Fain exhales and regards me levelly as he reclines in his chair and swirls a glass of turquoise wine, his arm draped around Sholindrile’s broad shoulders. “Toward the end of the Realm War,” he says, the liquid in his glass stilling as he sets it gently down, “your parents were increasingly active in the Resistance. Both your father and mother were aiding the Urisk and the Fae and later the Smaragdalfar Elves in their efforts to escape East.”

“Uncle Edwin was involved in the Resistance too, Ren,” Trystan softly adds, concern in his kohl-rimmed eyes. I know he understands just how mind-bendingly disorienting all this new information is. So many things we believed our whole lives turned upside down.

Fain interlaces his fingers, his aura consolidating into a dense, invisible cloud around him. “Your parents were attempting to rescue a group of Asrai Fae children before they could be shipped to the Pyrran Islands.” His mouth tenses and the entire room ripples and darkens for a moment. “Your grandmother found out about it and executed them.”

I look at Trystan, my throat gone dry. He’s sitting beside Fain and Sholindrile, looking calm enough, but I can sense the wind and water auras coursing fitfully around him, just as my fire has kicked up into a tangled, troubled blaze.

“Your grandmother didn’t want your family’s illustrious name sullied,” Fain continues in a bitter tone. “So she pretended they’d been killed by Kelts.”

I grapple with the truth, stunned by how thoroughly this was hidden from me and my brothers. I turn to Lucretia, outrage blooming, unable to keep the accusation from my tone. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t Jules?” And why didn’t Uncle Edwin?

“Elloren, we couldn’t,” she insists with obvious remorse, then pauses, seeming at a loss for words.

“It was too dangerous,” Fain cuts in with a look of concern toward Lucretia. “Everyone who knew that Vale and Tessla had been involved in the Resistance was killed, with very few exceptions. Do you realize how dangerous that information is in the Western Realm? That the son of the Black Witch was a Resistance organizer?”

A memory surfaces, adding to my morass of questions.

“Aunt Vyvian told me that Jules and our mother were...together,” I say. I’m hit by a sudden flash of unsettled water magery and turn toward its origin to find Lucretia’s gaze pinned firmly on the table. Her water aura, always so tightly constrained, is sluicing through her lines with surprising intensity. I remember Diana telling me about the strong attraction she sensed between Lucretia and Jules, neither aware of the other’s affections.