But I wasn’t alone. Not truly. In life or in death, I’d have someone to meet me. Someone to love me. My stomach curdled at Nicholina’s congealed throat. At Josephine’s empty expression. Though the former might’ve found peace with her son, could the latter say the same? Could Morgane? She stepped over their corpses without acknowledgment. Already, they meant less to her than the mire beneath her boots. “Your generals are dead,” I said quietly. “I think you are the one alone.”

The blood witches stiffened as Morgane paused, turning to kick Josephine’s vacant face. “Good riddance.”

With a crippling sense of sorrow, I stared at her as my white patterns undulated weakly. I couldn’t kill her with them. Not outright. Death was natural, yes, but murder was not. It hardly mattered now either way. When I’d clasped two sides of the very world, trying to save Claud—a god, a friend—from his own magic, I’d nearly rent myself apart. My patterns had distended past the point of reparation. Some had snapped altogether. Those remaining had grown dim with weariness.

Morgane didn’t know that.

I searched each carefully now, seeking a distraction, something to allow me near. Something to debilitate her long enough for me to strike. Gently, I fed the patterns outward. “Have you loved anyone in this world, maman?”

She scoffed and lifted her hands. “Love. I curse the word.”

“Has anyone loved you?”

Her eyes narrowed on mine. Her mouth twisted in question. “It’s true,” I admitted, quieter still. “I did love you once. Part of me still does, despite everything.” I twitched my finger, and the water of the Doleur trickled steadily, silently, through the grass beneath our feet. It melted the snow. It cleansed the blood. If Morgane noticed, she didn’t react. Though her features remained riddled with spite, she studied me as if enthralled. As if she’d never heard me say it, though I’d told her a thousand times. A single tear slid down my cheek in response, and the pattern dissipated. A tear for a river. Both held endless depths.

“You gave me life,” I continued, stronger now, the words spilling faster than I’d intended. Cathartic. “Of course I loved you. Why do you think I allowed them to chain me to an altar? At sixteen years old, I was willing to die for you. My mother.” Another tear fell, and the water flowed faster. It touched her hem now. “You never should’ve asked me. I’m your daughter.”

“You were never my daughter.”

“You gave me life.”

“I gave you purpose. What should I have done, darling? Cradled you in my arms while others’ daughters perished? While they burned? Should I have valued your life more than theirs?”