Chapter 2
TWO
AUREN
Ican still feel the ghost of her warmth against my chest.
Hours later, standing in the war council chamber while my brothers argue about what to do with our unexpected guest, I can’t shake the memory of carrying her through the fortress corridors.
The way she weighed almost nothing in my arms. The thready flutter of her pulse against my skin.
The copper highlights in her dark hair catching torchlight as her head lolled against my shoulder.
Morrigan’s sister. Morrigan’s blood.
I should have left her on the stones.
“—can’t ignore the tactical implications.
” Drayke’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
He stands at the head of the massive oak table that dominates the chamber, maps spread before him, his amber gaze sweeping across each of us in turn.
“The fourth Relic is in our possession. The only person who can control it is in our infirmary. And the Shadow Clan just destroyed an entire kingdom to acquire both.”
“So we use her.” Rurik leans back in his chair, boots propped on the table’s edge despite my pointed glare.
His red hair is wilder than usual, his golden gaze bright with the particular energy he gets when violence is on the horizon.
“She came here for protection. We give it—in exchange for her cooperation against Ulrik and Morrigan.”
“She’s not a weapon to be deployed.” Selene’s voice carries an edge I’ve learned to recognize over the past months. The edge that says she’s about to dig in and fight for something. “She’s a person. A person who just lost everything.”
“A person whose sister murdered Auren’s family.” Zyphon speaks from the shadows near the window, his violet-tinged gaze fixed on something beyond the glass. The shadows curl around him, darker than they should be in the well-lit chamber. “We can’t pretend that history doesn’t exist.”
Every head turns toward me.
I keep my expression neutral. Keep my voice level. Keep the ice firmly in place around the memories trying to claw their way to the surface.
“History is exactly what we need to consider.” I move to the map table, letting the familiar ritual of strategic analysis ground me.
“Morrigan killed Lyric in a ritual designed to steal Fire-Bringer flame. The ritual failed because Morrigan lacks Fire-Bringer blood entirely—she couldn’t absorb what she took.
But the attempt suggests she’s been searching for a way to acquire both witch magic and Fire-Bringer abilities for decades. ”
“And now her sister shows up with both.” Rurik’s grin has faded. Even he can see where this is heading. “Convenient.”
“More than convenient. Essential.” I trace a finger along the map, following the trade routes between Valdoria and Shadow Clan territory.
“Tamsin carries both bloodlines at unprecedented strength. Royal witch heritage from her mother’s line—the most powerful witch bloodline in existence.
Pure Fire-Bringer blood from her father’s line, undiluted across generations of careful breeding.
She doesn’t just have both abilities. She has them at levels we’ve never seen before. ”
The memory surfaces despite my best efforts: white fire spiraling toward the ceiling, heat that should have been unbearable but somehow wasn’t, the raw power pouring off her unconscious form while three Fire-Bringers struggled to contain it.
She’s stronger than all of them. Unconscious and half-dead, and still stronger.
“I saw what she did last night.” Nasyra’s quiet voice draws attention. She stands apart from the others, her mismatched gaze distant.
“Which means Morrigan will never stop hunting her.” I let the implication settle over the room.
“If Morrigan drains Tamsin’s blood, she finally gets what she failed to take from Lyric.
Fire-Bringer flame combined with royal witch magic.
The ability to not just seal the Crown, but open it. Wield it.”
“And if Ulrik gets her instead?” Drayke’s question is pointed.
“Then he has a weapon that can be... persuaded... to use the Crown on his behalf.” The words taste bitter.
“Torture. Coercion. Threats against whatever she still cares about. Ulrik isn’t subtle when subtlety fails him.
He created Zyphon’s curse out of cold efficiency—he’ll do whatever it takes to control the Crown’s power. ”
Zyphon’s shadows flare briefly at the mention of his curse. No one comments.
“So we’re her only option.” Selene crosses her arms. “And she’s our only option for controlling the fourth Relic. Seems straightforward to me.”
“Nothing about this is straightforward.” I turn from the map, letting my gaze sweep the room.
“She’s a Valdorian witch. Her bloodline allied with the Shadow Clan.
Her sister murdered my family and has been feeding intelligence to Ulrik for decades.
Even if Tamsin herself is genuine—even if her desperation is real and her intentions pure—she represents a security risk unlike anything we’ve faced. ”
“You think she’s a trap.” Aisling speaks for the first time, her clinical tone cutting through the tension. “That Morrigan sent her.”
“I think we can’t afford to assume she isn’t.”
“She nearly died getting here.” Selene’s voice sharpens. “I treated her wounds myself. Days of running, barely any food or rest, magical reserves so depleted she could barely maintain the wards around the Crown. No one fakes that level of exhaustion.”
“Morrigan faked affection for my sister for months before she killed her.”
The words land in the chamber with the force of a physical blow. Selene flinches. Even Rurik loses his casual sprawl, sitting up straighter.
I shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have let that much slip through the cracks.
But the memory of Tamsin’s face when she spoke about Lyric—the grief in her amber gaze, the crack in her voice when she apologized for crimes she didn’t commit—keeps sliding against the memory of Morrigan’s smile as she promised to teach my sister.
Trust made her vulnerable. Trust killed her.
“Auren.” Drayke’s voice is quiet. Steady. The voice of a king who’s watched his brother carry this grief for decades and never found the right words to ease it. “I understand your concerns. They’re valid. But we can’t make decisions based solely on what Morrigan did. Tamsin isn’t her sister.”
“You can’t know that.”
“No. I can’t.” He meets my stare without flinching.
“But I know what I saw at the gate yesterday. A woman who’d lost everything, begging help from people who had every reason to refuse her.
A woman who looked you in the eye and acknowledged what her bloodline did to yours without making excuses or asking for forgiveness.
” He pauses. “That took courage. The kind of courage that doesn’t usually come with deception. ”
I want to argue. Want to list every reason why trusting a Valdorian witch is suicide. But the words won’t come, because beneath the strategic objections and the tactical concerns, there’s something else.
The way she looked at me when she apologized. Like she actually meant it.
The way her voice broke when she talked about watching Morrigan change.
The way her fire felt against my magic when I helped her regain control—warm and bright and nothing like the darkness I expected from Morrigan’s blood.
Stop. This is exactly how it starts. Trust. Warmth. Then the knife in the dark.
“What are you proposing?” My voice comes out colder than I intended. Good. Cold is safe. Cold is controlled.
Drayke’s gaze holds mine for a long moment. Something passes between us—understanding, maybe. Or resignation.
“She stays.” He speaks the words with the finality of a decree. “She’s essential to controlling the Crown, which makes her essential to our survival. We give her sanctuary, protection, whatever she needs to recover and prepare for what’s coming.”
“And in exchange?” Rurik’s question carries genuine curiosity rather than challenge.
“In exchange, she helps us end this. Morrigan. Ulrik. The entire Shadow Clan threat.” Drayke’s jaw tightens.
“Lakhu’s death destabilized Ulrik. The destruction of Valdoria suggests he’s abandoned patience for vengeance.
He’ll come for us eventually—for the Brotherhood, for the Fire-Bringers, for everything we’ve built. We need every advantage we can get.”
“Including a Valdorian princess with unprecedented power and questionable loyalty.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice.
“Including exactly that.” Drayke doesn’t rise to the bait. “Which is why you’re going to be responsible for her.”
The chamber goes silent.
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re our strategist. Our analyst. The one who sees threats before they materialize.” Drayke’s expression doesn’t waver. “If anyone can determine whether she’s genuine or a trap, it’s you. Watch her. Evaluate her. Report anything concerning.”
“You want me to be her jailer.”
“I want you to be her protector.” The distinction hangs in the air between us.
“Morrigan will send forces after her. Ulrik will send assassins. She needs someone who can anticipate threats and neutralize them before they reach her.” His voice softens slightly.
“And she needs someone who won’t be swayed by sympathy or sentiment.
Someone who will remain objective no matter what. ”
Someone who hates her enough to stay suspicious.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to.
“This is a mistake.” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Probably.” Drayke’s agreement surprises me. “But it’s the best option we have. Unless you’d prefer I assign the duty to Rurik?”
“Hey.” Rurik looks genuinely offended. “I’d be an excellent protector.”
“You’d be distracted by the first shiny weapon that caught your attention.” The response is automatic, the familiar rhythm of our bickering providing a moment of normalcy in an otherwise impossible situation.
“Fair point.” Rurik grins, unrepentant. “But at least I’d be entertaining.”
I turn back to Drayke. “And if I determine she’s a threat? If I find evidence that she’s working with Morrigan?”
“Then you do what needs to be done.” His voice carries no hesitation. “But you bring the evidence to me first. No unilateral action. No vengeance disguised as justice.” His gaze sharpens. “Can you do that, brother? Can you set aside your grief long enough to evaluate her fairly?”
The question cuts deeper than he probably intends.
Can I? Can I look at Morrigan’s sister—really look at her—without seeing Lyric’s body in that ritual circle? Without hearing my mother’s screams when she learned what happened? Without remembering my father’s face as he rode to war against the Shadow Clan, knowing he might not come back?
The honest answer is that I don’t know.
“Yes.” The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. “I can do that.”
Drayke studies me for a long moment. Whatever he sees in my expression, he chooses not to challenge.
“Then it’s settled. Tamsin stays under Brotherhood protection. Auren is responsible for her security and evaluation. The rest of you—” He sweeps his gaze across the room. “Prepare for war. Ulrik won’t wait long before he strikes.”
The council disperses. Rurik claps me on the shoulder as he passes—a gesture of solidarity that I neither want nor deserve. Zyphon melts into the shadows without a word, his silence more eloquent than speech. Selene pauses near the door, her gray gaze troubled.
“She’s not her sister, Auren.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“Maybe you should listen.” She doesn’t wait for a response, following the others out and leaving me alone with Drayke.
He doesn’t speak immediately. Just stands there, watching me with the patient stillness of a dragon who’s known me for centuries.
“You caught her.” His voice is quiet. Thoughtful. “When she collapsed at the gate. You caught her before she hit the ground.”
“Instinct.” The word comes out sharper than I intended.
“Was it?” He tilts his head slightly. “Because the Auren I’ve known for centuries would have let her fall. Would have considered it fitting justice for a Valdorian witch to break herself on Brotherhood stone.”
I have no response to that. Because he’s right.
The Auren I was a few days ago would have watched her collapse with cold satisfaction. Would have seen poetic symmetry in Morrigan’s sister dying at the gates of the fortress Morrigan’s crimes helped build.
But something shifted when I saw her standing there. Bloody and broken and proud, refusing to beg despite having every reason to. Looking me in the eye and acknowledging my grief without flinching from it.
Hate me all you want. Just hate me while we’re saving the world.
“I don’t know what I would have done.” The admission costs me more than I want to acknowledge. “I don’t know why I caught her. I just... did.”
Drayke nods slowly. “That’s what worries me.”
“It should worry you. It worries me.”
“I’m not worried about your judgment being compromised by hatred, Auren.” He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “I’m worried it might be compromised by something else entirely.”
He leaves before I can ask what he means.
But I know. Of course, I know.
Because I can still feel the ghost of her warmth against my chest. Can still see the copper highlights in her hair. Can still remember the way her fire felt when it met my frost—not fighting, not resisting, just... meeting. Finding balance.
Stop.
I force myself to move. To walk to the window and stare out at the mountains beyond, letting the familiar view ground me in reality.
She’s a Valdorian witch. Morrigan’s blood. A threat to everything we’ve built.
And I’m responsible for her now.