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“So you very explicitly told me,” Araxis answered, sniffing.

Lunara smelled dragonshite.

“I did say you’d be feeding properly, witchling, and I meant every damned word,” Magnus murmured. “And I don’t want to hear a whisper of argument. Not even you could be stubborn enough for that.”

“Don’t put it past her,” Fern said, pretending to check her nails.

“Enough.” Lunara threw the blanket away, hissing through the residual pain as she crawled from bed. She summoned a collection of flasks from the ether and dumped them on the low table in the sitting area. “While I am grateful, I don’t need all of you here staring at me while I partake of your gifts.”

“Put those away,” Hedda said gently.

“You heard her, Sorcerit.” Faldir shook his head. “That’s not how we’re doing it this time.”

They can’t mean…

Oh, they did.

Those nine pairs of eyes narrowed in unison like they’d sat there and practiced it, matching her usual stubbornness with their own.

Magnus rounded the bed and gripped her upper arms. “For Brand, aye? This one’s bigger than all of us.”

Such drama, when it never really crossed her mind to argue. Not when Brand’s life—her life—was at stake.

You have been a tad prickly about it up to now.

True. Fair.

“I just need a moment.” Lunara picked through them, heading for the washroom. “Please.”

“Not too long,” Amun called after her. “We let you sleep as many hours as we dared. It’s nearing time, and we have much to prepare.”

Lunara swallowed as she shut the door and leaned against it with a slow, steadying breath. What had Endellion said?

Before evening descends on the Montrealm again.

Thank the Sisters Brand asked to be caged permanently, and being trapped there was his choice rather than something they had to explain away. She was in no state to face him and pretend all was normal for more than a few moments. And the longer he was within her magic, the better. Surely. Probably.

Fuck.

Lunara sent her dirty robe to the ether and snuck another from Mag’s half of the wardrobe upstairs—the one she was wearing when Brand first woke up. It felt symbolic, somehow, and there was something particularly lovely about the celadon cloth and copper thread. Perhaps this time, he’d be himself when he saw it again and they could have a laugh.

She scoffed at that. Laughter felt so fucking far away from her, it was almost funny all over again.

Instead, Lunara let the tears fall as she washed, then changed. Staring in the mirror afterwards—at the scars from her first battle with Night, now fully healed over and more like embossed spiderweb cracks than the initial tangle of gnarled flesh—she couldn’t quite bring herself to fully fuse the robe collar.

There’s little point in it now, anyway.

Decided, she pulled on the fibers with her power, creating long ties that she whipped into dainty bows, one strategically hiding Illamiata. For the rest, she called to the particles and manipulated them to fit her better—tighter at the waist and shoulders, wider at the bust and hips. She left the sleeves loose and billowing though, the feature one she adored about the Wolflord attire.

Still bordering on awful, still not at all her, but better than before.

Nyri would know what to do.

Which meant, in a way, that Lunara knew what to do, thanks to her friend.

If this was to be the day she left for the Veil, the last time she saw Brand in this life, Lunara wanted to at least feel something akin to beautiful. Not just for him, but for herself.

She pulled some of Nyri’s vials from the ether, searching for the one she used on Lunara at the Montrealm’s Occurrence—the most stunning Lunara ever felt. A rosy tonic swirled among the bunch, and fresh tears welled at the sight of it. She tipped the fizzy liquid back, and it pinked her cheeks and darkened her lips a touch. Smoothed her hair and brightened her tired eyes.