"You said that to me once before," she said. "'Tell me if he hurts you.'"
"I meant it then. I mean it now."
"And if what hurts me is you? Standing in this garden? Telling me my father is a monster? Being right about everything while I stand here discovering that the man who taught me to control fire was using the same techniques to imprison children?"
"Then I hurt you. And I'm sorry for that. And I'd do it again, because you deserve the truth more than you deserve comfort."
The garden was very dark now. The jasmine had closed completely. The stars were out — Aethermere's stars, dense and bright and arranged in patterns that neither of us had chosen.
Valeria was quiet for a long time.
Then she sat down. On the stone. Not on the bench — on the ground. The graceful, immaculate Embercrown heir, sitting on cold stone in a garden at night, her perfect posture finally surrendering to the weight of what she'd just learned.
I sat beside her. Not close. Not touching. Present.
