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It never before occurred to Brand that he might not have quite as much control as he thought. That the things he did control—the carefully constructed habits and schedules and preferences—were perhaps a compensation. That there might be a problem with hanging on to every damned thing with both fists like his life depended on it. That…that it might not be his fault.

After hours of breathing and coaxing, trying to summon Luna’s voice to his mind to help guide him from memory, this notion was finally enough to free his lesser self—a small comfort when the result was immediately curling into a ball and weeping.

If nothing else, the snails took pity, pointedly ignoring him while he sorted some of his heaping pile of absolute dragonshite. By the time Brand got it together enough to sit up and dash the tears from his face, the moons were hanging front and center in the starry sky.

Half a pissing day.

Not a total waste of time, but it wasn’t enough. There were things to do. Vengeance to claim. People to find. Mistakes to rectify. How was he supposed to justify staying here?

Then again, what use would he be if it took him upwards of six hours to switch between the Greater and the Lesser? What did he have to offer Luna if he couldn’t even promise he was stable?

“Damn it.”

Ridiculous.

He made his way inside, spent. Ready to flop onto the mattress, uncaring about Araxis’s warnings over a schedule and the supplies he knew were piled on the bed—until he tripped over a stack of dusty books, cursed to the ceiling, and really opened his eyes.

Brand’s heart kicked up as he looked around, his fingers itching, mind calculating. Purpose flooded his veins. Electrified his bones. The excitement almost sent him right back into the rage, but a deep breath recentered him.

He knew what to do.

I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.

I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.

I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.

I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.

I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.

I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.

Nyriadne of Straelon, sister to Baldrir of Straelon, youngest cousin to The Demon King Lyriat, great-niece of the late Emperor Stennyx and Empress Gildat, some cousin however removed to the current Emperor Alwyn and his five Sons, Master of Tresses, Budding Warrior, and All Around Bubbly Gossipmonger, dangled from her oozing chains, the shackles ever bruising, and repeated the mantra over and over and over. A poem. A song. A constant loop that almost never left the forefront of her mind.

If they were the only words she knew, they might eventually sink in and become the truth.

In the background was the list of those she loved. How they would be in the same situation, so she could be it too. Fierce like Hedda. Ruthless like Faldir. Calculating like Lyriat. Serious like Brand. Loyal like Magnus. Determined like Thaddeus. And stubborn as all fucking shite like Lunara.

Nyri shirked everything but her own cunning and donned the cloak of them. If she wrapped herself in those qualities, if she was all of those things, she might just succeed in protecting them from her own damned self.

Some might wonder why Bal wasn’t one of her inspirations. But if the goal was to be less herself, her older brother was the last person she wanted to emulate. They were exactly the bloody same, and the only thing saving them was that he didn’t know shite.

Thank the Sisters.

Bal would’ve long since spilled his secrets if he thought it would help her.

Precious fool.

A fortunate one, too, since it was she who’d gathered a mountain of knowledge through whisper and tale over the years. She, who paid attention. She, who was ever thirsting for more. And she, who had just enough wisdom to know that even the smallest, most benign, seemingly insignificant kernel could be dangerous.

And so…

I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.

I know nothing of the Secret of Secrets.

I know nothing of the Battle of Breamwyrm.