Swiftcurrent Creek under the folding branches

Fire ignited in his brother—the words could have chilled any onlooker to the bone, but they drew a faint smile to the corner of his lips. Viinturuth lifted—Akavir pressed his forehead to his brother—there was little much to say, now. “Bi sàbhailte,” he murmurs—one of the tongues of the Mayfairs.

The brothers might not have had a penchant for magic, like the rumors of their aunt Deirdre… but generations of fire, blood and war carried with them.

The man who hurt one of theirs would rue the day, surely.