An hour earlier

Her world was a broken record, an endless tape of the last few seconds of an innocent man's life. It had been hours since he had died. Sometimes it seemed like it had been eternity. Other times it felt like it was still happening, that it had never ended at all.

The moment the sword cut through his neck—so easily, as though it was a knife cutting through soft cheese—and his head rolled on the ground. The moment he stopped screaming and blood poured out of his mouth instead of prayers to the goddesses that had abandoned him.

That was the moment that played again and again and again, over and over in Layla's head. Screams. Sword. Red blood. Rolling head.

The moment was as surreal as it was gruesome. Everything merged together, like the man's blood and her vomit, the twin screams they shared.

Again, and again and again.

She had done this. She had, in that stupid, stupid, reckless moment, gave her people one last look. And she hadn't done it to show them that she didn't mean any of the words that poured from her lips like that man's blood poured from his mouth. She hadn't done it to fight back, or to give her people hope or any of the half dozen things Myra and the others with some fighting spirit believed she had.

No, Layla had done it for one last look. One last glimpse. One last chance to see the people that she loved so dearly. One last chance to see the cities that had raised, the cities that her mother and her father had loved so, so dearly. Enough to die for them, as Layla had been willing to do.

But that thirteen-year-old brave, hopeful girl was gone, extinguished like the bold and beautiful Song that she had carried within her.

The girl had died not with her parents or the betrayal of her not-so-aunt. The girl had died with hope, extinguished like a candle flame without oxygen. And now all that was left was this broken, hopeless girl with blood on her hands and a world on repeat.

Again, and again and again, the man died. It was a loop she would never escape from. She would watch him scream and the sword slice through his neck and the blood flood out his mouth and his head roll on the floor for the rest of her days.

This—this endless torture was grey and cold like Silence, and red like the man's blood and tasted of the bile that had spewed from her mouth—

Then a hand slid into hers and the loop broke, if just for a moment.

"I killed my mother." Myra's voice rang out through the silence as she and Layla sat in the rocking boat. The splash of waves was the only thing that could be heard.

Layla blinked, suddenly brought into reality. The valkyrie had been silent ever since Lysandra had whispered something in her ear.

"I killed my mother." Myra repeated. "I killed her. I wasn't under any spell. I knew what I was doing. I loved her and I killed her."

The silence returned. Layla knew to wait; any more questions and the general would close up again. Five years in Dorgon had taught her that.

"It was one of that worst points of the God-Born War. One of the best for you, I suppose. We were falling back, so close to the mountains. Vicky...Vicky had the plague. Half our camp had the plague." Layla was startled at Myra's casual use of Vicky. The elves had either called her the War Queen or the Enemy.

"Caelia was wounded. My wyvern. I wasn't nearly as good with anybody else, but the front needed me. So, I grabbed one of the spare wyverns and went to fight anyway.

"My mother was a Unit General. General of the Calvary." Diaz's predecessor." We rode together, leading the front forwards. But I wasn't good enough, not on a strange wyvern. I made one mistake. That was all it took."

"That wasn't your fault," Layla blurted. "You made a mistake. That was all."

"I wasn't finished," Myra chastised. "Let me continue."

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"My mother didn't die. It was a MindWeaver's magic that slipped through the cracks. There is a...way we have of saving valkyries under that influence. If we get there quick enough, we can shake it off."

"I know," Layla said softly. "We could never figure out how you did it."

"My mistake wasn't letting the spell come through. That happened all the time. But like I said, it was a strange wyvern and I didn't get there in time."

"It's still not your fault," Layla said empathetically. "Everyone makes mistakes in a battle."

"I'm not done yet. The MindWeaver managed to bring her into the elfin ranks before the other valkyries could stop them. And the next day.... she was on the front lines, facing me. See, they knew by then the best way to employ us was against the ones who loved us."

"Oh goddesses," she said hoarsely. "Oh Elena. Myra, the way you must be feeling right now, with everything..."

"Shush. Let me finish." She heaved a deep sigh. "I didn't fight her. Every day, I avoided facing her. Every day, some other valkyrie died against her. Viktoria had plague, and the other Unit Generals weren't nearly as good as my mother. I was the only one who could face her. And I didn't. For a month. My mother wrecked havoc for that month, and our army was so, so close to breaking.

"And I knew she was in pain. I knew that, doing this, being turned against everyone and everything she loved, would hurt her more than anything." A single tear ran down the Dragon's cheek.

"I also knew that she could be saved. If we caught the right hostage, if we killed the MindWeaver who did it...we could have done it. It had happened before. Honestly, it was probably a matter of time."

"We could have saved her. I could have saved her. Viktoria was too sick to make any decisions; I had the authority to do anything I could to save her.

"But I didn't. On the thirty-first day of slaughter, I fought at the front and I found her. She gave me...she gave me this scar in the battle." Myra reached out to trace the jagged line that barely missed her left eye.

"It would have half-blinded me if something...something within her hadn't been fighting back." Myra drew a deep, shuddering breath. "In the end, I bested her. And I had my sword at her throat, and I had seconds, mere seconds, before one of the elves took her back behind the lines again."

Myra was shaking all over and tears fell down her cheeks. Layla squeezed her hand even tighter. The woman in front of her was no longer in the present. Just like Layla, she was existing in the past, her world an endless loop of a death that had shaken her to her core.

"So, I told my mother that I loved her. I knew the person she was was deep, deep inside. I bent down, and I told her that I loved her. I told her that doing this would cost me everything. I told her that she was everything I could ever have asked for. I made the blessing that would open the doors of the afterlife to her. I begged the goddesses to see that none of this was her fault. And then I told her I loved her more than anything, one last time." Myra drew in a shaky breath. "And then I killed her."

"I'm so, so sorry," she said softly, then realised how stupid those words were. How insubstantial in comparison to the hurt and the pain that still lived in Myra's heart.

"I didn't tell you that to make you feel sorry for me," Myra told her. "I told you so you would know that you are not alone. I told you so you knew that I understand what you mean. About everything we did not meaning anything. I killed my own mother to protect my people. And still, they ended up enslaved. But I have to believe there is a reason to fight on. I have to believe that there is hope out there, somewhere. Because my mother could not have died for nothing."

"What was her name?"

"Her name was Ferius Lluvia, and I loved her more than anything in the world."

"Ferius would have wanted you to do what you did. She would have understood."

"I don't know that," Myra smiled sadly. "No one does. Or can."

"What did Lysandra say to you before she left?"

"She said that my daughter is alive."

Those seven words split through the silence.

"Your daughter?" She choked out. "Kestra? Kestra Lluvia?'

"No," Myra said, shaking her head and letting out the smallest of smiles, hope sparking to life in her eyes.

"No, her name is Kestra Isidore and she is the Keeper Queen."

Layla stared at Myra, open-mouthed.

"Vera had no heir."

"That's what we wanted you to think," Myra said with a sudden, fierce grin. "I told you there was hope left in this world, my little Star—"

"What?" Layla asked. "Star-what?"

"Nothing," Myra sighed, shaking her head. She searched her face sadly. "No, you're not her. I have to remember that."

Myra turned away sadly and stared out into the distance, leaving Layla suddenly alone.