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“Six weeks, Caius!” Lyriat roared, rattling the carved wooden panels against Brand’s cheek. “I’ve been tearing my hair out for six fucking weeks trying to find them, and you knew it. You fucking knew it and still kept this hidden. I’d bet my whole stars-forsaken, shattered realm on it.”

Brand was tempted to barge in then and there, demanding to know who or what he was talking about, but reason won out. They’d find a way to lie. To keep him in the dark. Keep him from knowing the truth.

“Lyriat, listen to yourself. You’re not⁠—”

“Shut up, dog. You’re in my throne room, and I don’t want to bloody hear it.”

A heavy pause, Brand reeling over his friend’s use of such a slur.

“How dare you?” Caius hissed at last. “This won’t stand, Lyriat. I’m an Imperial Son, doing my damned best to fucking help you, and this is how I’m treated? I’ve known you since you were still pissing your pants, lad. Show some respect.”

“I return exactly the amount of respect I receive. Do you agree to my terms or not?”

Brand could almost feel Caius grinding his teeth. “Free rein and a guide in return for your continued use of the Montrealm’s surplus legions. Aye. I agree, but only because one of us needs to see sense, else this gets out of hand.”

“Good. Now, get out of my sight and my realm.”

“Oh, gladly. Come, Thaddeus.”

“Thad is fine. In fact, maybe you should leave him here. He might be able to convince me not to fucking strangle you when this is over.”

It was Caius’s turn to laugh, the huffed snort dripping with scorn. “Keep him, if it makes you feel better. He can be your guide since he was there when we found it. You’re fucking welcome.”

He heard his uncle retreating, footsteps drilling across the marble floor.

“Use my warriors well while you can, Caius. They’ll be coming home the fucking second my cousins are found.”

In an instant, Brand’s mind detached itself, his body moving without him telling it to do so. He was standing in the center of the hall before he knew what was happening, his uncle just disappearing through the portal without a backward look.

“What did you just say?”

“Ah, fuck.” Both Mag and Thad stood at the foot of the throne dais, his brother running a hand through sleep-tangled hair while their cousin slumped heavily onto the bottom step. “Brand, it’s… Shite. I thought you were asleep.”

He hardly spared them a second glance. Just enough time to notice how haggard Thad looked, covered in dirt and black grime with deep, purple smudges beneath his eyes. All of his attention was on the dais. On the Demon King entrenched in his throne, and the broadsword in his clenched fist.

Bal’s sword.

“Why do you have that?” He heard the desperate note in his voice, practically begging his eyes and ears to be deceiving him.

Lyriat stared back, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Why do you have that?!”

A deafening silence followed the echoes of his bellow, the truth solidifying with each repetition. He searched his mind for any sight or memory of Baldrir in the last week. Any fleeting glimpse he’d taken for granted.

Nothing. There was nothing.

The day before Aldiat and Frida’s mating, as he was leaving luncheon. A command to go to the Westrealm, letters exchanging hands, a smile and pat on the back. That was the last he’d seen or spoken to Bal. Brand went to bed that night and woke up in this twisted world. A different life.

He couldn’t help but ask again as he closed the distance between them, the walk like a fever dream. “Why, Lyriat? Why do you have that?” It was a whisper that time, heat buried in the hushed tone.

“Because,” Lyriat said at long last, “its owner is not here to keep hold of it himself. They⁠—”

“They?” Brand froze, feet rooted instantly.

“We didn’t know how to tell you,” Mag said, taking a hesitant step towards him, hand outstretched. “We were hoping to find them before you ever knew they were gone.”

Weeping Sisters. They. Them.