Over the next hour, we start explaining, and when we finish speaking, we’re met with surprised silence.

“This is impossible,” D’Arcy says, but there is no conviction in it. Our tale is too out there, too wild, not to be true. Why would we make all of this up?

“I know it sounds that way,” Nadir says. “But I was in the Evanescence. I saw my grandfather, and he said that my father used some kind of alternate magic to coerce the Torch into forcing him to descend.”

Bronte shakes her head. “If the Artefacts can be manipulated in such a way, then this throws everything we’ve ever believed into question.”

A grim silence circles around the room. She’s right. It shakes the foundations of everything Ouranos has been built on for thousands of years. Zerra is a lie. The Artefacts aren’t what we thought they were. And all this time, we’ve actually been the puppets of some distant entity that doesn’t appear to care all that much whether any of us live or die.

“Beyond that,” Cedar says. “What about Zerra? You mean to tell us we’ve spent our lives worshipping a spoiled, selfish brat?”

“That appears to be the measure of it,” I reply. “The Empyrium may have had noble intentions . . . I think? But it’s clear they have no idea how life moves for those with mortality, even when you have the long life of the Fae.”

“This is all . . .” Bronte says.

“Monstrous,” Elswyth finishes.

“So you see why I did what I did?” I ask, addressing Cyan and my aunt. “I know it was wrong, but I had to.”

A pause hangs around the room.

“There’s also something more you need to know about my grandmother.”

Nadir reaches over and takes my hand. I don’t want to share this, but they all deserve to know why they lost their magic for fifty years. They should never have been punished for what Serce did.

I look at Linden, who’s staring at me like she wants to wrap a rope around my neck and tighten it. What I’m about to share won’t help matters.

“Someone needs to restrain her before I do,” I say, pointing to my aunt, who narrows her eyes. Cyan looks at her.

“Linden will control herself,” he says with authority, and I can tell she wants to argue. Then he adds in a softer voice, “Killing the girl won’t bring your brother back, my love. Let her speak.”

I watch some of the air deflate from her rigid posture. “Fine,” she says sharply. “I’ll kill her later.”

“Thank you,” I say, rolling my eyes. I guess that’s the best I’m getting.

I explain what happened with the bonding that went wrong.

“Primaries cannot bond,” D’Arcy says.