Page 151 of On Brutal Thrones

“You should see your face.”

“I hate this family.”

Fenric's mother pats Talon's cheek. “No, you don't.”

Thorian makes the mistake of laughing.

Talon turns on him. “Not one word.”

I grin into my glass.

Gods, I love this.

Across the room, Fenric's younger brother and sister are sitting on the floor near one of the open windows, dressed far too finely for what they're doing. His brother has already abandoned his expensive dark jacket over the back of a chair, and his sister has gathered the skirts of her pale blue gown around her knees while they argue over a game made of little carved pieces.

She slaps one down. “You cheated.”

“You say that every time you're losing.”

She glares. “Because you cheat every time you're winning.”

Their mother passes them without even looking down.

“He's always cheated.”

Her son looks betrayed.

Fenric laughs all over again.

“There you are!”

I barely have time to turn before Lyra crashes into me.

I squeal as my wine sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my glass. “Lyra!”

She's laughing too hard to care.

Her blue silk dress makes her eyes look brighter, and tiny pearls are woven through the braid circling the back of her head. Her cheeks are pink from running around outside, and when she wraps her arms around me, there's strength in them.

Real strength.

Even now, that can stop me in my tracks. Because without the god’s sickness making her weak, she doesn’t hold back any longer. She does everything and anything that makes her happy.

“You ran away because Talon and I beat you in the sack race,” she accuses.

“I did not run away,” I argue.

“You absolutely did.”

I push at her, laughing when she refuses to release me. “I came inside to oversee the feast. I am the lady of this manor, in case you've forgotten.”

Lyra rolls her eyes. “Trust me. No one has forgotten.”

I should come up with a clever response, but I'm too busy looking at her. Healthy and happy, with her arms around me and sunlight warming her cheeks. Sometimes I still wake up and have to remind myself that she's down the hall.

The first time we saw her after the Trials, I'd been terrified of what we would find. I'd imagined Lyra sick in bed, her skin gray from the shadow touch. Or frightened and alone after everything the gods had put us through.

Instead, my men and I had stumbled into our parlor filthy, bloody, and barely capable of standing, only to find my sister playing chess with Hilda, Ivor at their side.