Seralyne laughed. It was not their father's laugh. It was short and brittle and carried no warmth at all. She dragged both hands through her rust-colored hair and stared up at the grey sky as if asking the gods what exactly they thought they were doing.
"A Kaerethyne heir," Seralyne said. "In my sister's belly. While their uncle's dragon burned Father alive."
"It's also a Veyranne heir, Sera."
"Don't." Seralyne spun back. Her finger was pointed at Elyra's chest, and her eyes were blazing. "Don't you dare turn this into politics right now. Father's ashes aren't even cold. His blood is still on that pass. And you're standing here telling me—"
"I'm standing here telling you that I am carrying his grandchild, and I will not lose it because you shoved blood-root in my face without thinking."
That landed.
Seralyne's hand dropped. Her chin trembled—once. She caught it. Locked it down. Turned away again.
The silence stretched.
