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He was never more glad for anything in his stars-damned life.

Brand threw his shoulders back, mind shifting toward the potential of battle and bloodshed. A small part of him was excited by the prospect of seeing a dreadbeast. Of venting his pent up frustration on something that actually deserved it.

Too bad he was stuck with a borrowed blade in hand, its unfamiliar handle creaking in his grip. Yet another reminder of his shortcomings—he couldn’t summon his own greatsword.

Only the slightest discomfort accompanied Lunara’s arrival, Fern shifting to allow her space as Mag took up a position on his other side.

Bloody flanking him, as if he needed the protection.

“I don’t need you to coddle me,” he said through clenched teeth.

Mag clapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, that’s fine, since we aren’t doing it for you.”

“What, then?”

“Everyone else, lad.” His brother’s cheeky wink was not the consolation he thought it was.

In fact, Mag had been far too light and cheery when he came to bed the night before. When Brand asked him about it, his brother claimed that he was simply happy to go home for a bit.

The whole exchange felt off, but now Brand was sure of it.

Something was up.

There was no way this farce of Mag’s was real. Not with what they were going to do. Which meant there was something else they weren’t telling him.

After his episode, everyone but Hedda and Faldir disappeared for the rest of the day. Seeing to the logistics of their mission, according to his Second. Though his twin shadows never left his side, Brand had the unshakable feeling he was being excluded on purpose. Like the others were talking about him, and his life-long guardians were merely keeping him distracted.

He should’ve been helping. His place as Straelon’s Imperial Son demanded his presence in official matters, especially when it concerned creatures as important as Baldrir and Nyri.

Had he argued the quiet banishment? No. Because, like the stranger he was in his own damned home and body, he didn’t have the slightest clue of how to broach the subject with any sort of authority.

Weeping Sisters, he was so fucking tired of it all.

Brand might not be able to find his voice, but he still had a knack for observation. For noting little details that often went ignored by most people. If they were going to insist on ostracizing him, even for his own alleged safety, he’d just have to wedge himself in another way.

He took in the set of everyone’s faces and let their tiny tells reveal the truth they refused to speak. Wary. Drawn. Braced. The bob of a throat, the tightening lines around their eyes.

So, it was worse in Thodelebor than they’d warned him of.

Lyriat stepped forward, his gaze landing on every person as he spoke. “You know your aim. Find my cousins, at any cost.” He fixed on Brand and stayed there, something deeper humming beneath the surface of his words. “Bordoroth has become a treacherous place, deceit at every corner. Trust no one but those gathered here. Bring Baldrir and Nyriadne home to me.”

“Right, here we go then,” Thad chirped. “I’ll be shifting as soon as we’re all through and guiding you straight to the spot we found Bal’s sword. No heroic detours, I’m begging you. Plenty of your brethren are already doing their part. Just keep low, follow as best you can, and ignore the rest of it. Shall we?”

Seeing his cousin in a commanding position, handling the responsibility with a comedic grace that suited him all too well…

A swell of pride overcame him as Thad chucked his toll into the swirling portal and followed it through. Fern and Faldir went next, the two looking absolutely absurd next to one another. Then, it was their turn, Hedda taking up her customary place at his back.

He, Magnus, and Lunara each tossed their own sprig in, but his brother’s hand landed on his nape.

“Just in case,” Mag murmured, and pushed Brand through in front of him.

The oily feel of the ether was more of a punch to the gut than he remembered. Slick and sticking. And were those shouts he heard? What the f⁠—

A blink and he was stumbling into a field, the scent of ash and rot on the air. Solyrian blazed overhead, but there was something strange in its light. A rawness. Hotter, almost, then even he was used to.

He immediately dropped into a crouch and took in their surroundings, the same crop they’d used to get there swaying around them. Sort of. The stems were sickly and dry. Not as lush as they should’ve been. As all of the Westrealm had always been.

Mag lifted his nose, more animal than anything when his nostrils flared, and nodded. “Nothing nearby to worry about.”