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The sight of his aged friend and mentor as he stepped forward, towering above those around him, was a knife to Brand’s gut.

“It’s my Byrlan, Your Majesty,” Gaulnir said, rising from a shallow bow. “You were most gracious in gifting us a chamber here in the castle while our home remains unreachable, but the stairs to our new rooms are a right difficulty for him. He’s not left there since we arrived, y’see, and I’m worried for the health of my blessed mate because of it. He does better with others around.”

Gaulnir seemed to shrink a bit, scrubbing a hand over his grizzled beard. “I hate to ask, with others suffering that much more, but I was wondering, perhaps, if there mightn’t be somewhere easier for him to stay. It needn’t be anything fancy, sire. Just a bed’ll do, and no worries about me fitting. I’ll manage wherever.”

Lyriat’s head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you come before me in your rage, old friend?”

Fuck, even that word twisted something inside of him—along with the lie that it was only the others who were different now. The truth was that Brand wasn’t as he had ever been.

He was hollow, the most vital part of him missing.

“I’ve just come up from the city center, sire,” Gaulnir said.

Lyriat chuckled. “I think we both know that doesn’t quite answer my question.”

“Forgive me, sire.” Gaulnir threw his shoulders back, his chin lifting. “I may be younger than my mate, but I’m not what I once was. Going back and forth between my greater and lesser takes a toll these days, and I’m expected back at the site where⁠—”

Lyriat raised a hand, cutting him off. “I appreciate your honesty, Gaul. This was an oversight on my part, and you should never have had to ask.” He waved a servant over and whispered in her ear for a moment before turning back to the room at large. “Take the rest of the day with Byrlan to settle into your new chamber. Relax and start fresh in the morning. Merda, here, will take you.”

Gaulnir bowed as low as he was able, his tawny crown of horns catching the light just so. “You are kind, Your Majesty. As ever. Thank you.”

Lyriat waved that away, his tone strange when he said, “Someone will be up in a moment to help make sure that both you and Byrlan find your way without incident.”

As if the words were meant for her, the Sorcerit left her station by the window and slipped through the double doors, the gnawing chafe of her presence with her. Brand might’ve been curious about it if the relief wasn’t so short-lived.

Gaulnir reverted to his lesser self with a sigh and ambled off with a smile on his face. Jealousy was hot and swift as Brand watched him leave, a flush of shame blazing across his cheeks.

Before his ordeal, he’d been fumbling through life all too aware of his shortcomings. Now, he was forsaken by his greater half on top of it. Impotent. Unable to rage in the prime of his life, even as a Demon like Gaul—who’d already been on in years when Brand was just a boy—was able to go seamlessly through the change.

Before, he’d been less, but now…

Now, Brand was nothing, and he didn’t even have the dignity of recalling the fucking details of his forced castration.

Which was probably the reason that—even without her nearby—he felt worse than ever.

For the third day in a row, Lunara found herself on the tower balcony, thoughts a tangled ruin as she stared out at the Horned City. The colors were all washed out from her hiding place in the ether. Sounds were muffled to nothing. Smells didn’t exist.

It reflected her insides perfectly.

Right up until Magnus arrived, followed by low murmurings, and it opened a pit the size of Bordoroth in her chest.

Brand speaking to others was the only way she heard his voice anymore.

“Ach, calm yourself, you wee shite. I’ll be back after I have a taste of unsullied air. Ten minutes, aye?” Magnus appeared beside her a second later, pretending to do just that as he gripped his nape and glanced around.

The same song and dance, every night. She had no idea how it started. Out of desperation, probably. Pity, definitely.

As usual, Magnus feigned deep, cleansing breaths while he checked to see that Fern was on her perch above the doorframe keeping watch. After an almost imperceptible nod at the Fae, an exaggerated stretch, and an overly dramatic jaunt to the lounges—gathered where they couldn’t be seen from inside the chamber—he plopped down with a loud sigh and stretched out his hand, waiting.

Lunara hesitated, staring at his calloused fingers. What if something happened while they were gone? What if there was a change, or an incident? What if Brand was taken again?

What if, what if, what if… It was enough to drive her mad.

“Go on, then.” His voice was barely a whisper, amber eyes narrowed as if he could will himself into seeing her.

Without giving it another depressing thought, Lunara grabbed him and misted them to the Demon’s Cove below.

Massive vaeragate cliffs rose up from the soft, deep red of the crescent shoreline and met the high curtain wall surrounding the castle. A broken ring of jagged outcroppings gentled the sea as it rolled in, the soft, muted lapping of the waves working to calm the worst of her turmoil.