“Open your eyes. Please.”

Frowning deeply, on the verge of fresh tears, Rhian blinked and blinked, then finally lifted her lids fully. More blood dripped out but—thank the gods!—her eyes were still there.

Morfyd had been afraid those Zealot spells had somehow removed sweet Rhian’s eyes.

Perhaps the Zealots had tried but couldn’t get past the strength of her magicks. Or she might have simply been less affected by their spell than they’d anticipated. Rhian’s power and training came mostly from her witch mother. The Nolwenn witches of the Desert Lands were as powerful as the Kyvich witches in the north. But her Nolwenn blood wasn’t all Rhian possessed. She was the third-born Abomination and the blood of dragons flowed through her veins along with her mother’s human blood. And nestled in that dragon’s blood was the power of her grandmother, Rhiannon the White. Like Morfyd, a white She-dragon—and the most powerful of Dragon witches among their kind.

Although Rhian had been born with the brown skin and hair of her Desert Land people, a shock of white on her scalp now fell down her back along with all that curly brown hair. It had developed over the last year and she kept it in a long braid so that it was almost lost among her mane of thick brown curls.

But it was there and Morfyd knew what that white hair meant. That Rhian’s powers were only beginning to develop. At some point, she would outshine her cousins and, perhaps, Rhiannon herself.

But until then, until Rhian finally discovered the extent of the power buried deep inside, she would need more protection than the twins. And Morfyd had taken it upon herself to be that protection for now.

“Can you see, Rhian?”

She turned her head, violet, bloodshot eyes searching.

“Yes,” she said on a deep sigh. “A little blurry, but I can see.” She tried to wipe her eyes with her fists but Morfyd stopped her, pushing her hands back into her lap. “What happened?” she asked.

“An ancient spell. One long buried. Used to destroy this land.”

“And Auntie Annwyl’s legions?”

“Damaged but many survived because of the twins.”

Rhian blinked, frowned again. “Uncle Brastias.”

Morfyd dropped her gaze. She’d been afraid to think of her mate. Afraid she’d break down and be of no use to anyone. But she wouldn’t lie to Rhian, who would see through that with little effort.

“I don’t know where he is, love. I can only hope—”

“I wasn’t asking,” Rhian said plainly. “Because I see him right there.”

Still crouching, Morfyd spun and saw her mate standing among the troops. He was covered in dirt and blood and bruises, spouting off angry orders, lashing into anyone not moving fast enough or still too dazed by all that had happened to function, but he was alive.

Alive.

“I’m not dying,” Rhian pointed out. “You can go to—”

Morfyd didn’t bother to let her niece finish. She simply ran to Brastias and threw herself into his arms.