. Her powers felt like his body had turned to lead, making it nearly impossible to move. Her attacks caused enormous pressure, not pain.

This, however, sent stabbing sensations throughout his chest. The pain forced him to his knees. A few feet away, Pandoria went down, too. It took all his strength not to drop Niall. All at once his core and heart seemed to be on fire as energy rushed through it. Not Ciaran's ether energy, he realized. This energy was still his own, but somehow, Ciaran's little orbs were forcing all the ether in his body to suddenly start flowing in the opposite direction. His senses went haywire. The metal floor seemed like soft grass beneath his fingertips. His eyes no longer registered whether it was day or night, if the lights were on or off. And were those ether lines appearing on his skin? His ears rang. A sweet taste ran across his tongue. But how could that be? Blood didn't taste like this, and he thought he'd accidentally bitten his tongue on the way down. Electricity crackled on one of his palms without prompting. His gut told him to fire it at Ciaran, but his body wouldn't obey. What if he accidentally hit one of his friends instead?

So this was how Genbu felt when the ether accelerator sent him into a critical overload. Damn it. The cry of pain escaped his lips before he could stop it.

"Please, stop! Don't hurt him!"

"He's keeping us apart, Mòrag. You know I can't let him live."

The ether continued to rage backwards through his body.

"Don't kill him, please. I'll do whatever you want. Just please don't hurt him."

Zeke couldn't believe his ears. The voice sounded like Mòrag's, and yet it didn't. She couldn't just give in.

All at once, the pain stopped. His ether lines dimmed, but the purple orbs never left his chest.

"What did you say?" Surprise lined Pachnall's voice.

"You can do what you want with me. But please don't kill anyone else. Please don't hurt my family," she pleaded.

"Mòrag, no! You don't have to—"

Another surge of ether cut him off.

Pachnall paused, considering. "I always did like it when you begged. But I'm afraid I can't do that, princess. He has to die. As do all your friends and countrymen in this valley."

"Why are you doing this? What good does it do you?"

"I'm doing this for us, Mòrag. And for revenge on all those fools who've tried to keep us apart all these years. As long as the Empire exists, as long as people like him live, we can never be together. You'll never love me until they're all gone."

"Damn you. You're out of your mind."

Pachnall shook his head. "When they're all gone, when I'm all that's left for you, you'll need me. You'll forgive me for this eventually. Ciaran, finish them off."

During the exchange, Brighid had remained perfectly still, frantically racking her brain for a way out of this. She knew what she needed to do; her thoughts kept jumping back to the window behind her—they stood mere peds from it. And with the damage it sustained during the duel, breaking through wouldn't take much effort. Pachnall's tendon injury would only make it easier. She might even survive it. Or the dagger would sink further into her chest and that would be the end of it. Even now, the sharp edge of the weapon scratched against both core crystal and flesh each time she breathed. If she didn't move fast or powerfully enough, her gamble would amount to nothing. But surely there had to be some other option. Between the five Drivers and their Blades, they ought to think of something…

Not that Pachnall would give them the luxury of thinking it through. It was her life or thousands.

Brighid stared at Aegaeon until he finally made eye contact with her. She held his gaze, mouthing her instructions to him. One word. Shield. The watery depths in his eyes shallowed when he ascertained her plan. He shook his head. She glared back, insistent.

At last, a single nod. He would await her signal.

Three. Two. One, she mouthed.

Mòrag and her companions recognized the blue sphere that burst into existence overhead: the same one they saw at Indol. But protective as it was, it filled them all with dread. Aegaeon only ever unleashed that forcefield when drastic measures were taken. Ciaran moved to fire again. His fingers never closed around the trigger; at the same instant Aegaeon produced the shield, the room flashed white-hot with an explosion of azure flame. Brighid transformed herself into a living death pyre. The air rang with the roar of fire and shrieks of pain. Where Pachnall's shouts ended and Brighid's began, no one could tell. But they ended just as quickly as they began, cut short by the sound of shattering glass.

The Jewel of Mor Ardain threw herself out the window, taking Pachnall with her.

"Brighid!"

In the chaos that followed, Rex's anchor shot forward, lodging itself in Ciaran's flesh. With a mighty heave, he yanked the dark Blade away from the control panel. But by the time he reeled the anchor back, there was no longer a Ciaran attached to it—just a dull, dormant core crystal.

Mòrag clung to what remained of the window, numb to the pain and the blood seeping between her fingers as the shards of glass dug through her gloves. Brighid. A fall like that...Pachnall's dagger at her crystal. Which killed faster: flame, gravity, or knifepoint? A little pain wouldn't make Pachnall withdraw his knife. And that could only mean…

"And she's made it quite clear that she doesn't deserve my trust."

Someone tugged at her waist, pulling her away from the window. She struggled to stay put—she could see a sea of blue flames beneath, and part of her hoped that the heat would lift the Blade out of the rubble like a hot air balloon—but the arms proved stronger. They turned her around and pulled her back into the room itself.

Zeke.

"Brighid, she's gone, and the last thing I-I said—" The words came out in a panicked burst.

"Hey, it's going to be okay. We'll go down and—"

Regret smashed into her chest. "No, you don't understand! The last thing I said to her was that I didn't trust her! I didn't mean it, but that was the last thing I ever told her!"

"But it wasn't," Zeke insisted calmly. "Look."

He nodded towards the floor, where a pair of whipswords lay. Precisely where she dropped them. And if the swords were still here, then—

"Brighid's alive."

"Yeah."

Relief washed over her, and she sank into his hug. They both winced in unison: Mòrag for the touch to her ribs and Zeke for the pressure against his core crystal.

"Are you all right?" she asked, blinking away the memory of the purple orbs wreaking havoc on his ether flow. To see him so helpless made her shudder.

"Just a little tender, I think. It should go away on its own." His face paled. "Shit, your side...Did he break your ribs? The baby..."

Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn't stopped to consider that possibility. "Nia?"

The Flesh Eater didn't really need to be summoned; she had already covered half the distance. The Gormotti set to work immediately, one hand on each royal. Ether streamed over them both like water, bringing a wave of cooling relief with it.

"Sheesh, Shellhead. It's like you electrocuted your own ether circuitry."

Zeke grimaced. "I'll be okay. Just check on the baby, please."

Nia shut her eyes, concentrating on the flow of ether. "Your kid's fine. Not as hard-headed as you yet, but fine. The kick hit high enough on Mòrag's rib cage that nothing important was damaged. Baby probably never even felt a thing."

"And Niall?" Mòrag asked.

"Oi, lemme finish one thing at a time."

Nia's healing didn't take long; it never did. Her diagnosis of the young Emperor was equally quick: he was practically unscathed. There was no real damage to speak of aside from the cut on his cheek, which healed easily. Not a trace of it remained. And the drugs used to sedate him were completely harmless. Mòrag's suspicion that Pachnall didn't intend to hurt him proved true, it seemed.

"I can flush the drugs out of his system, if you want him to wake up right away," Nia volunteered. "Or they'll dissipate on their own."

"...Let him sleep for now. He's been through enough as it is," Mòrag decided. As much as she wanted to talk with him, to feel reassured by the sound of his voice, she'd rather have privacy for that conversation. And time to spare; she had fifteen years' worth of explaining to do.

For several moments, they all lingered, too stunned and relieved to do much of anything.

"So what do now?" Tora asked at last. "Fly ship home?"

Mòrag shook her head. "After the damage this airship has done, we should land and return to base camp on foot. That should be the safer approach. And I expect there are a few Aramach left on board. They may come out of hiding and try to stop us."

"Leave that to us," Rex volunteered. "We'll mop up the stragglers. You guys stay here with the Emperor and get us on the ground. Sound good?"

Everyone agreed with that course of action. And they made short work of it, too. Before long, the airship was back on the ground, and all remaining Aramach within were either defeated or subdued and locked in the ship's brig. They could be dealt with later.

But once they stood back on solid ground, they realized just how far the Artigo had flown from the depths of the valley. From the air, the distance didn't seem like much. But now they could tell that the Ardainian base camp sat several titanpeds away. They had a long walk ahead of them and possibly more combat; the conflict between the Ardainian army and the remaining Aramach still raged on.

"...We should probably take a break before we head out there," Zeke volunteered. He considered suggesting they make use of the Artigo's barracks for a nap and some food, but Mòrag needed to be off that ship. They all did, really. At least it had stopped raining, and this region of the valley had a little vegetation for cover and comfort. Not the ideal place to make camp, but it would have to do. "Please tell me I'm not the only one feeling drained after that."

"Tora pooped." The Nopon required no additional prompting; he plopped himself down to rest.

"A break couldn't hurt," Rex agreed.

The only one to protest was Mòrag. "I'd rather get the Emperor home as soon as possible. And what about Brighid? She's out there alone."

Dromarch spoke up, lowering into a lying position so the others could pull Niall from his back. "Lady Brighid can sense your presence, my lady. She will be able to track you through your resonance. But would it not be easier for her to find us if we remain in one place for a few hours?"

"That's true, but—"

"Friend Mòrag need sleep. She look exhausted," Poppi pointed out. "Brighid would say fatigue is silent killer. Better rest soon."

Mòrag relented, and the group settled down, making themselves as comfortable as they could. Since the region was mostly rocky and there was nothing to make a fire with (nothing dry, anyway), Pyra summoned a small sphere of her own fire to help them keep warm. Then they all choked down their field rations in relative silence. It wasn't the first time they'd sat huddled around a makeshift fire after a near-death experience. Those close calls had always managed to sober everyone up, even Zeke. But tonight, the silence felt different. Deep down, everyone wanted to talk. But no one knew where to begin.

Rex's curiosity finally got the better of him. "Mòrag, that guy...about what he said. Um, what was he talking about?"

"Rex, that's not someth—" Zeke warned.

Mòrag cut him off with a gentle hand to his leg. "It's all right. After everything they just saw and heard, I think our friends deserve to know the truth. We should tell them."

"Do you want me to explain? I know it's hard to talk about."

She shook her head. "I-it should be me."

She paused, glancing back and forth between her husband and the still-unconscious Emperor. Zeke gave an encouraging nod.

"...When I was twelve, I resonated with Brighid and was recognized as the Empire's crown princess. My uncle, the Emperor at the time, brought in a tutor just for me."

"That man with scary scarred face?" Tora interjected.

"Masterpon should not interrupt."

Mòrag explained the rest as succinctly as possible: Pachnall's crime, Niall's birth, the Emperor's cover-up for it all. Most details she glossed over—better to tell them the bare minimum than to risk reliving the hardest parts. The day had been emotionally draining enough as it was. Once the tale was told, her companions fell silent. And as expected, their faces shone with a mix of expressions from shock, sympathy, sadness, and respect all at once. But no pity.

Dromarch gathered his thoughts the fastest. "I see. By taking the child as his own, Emperor Nealon ensured that you were sheltered from a public scandal and fulfilled the need for a male heir at the same time. Quite astute."

"And until recently, his lie held. Not even Niall knew." Mòrag cleared her throat. "I cannot demand that you all keep this information to yourselves, but I am asking you to."

Everyone nodded; Mòrag could tell they'd do as she asked.

"Y-you had a baby when you were just fourteen?" Rex stammered in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Oh, Mòrag. You poor thing," Pyra whispered. "No wonder you fight so hard to protect him."

"Then when you married Shellhead here—"

"I wanted to keep Niall from having to marry so young. It was a political marriage of necessity at first, but well, it worked out better than I hoped. I certainly didn't expect to fall in love." She managed a small smile and nuzzled a little closer to Zeke.

"Mòrag is blushy-crushy for Zeke now," Poppi observed.

Nia snorted loudly, and Rex looked like he might choke on his last bite of food.

"Poppi, please never use 'Mòrag' and 'blushy-crushy' in the same sentence. Like, ever again," Nia said once she regained some semblance of composure.

The group asked a few more questions, but eventually the conversation lulled as fatigue overpowered their now-sated curiosity. Tora was the first to fall asleep, and Poppi dutifully cooled her drive furnace and plopped into hibernation mode beside him (after muttering something about "adjusting blushy-crushy settings to account for new data," whatever that meant). Rex and Pyra volunteered to keep watch, noting that they were probably the least exhausted out of the entire group. For a while, Mòrag sat motionless, watching Niall while he slept. She feared that if she shut her eyes long enough, he might disappear again. Or maybe she would find herself trapped on the Artigo again, captured. Was it really over?

Zeke seemed to read her thoughts. "He's dead, Mòrag. We all saw Ciaran go back into his core crystal. Everything's going to be okay now."

"...I know. My brain just doesn't want to believe it."

"Maybe it'll sink in once we get him home safe and sound. But for now, try to get some sleep."

"I'm not sure I can."

"Please don't fight me on this, Mòrag. You've been going on without sleep for over two days. You need to rest, even if it's just a couple hours. And besides, when Niall wakes up, he'll probably have lots of questions for you. Don't you think it would be better to have that conversation when you're not emotional from lack of sleep?"

"Perhaps. Just promise me you'll wake me if he gets up?"

"You got it. I'll wake you if Brighid gets back, too."

"Good...I love you, Thunderbolt Zeke."

He smiled and pulled her closer. Despite Mòrag's fears to the contrary, sleep came easily.

A/N: ...Wow. He's finally dead and gone. This moment has been in the works for so long that I can hardly believe it's actually written down.

As you can probably guess, this kinda marks the last big conflict in the story. After a chapter or so of falling action/wrap-up, this fic will finally come to a close. Huh. Seems surreal to me. That said, I hope you'll stay tuned for the little bit that remains.