Sunspire Mountains she slipped the lock, and changed her dress

Wylla's fuse, which once burned hot long after the source of her anger was gone, was woefully short this time. Almost as soon as her rage exploded out of her, it fizzled and she was left at a seething simmer. Numbness spread through her body, dousing the flames, returning her to her despondence. Tiercel might recognize the signs of disconnect entering her dam's flat gaze again, and while she did listen, her daughter's scathing accusations couldn't rouse her anger again.

You left me, Wylla said in a voice slung low and cold. I searched for you. For months. But you said it yourself. You're a stupid child who ran into the arms of a man. Your choices have consequences and you don't get to blame me for that. Tiercel knew of the occurrence between herself and Raptor, or at least, she knew Wylla's account of it. If she'd been enough of an idiot to seek strange men anyway, well, that was her problem. Wylla was great at blaming others for her mistakes and issues, which Tiercel clearly inherited, but where she was oblivious to the wrongness of herself doing it, she scoffed at Tiercel trying to pull that card on her.

You forfeited my protection and my ability to save you when you abandoned me. How Tiercel could possibly imagine that Wylla would find her, when she'd indubitably made every effort to not be found, Wylla would never know. Tiercel was a lot like her when she was that young—she would've expected the same thing of Lusca, and it truly did tear her heart apart that her daughter had to endure that alone—but she was old enough now that she wouldn't take the blame for her kid's decisions.

I never lost you, Tiercel. You left of your own accord. I tried my best to find you, but I'm not a fucking psychic, and my life doesn't end because you chose to leave it. I had to assume you were okay and move on eventually. Her lips twisted, not quite a sneer, not quite a grimace—locked somewhere between deepest disappointment and savage hurt for all that had befallen her child. The child once smitten with purple flowers. The little duckling. I am your mother, whether you like it or not, but I don't have to be your mom. It seared her heart and her soul alike to say that, set her eyes alight with unshed tears, but hadn't Tiercel said that in as many words? Obviously, Wylla was a failure in her eyes for being unable to find her and save her, and the Eisen lacked the fortitude—or the care—to grovel at her firstborn's feet to try to right that wrong. She was too busy searching for Thade, trying to make sure Phaedra didn't end up like her older sister. She didn't have time to coddle Tiercel, too.

When you grow the fuck up and take responsibility for your own mistakes, maybe we can talk then. And she turned away, on high alert for any indication that Tiercel would attack, but otherwise dismissive of her accusatory daughter. She couldn't stay in Tiercel's presence one second more. Her heart was broken enough.