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Except for her.

They were selfish. They were cunning. They were liars.

Except for her.

No one cared, or was paying attention, or was truly concerned.

Except for her.

There was not one, single creature that really loved him.

Except for her.

And Brand?

Such a sweet boy. Such a perfect boy. Such a dear boy. Such a darling boy.

Brand was such a good, good boy.

While he scaled the mesa’s sheer sides and ran to his little haven without understanding why. Because he didn’t see the wisp of shadow cling to him the last time he left her insidious presence. Didn’t notice it sink in. Didn’t know he was being eaten alive from the inside out, even then.

While he sniffled and wept and bared his soul, not realizing he was sharing Imperial secrets with a monster. That she was storing every tidbit away to use against him later. That she was slowly bending him to her will.

While he was fighting for his life against the vise wrapped around his lungs, the fist at his throat that refused him his air. Against the numbness of his lips and his limbs. Against the loss of his voice and his reason and his mind.

Brand was such a good, good fucking boy while he broke.

The worst part, though, was watching her face fall when he didn’t remember her name. It wasn’t like the shrill titters or overly dramatic gasps of outrage on his behalf. It wasn’t like the performative mask she donned in her attempts to influence him. No, guilt laid heavy and twisting in his gut because every time he failed to remember Okthana at the start of their visits, her confusion and hurt seemed so utterly sincere that he felt fucking bad about it. Like he’d done something wrong.

Even fucking now.

If Brand was awake to do it, he’d retch all over the floor.

Especially when he noticed a different poking and prodding in the later memories. When Okthana started subtly asking, and reminding, and securing his promises. All in return for that supposed unconditional love she was offering.

Okthana needed his help, and he was all too willing to give it.

She made Brand feel so useful, so needed, so good, even though he had no idea what he was agreeing to each time. Even though he didn’t realize she was the poison running through his veins.

If only Brand had remembered these meetings with his adult mind. Had recalled that she was toxic. That she couldn’t be trusted, no matter how charming her words were. That her duplicity was to be expected.

But he didn’t. Worse, part of him unwittingly fell for her ruse all over again. And even after decimating his home, stealing him away, and tearing him apart bit-by-agonizing-bit, it somehow came as a crushing shock when she broke her pretty promises and dispensed with a second, unknown part of her plan.

She swore to give him his freedom after he helped her. Instead, she offered him up on a sacrificial altar to a being as old as the cosmos themselves. She laughed as old languages slipped from her tongue. She reveled in Brand’s screams as he was devoured. Maniacal. Evil.

Because of her, he was splintered and might never be whole again. Never⁠—

No. Fuck it. It no longer mattered. Whether he was or wasn’t, Brand still had purpose. He remembered everything, and he was going to make damned sure it spelled her doom.

He made promises, too, after all. The difference was that he planned on keeping his.

Oh, yes. Brand was going to fucking slaughter Okthana for what she did to him.

Just as soon as he could bring himself to wake up.

Magnus paced at the end of Brand’s bed, locked on his brother’s still form.

Brand had been lost to sleep for two days. Cordelia insisted he was fine, but Mag wanted to consult with someone who possessed more than half a piddling grain of healing competence. Unfortunately, the Demons were now in an all-out, silent war with Nachthelliae, and Lyriat refused to let any other Sorcerit into the castle—even their messengers.