“Stop!” she cried. “Mother! I didn’t betray us. Nobody knows about the herd. I just wanted to⁠—”

Calder spoke, cutting her off. “Your brother has told me you do not wish to breed. I see now you’d rather take a hideous form than follow the course of nature. Banishment’s too good for you. Your mother and brother will erase the shame you brought upon them.”

An honor killing? Oh, by the depths, no one ever turned back from those. “No, wait! I⁠—”

Calder nodded at Beathag, who bobbed next to Hæra. “I’ll trust you to do your duty. Finish her.”

Beathag’s eyes held no hint of reluctance or remorse. “We both will. My son and I will atone for her.”

“Sire,” Hæra croaked. Her ribs ached. “Please, I did it for a noble reason. I was trying to⁠—”

Before she could finish, Beathag’s fin cracked across her face again. Hæra tumbled, and when she opened her eyes again, the Sire had swum away.

He was gone, and if Hæra’s family showed mercy to her, then he wouldn’t have to know. She could leave and never return, taking her chances in the open ocean. At least banishment was better than death. Maybe the unthinkable would happen, and Beathag would spare her daughter’s life after all.

“I’ve had many disappointments,” her mother said. “You, the worst of all.”

Hope collapsed in Hæra’s chest like one of Jonathan’s structures made from playing cards. Beathag looked even more merciless now, if that was possible.

Asgall—as if sensing he was the second-worst disappointment—took this as his cue to strike Hæra again. He used less force than before, and he laughed. Now that the Sire was gone, it seemed he felt free to take his time about hurting her.

Hæra wheezed, “I only wanted to help our family…after my father…”

“Don’t dare speak of your father.” Beathag bared her teeth. “And you do nothing for our ‘family.’ You think only of yourself.”

She tore into Hæra’s shoulder again. Hæra yowled in agony. She’d never been on fire, but this pain reminded her of the awful flames in Jonathan’s fireplace. This must be what it was like to burn.

She was a fighter, a hunter, wasn’t she? She couldn’t be so wholly passive, so complicit in her own death. She could strike back at Beathag, and she’d better do it fast. Beathag was smaller than she was, and not nearly as strong. Hæra could draw her mother’s blood in one final gesture of defiance.

She looked into Beathag’s eyes and saw only loathing, relentless and cold. “Always, you shame me,” Beathag said. “You’ve never been who you’re supposed to be. And now you’re nothing at all.”