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Luna materialized by the balcony doors, Stirling panicked and panting in her arms, his claws cutting through the linen of her dress. Pet homed in on them and went utterly still, golden eyes wild.

“Come on, Mag,” Brand murmured, holding one leg as he ran a firm hand over Pet’s back and sides. “Calm. Take back your control.”

“This has been happening quite a bit lately,” Luna said low, as if Pet couldn’t hear her better than anyone else in the room. “He keeps getting stuck.”

Pet bared his teeth, ears pinning as he rumbled a warning at her, and Brand saw red.

Fern tightened her legs, forcing a huff from Pet. “Don’t make me put you down, beast.” A pause. “I know what it is.” Another. “That doesn’t fucking matter, it’s not up to you.” Another. “Shitting seasons. Are you an Imperial Wolflord or wild fucking animal with nothing but shite between your ears?”

Breaths sawing, Brand tilted his head, hardly believing what he was seeing. Hearing. He’d known in a peripheral sort of way that Fern heard Pet, but⁠—

“Oh, fuck right off with that shit,” Fern scoffed. “I’ve seen bigger cats. He’s a grown Demon, not your youngling. Try worrying about yourself for a change, arsehole. Go on. Get. Let Magnus come back.”

The wolf sank to the floor, unable to decide whether he wanted to growl or whimper.

“I’ve not seen Magnus in an age, Pet,” Brand said. “I’d like to speak with him.”

Mag’s power flared, golden light flashing as he shifted. He was prone on the floorboards, forehead pressed into the woodgrain and shoulders heaving beneath Fern. One of his hands clamped around her thigh, sinking in, before he growled, “Do me a favor, lass, and get the fuck off, aye?”

Fern huffed and used the back of his head to push herself upright, one side of her mouth ticking upwards when he grunted and cursed.

Well then.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got an extra robe in your ether pocket, witchling,” Mag grumbled.

Luna jolted. “Oh! Right. Yes, um…”

A swath of rusty linen appeared in her hand. Stirling jumping from her arms at the flare of magic, and Brand scooped the fox up and onto his shoulder as the robe manifested on his brother’s body

Mag sat up, avoiding all of their looks as he adjusted the garment. He groaned when he stood, smoothing his hair and beard before clearing his throat. “Apologies.”

There was a heaviness in his stance that didn’t belong. A pallor to his normally tanned skin as he stared at nothing.

It hit Brand—Magnus looked much the same when they stormed Starkeep, and for weeks leading up to that. That he’d been wearing this cloak of exhaustion since Brand woke to the wrong world, possessed.

And he hadn’t once noticed or let it sink in until now.

Shite.

“Magnus?”

His brother turned from that middle space, gaze somehow dull and eager at once. “Aye, lad?”

Too much needed to be said, but Mag never needed words from Brand. In fact, Magnus spent most of Brand’s life intervening, offering to be his voice when he didn’t have one.

Brand released the rage and reverted to the Lesser, closing the short distance and embracing his brother.

Apparently, he was throwing his arms around everyone today.

Mag stood stock still for a beat, two, before he slowly returned Brand’s hug with a choked huff, squeezing tight enough to shove the breath from his lungs. “Ach, you wee shite. I missed you.” He held Brand out at arm’s length, eyes darting to Stirling. “Are you well?”

Open. Honest. No shame.

“I’m getting there,” he said. “There’s quite a lot that I need to share, and mum and dad will need to hear it.”

“Whenever you’re ready, lad.” Mag cupped his face, patting his cheek. “No worries, aye?”

“That’s the problem.” A deep breath, Brand holding it for a moment before setting it free. “I don’t think we can wait for me to be any more ready than I am. I don’t even think we can wait to be summoned to the Weeping City.”