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“Shitting seasons, don’t tell me you’re losing your memory now, too.” Fern sighed. “Do you not recall twig dick sweeping out of his chambers like a total arsehole after you brought down the bars?”

Lunara stumbled over a wayward branch as the slam of their bedroom door echoed in her mind, a flash of Magnus jeering at the edge of the practice field just after, Brand nowhere to be seen.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” She tried and failed to shake off a blooming panic. “That’s beside the point.”

Wrong. No. And it absolutely isn’t.

It was possible he forgot, all things considered. That would be infinitely more palatable than Brand manipulating her on purpose.

No. She would’ve been able to tell. And even if he did, it wasn’t really him.

Little Luna?

Weeping moons. Was she Bordoroth’s biggest fool?

Wait.

“Two h-hours?” The dwindling light was answer enough, but the question fell out of her anyway.

“And a half,” Fern added. “Hedda was about to do the unthinkable and interrupt Lyriat’s evening bath to make him search from the sky. Shit, we were ready to call in the entire city to find you.”

The rest of the walk was a blur, Lunara’s limbs so heavy that she was ready to mist back to the castle just to be done with it, damn the consequences. She could use a good cry. Preferably alone.

On the other side of the portal, a crowd greeted them in the Great Hall. At first, Lunara thought the shouts to be the result of a few Demons who simply drank too much, unable to rein in their enthusiasm. But supper had yet to be served, the tables still empty. That was when the notes turned shrill. Panicked.

“Oy!” Faldir boomed, already shoving his way through the roiling mass and towards the throne dais where most were concentrated. “Clear off.”

Demons fled in every direction at the command, flocking to the edges of the room. First Faldir, then Hedda’s steps stuttered as the crowd thinned, both of them instantly rising into their rage.

“Everyone out!” Hedda roared. “First Legion, to the doors—mark who leaves, for questioning later. Two of you are to check on Byrlan, but say nothing. Fern, find Lyriat. Now.”

Fal whipped around. “Lunara, take Brand⁠—”

Too late.

“No!”

Brand was moving, screaming, but Lunara’s sluggish mind was struggling to comprehend the chaos. Hedda intercepted him, snatching him into her arms as he reached the throne and shouting orders above the din. Shite, even in her rage, she struggled to restrain him. Magnus joined them, murmuring nonsense to calm his thrashing brother.

One look at the Dominion of Demons, though, and that earlier shift in the universe became clear.

So, it’s to be heartbreak, then.

Yes, just not the one she was dreading. She couldn’t decide if this was worse or not.

A memory rose from Lunara’s recesses, Nyri’s cheeky face and bubbly laugh suddenly there like it happened yesterday—the night they met, when Nyriadne dragged her on a tour of the castle after the success of Baldrir’s healing.

“If I liked you less, I’d dare you to sit in it,” she’d said. “But I do like you, so definitely don’t do that. You will not live through it.”

Blood painted the wood, the walls, the floor. Gaulnir’s blood.

True to Nyri’s warning, the Dominion of Demons was alive. It writhed at the center of the crimson horror, looming taller, wider, darker than ever. Angry, razored vines as thick as Lunara’s wrist lashed and tore at Gaulnir’s flesh, yet more skewered through his torso, pinning him to the legendary seat. Every squelch as they moved, every forced jerk of his lifeless limbs and slack head, was a new shock, and Lunara fought her turning stomach to focus. To remember who and what she was through the fog.

“No, no, no.” Brand’s entreaty reverberated through the empty hall. “Gaulnir, please.”

Lunara transformed at that broken cry. Without thinking, she misted to the dais and reached out, threads of her power already⁠—

“Don’t.” Faldir’s massive hand closed around her wrist, his breaths sawing. “It will not end well for you. We must wait for Lyriat.”