Varang’s sister did not bother hiding her disgust.

It showed in the way her gaze sharpened whenever the sky person was near, in the subtle recoil she never quite masked, in the tension that coiled through her posture like a restrained strike. To her, Quaritch was not a man shaped by change—he was metal and smoke given breath, a reminder of everything that had scarred their world.

An offense made living.

Varang felt it every time they shared a space. The judgment. The silent accusation. Her sister did not need words to make her stance clear; contempt carried just as much weight without them. Each glance said enough: This shames us. This weakens you.

Varang did not flinch.

She had never ruled by comfort. Her choices were measured in survival, not approval. She knew what it looked like to others—a clan leader bound to a sky person, fire braided with steel. But she also knew what her sister refused to see: Quaritch was no longer pointed where he once had been. The weapon had turned.

Disgust was easy.

Conviction was harder.

And Varang had never been afraid of standing in the heat of her own decisions—even when her sister’s revulsion burned just as hot.