Morag looked at Ari, who stood a few feet from the cottage. Tears ran down the young witch’s face, mixing with the sweat that soaked her hair and the bodice of her dress. Her teeth were gritted, and her hands pressed against a belly that looked ripe enough to burst.

“No, Lucian! No!” Ari screamed. “I won’t go back with you. I made my choice. Lucian!”

Horse, stag, and shadow hound kept circling, paying no heed to the woman they fought over.

Ari screamed again—and Morag shivered at the rage she heard growing under the fear. “You think if you burn out my life, I’ll crawl back and accept whatever crumbs you give me because you’ve left me with nothing else? I won’t crawl. I won’t go back. I’m not some trinket for you to play with!”

Smoke rose from the cottage roof, but Morag saw no flames. She looked at Ari and saw determination etched in a face that would never again look as young and fresh as it had even just a few hours before. She’s grounding the fire. She’s matching his power and holding it back. But how long can she do it without harming herself or the babe?

Morag straightened in the saddle, still fighting to take a full breath. If Neall slipped…If Lucian got in a lucky blow…She couldn’t wait for Death to tell her whom to gather.

Then Merle dashed in, snapping at Lucian’s belly. Lucian whirled to strike back at the shadow hound—and gave Neall the opening he’d been waiting for. His antlers raked across Lucian’s side, cutting through the skin. Fire roared up in front of Neall, forcing him to leap away. But the flames died fast, and he was back, circling, circling. He moved forward, putting himself in reach of Lucian’s front hooves.

Screaming in fury and triumph, Lucian reared—and Merle struck from behind, his jaws closing on a hind leg, his teeth ripping muscle and tendons.

Lucian fought for balance while Neall leaped away. As his front hooves slammed into the ground and blood poured from his side and his crippled hind leg, Ari yelled, “Neall! Merle!” The power of earth rolled in her voice.

They backed away from Lucian, moving toward her.

Ari and Lucian stared at each other. Morag watched them, waiting. Then something else caught her attention and she turned her head to stare at the trees—at the fire disappearing from their blackened skeletons.

She looked back at Ari, alarmed. And she felt a moment’s pity for the man who was the Lord of Fire. Lucian, you fool. There is good reason why witches are called the Mother’s Daughters.

“You want fire, Lightbringer?” Ari said. “Then I will give you fire!”