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Brand ignored them and focused on Fern. She wouldn’t sugarcoat any of it.

“Tell me.”

Fern spun when they reached the base of his tower and listed, her eyes going out of focus as she shook her head. “You owe me, twig dick, so do me a favor and pick me up before I pass out.”

Brand didn’t hesitate. He was happy to save her the trouble, even as his heart turned over. The irony that Fern of all creatures asked to be carried while Lunara fought him repeatedly over the same thing was not lost on him.

Fern’s lips peeled back as she adjusted herself, sitting on his shoulder. She was clammy and feverish in his hold, every exhale shaking as much as the rest of her.

And she still bloody bent down to whisper, “If you ever tell anyone this happened, I will castrate you and nail your bitty balls where everyone in Bordoroth can come have a look and laugh.”

That was more like it.

“Noted.”

He jogged through the corridors towards the Great Hall, ignoring whatever heated exchange was going on behind him between his parents and Mag.

“As I was saying,” Fern huffed, “we made a plan to get Lunara straight to Nachthelliae and the moons, to ensure she lived through saving you. And by we, I mean Araxis came up with the whole thing and we were too fucking pollen-headed to question it. The arsehole was waiting for me on the other side of the portal in Nachthelliae. He broke my wing, said ‘I’m sorry,’ dumped me back here while she plummeted thousands of feet to the ground, and we’ve heard nothing since. Well, not officially, anyway.”

Hearing that Lunara’s greatest fear had been realized—fucking minutes after she likely saved the damned world—nearly sent him to his knees.

“What do you mean by officially?” he asked, mind turning.

“We’ve been given a gift, twig dick.”

Brand shoved his way past the gaping guards and through the doors to the Great Hall.

The space was packed with countless Demons, Lyriat hearing their grievances from his place on the Dominion. Hedda and Faldir, who were flanking him, both jolted when they set eyes on Brand, making everyone else turn around to see what the fuss was about.

Murmurs swept like wildfire through the crowd as it parted to let Brand through, their shocked stares following him all the way to the front.

Lyriat stood. “Is it finally my friend that greets me?”

“It is.” Brand stifled all emotion. There was no time.

“Good.” His grin was bright and vicious. “Hedda.”

Brand’s Second descended from the dais and grabbed the arm of an aging Sorcerit who stood on the edges of the crowd, pulling her forward. It had been years and years since he last laid eyes on the Head Elder of the Evesong, their dealings with Nachthelliae mostly conducted through missive and messenger, but he’d painted a black mark beside the memory of her months ago.

Strawberries and moonlight, Luna whispering her secrets into the softness between them. Sharing her utmost heartbreak and pain. Her fears. Naming that creature as one of the worst parts of it all.

“You,” Brand seethed.

“Yes,” Fern rasped, her delight clear. “Cordelia the Firebane.”

A growl rumbled up from the depths of his chest, his whorls pulsing. “Betrayer of my mate and her beloved parents.”

The Sorcerit lifted her chin, fucking fearless. “The very same, Your Highness.”

“I assume this is my gift,” Brand said, his eyes never leaving the Firebane.

“The very same.” Fern patted his cheek. “Oh, I like that look on your face.”

“I am friend, too,” Cordelia continued, shirking Hedda’s hold with more dignity than she had a right to. “And I’m hoping you might be up for a little disruption, Your Highness. For her sake, as well as all Nachthelliae.”

“Explain.”

“We need chaos.” Her gaze perused him up and down. “And we’ve given you the perfect excuse to bring it raining down on Starkeep without much in the way of repercussion.”