Riven
Silas has great hair.
And I hate that it's all I can see.
We’re at a table in this gods-damned tavern with sticky floors, half-burnt toast, and the thick scent of ale still clinging to the wood like sweat. The whole place feels like a memory someone tried to bury under too much noise and not enough ventilation. But here we are—eating breakfast like we’re not fractured, like we’re not walking straight toward something that’ll leave at least one of us bleeding.
Orin and Lucien sit apart, as if the table we chose is beneath them. Orin doesn’t eat—doesn’t need to—but he cradles a blackened mug between his hands like it’s centuries of silence boiled down to one drink. Lucien leans in as Orin speaks, his expression unreadable. Strategic. Always. I could light the whole tavern on fire and Lucien’s eyes wouldn’t flicker unless he could make use of the smoke.
And then there’s Silas.
Flashing crumbs of croissant from his lips, swinging one leg under the table like he’s high on sugar and chaos. His hair gleams like something divine and ridiculous—too silky, too artfully disheveled for a man who doesn’t even comb it. It should be illegal to look like that without trying. And I hate it.
“Do you think he uses magic shampoo?”
Elias mumbles beside me, eyeing Silas the way a starving man might eye a steak—conflicted, annoyed, but unable to look away.
“I think he steals the souls of woodland creatures and uses their tears as conditioner,”
I growl back, stabbing my fork into the rubbery egg on my plate like it owes me money.
“You’re just mad you don’t have hair like that.”
“I’m mad because he exists.”
Luna snorts softly from across the table.
And just like that—my spine goes rigid. That sound. Hers. It claws under my skin, dragging heat with it. She’s not laughing at me, not really. But she’s amused. And that’s worse. Because Luna amused is Luna lit from within, and I’m still not used to the way her light finds the cracks in me I didn’t know were there.
She doesn’t say anything. Just takes another sip from the chipped mug between her hands, eyes fixed on something past me. Her hair’s a mess. Her skin still kissed by the morning. Her lips—
I look away.
The bond between us buzzes like a wasp trapped in glass. It’s quiet. But it’s there. Always. Waiting for me to give in, to stop pretending I don’t feel her like a brand behind my ribs.
She doesn’t push. Not today. She’s too aware of me when I’m like this—coiled too tight, my anger a slow swirl beneath my skin. She gives me space. I hate that. I hate how much I need it.
Silas is talking again. Something about ho.
“croissants are the superior bread-based breakfast weapon.”
And Elias is goading him, playing the straight man to Silas’s spiraling comedy routine. I should be irritated. But it’s normal. And the illusion of normal is such a rare luxury that for a moment, I let it be.
Then Luna shifts.
Just a tilt of her body, a lean in my direction as she reaches for the butter. Her arm brushes mine. Bare skin on bare skin. My jaw locks. My pulse stutters.
I don’t look at her. I can’t look at her.
Because if I do—I’ll see it. That softness. That glow. That fucking patience in her eyes that says she knows. That she understands. That she forgives me even when I can’t stand the sound of my own voice.
She says nothing. Doesn’t even glance at me as she butters her toast and takes a bite like she didn’t just rock my entire foundation with a two-second brush of skin.
I shove my plate away.
“I’m going outside,”
I mutter, already rising.
“You didn’t eat,”
Elias points out.
“Not hungry.”
“Not mad, either,”
Silas adds without looking up, voice syrupy with sarcasm.
“Just brooding for the aesthetics.”
I shoot him a look. One that would’ve made most men reconsider their entire existence.
Silas winks at me.
Luna doesn’t say a word. But as I pass, I feel her. That bond hums again, low and dangerous. And I know she’s watching. I know she’s feeling.
And fuck me—I want her to stop. And I want her to never stop.
I step outside like I’m escaping a fire.
The tavern door creaks shut behind me, muting the sounds of laughter, clinking mugs, and the chaos that always swirls when Silas and Elias are in close proximity to anything combustible—including each other. My palms hit the outer wall, rough with age and grit, and I suck in a breath like I haven’t been able to take a full one in days.
The village is quiet. Too quiet.
For a place that should be waking up—chimneys smoking, shutters opening, feet crunching over gravel—it feels like the whole ravine is holding its breath. But that’s when I see them.
The banners.
Faded red and bone-white, strung from wooden beams to lantern poles, flapping gently in the breeze. At first glance, it looks festive. But the symbols stitched into the cloth aren’t celebratory. They’re ancient. Ritualistic. A distorted sun with too many rays, a mouth with no face, and a hand open at the center, fingers curled like it’s reaching for something that isn’t there.
There’s a festival coming. And something tells me we weren’t invited—we were summoned.
Lucien wants us to stay. Two more days, he said. Time to plan. Time to rest.
But there’s no rest here. No safety. Just a pause in the chaos long enough to make us think we might survive what’s next.
I glance down the alley between buildings, watch shadows shift like they’re being peeled back by something unseen. This place—it remembers. It watches. Maybe even feeds.
The door opens behind me.
And of course. It’s her.
Of fucking course it’s her.
She doesn’t speak. Just steps out into the soft morning light like she belongs in it. Her hair’s pulled back haphazardly, the kind of mess that’s deliberate. She’s wrapped in one of our coats—mine, I think. Or maybe Elias’s. Doesn’t matter. She could wear ash and still look like she was carved from prophecy and sin.
“You ever consider just… not?”
I say without turning.
“Not what?”
Her voice is quiet. Not sharp. Not sweet. Just... her.
“Not following me. Not pushing when I want space.”
She comes to stand beside me, arms crossed over her chest.
“You say you want space. But you breathe me in like I’m the last clean thing in a poisoned world.”
I don’t respond. Because she’s right. And I fucking hate that.
The bond hums between us, quiet but insistent. It knows what I want, even when I don’t. It drags her thoughts into mine like vines curling around stone. Sometimes it’s a whisper. Sometimes a scream. Right now—it’s a pulse.
She doesn’t say anything else. Just stares at the banners, the way they sway in rhythm with something older than this village, older than her, older than us.
“What is it?”
she asks after a moment.
“Festival,”
I mutter.
“Or a warning. Maybe both.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, and it hits me in the chest. Hard. She always looks at me like that—like she’s trying to see through the walls I spent lifetimes building. She doesn’t realize those walls are what’s keeping the worst parts of me in.
“Lucien thinks we should stay,”
she says.
“Says the people here might know more about the cathedral. About what Branwen’s building.”
“Lucien thinks too much. And not enough.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to smile but knows better.
“So you want to leave.”
“I want to survive,”
I say.
“I don’t care how.”
She’s silent for a beat. Then.
“You don’t mean that.”
I finally look at her. Full-on. And gods, it hurts.
Because she’s standing so close. Because I can feel the heat of her. Because there’s this ache in my chest that never fucking stops—not when I’m near her, and not when I’m away.
Because the bond chose her. And maybe so did I.
“You’re dangerous,”
I say, voice low.
She raises an eyebrow. “To you?”
“To all of us.”
She steps closer. Not touching. Just... present. Like the fucking sun.
“Then stop looking at me like I’m your last salvation,”
she whispers.
I don’t flinch. But I want to. Because she’s right again. And she knows it.
I tear my gaze away, fists clenching at my sides.
“Go back inside, Luna.”
“No.”
“Luna—”
She reaches out and lays her hand on my forearm. Not to soothe. Not to beg. Just there.
And gods damn me, I don’t pull away.
She is not my salvation.
She is my damnation.
The thought echoes, low and molten, as I stare at her fingers wrapped around my forearm like they have any right. Like they haven’t already ruined me. She’s soft in a way that should make me recoil. Delicate. Warm. Human.
And I hate that it doesn’t.
I hate that it softens me.
Me—the fucking Sin of Wrath. Built from bone and blood and fury that burned kingdoms before I ever tasted her name on my tongue. I am not meant for softness. I am not meant to yield.
And yet.
Her touch sinks past muscle and marrow. Slides between ribs. Settles against my heartbeat like she belongs there.
And that—that—makes me furious.
She blinks up at me, lashes still damp from the cold air or dreams she hasn’t shaken.
“Are you going to pull away?”
I want to. I should. I need to.
But the bond thrums beneath her skin like it’s calling to me. Reminding me we were never supposed to be separate. That it wasn’t just fate that stitched us together—it was something older. Hungrier.
“I don’t like being handled,” I growl.
She doesn’t move.
“Then don’t make yourself so easy to hold.”
Fuck. Her mouth. That smart, infuriating mouth.
I shift, wrench my arm out of her grip and put a step between us like it’ll help. It doesn’t. Her scent is still in my nose. Her heat is still crawling under my skin like embers trying to ignite.
“You don’t get to follow me and poke the beast and act like you’re not going to get bit,” I snarl.
She shrugs.
“Maybe I want to see what happens when you do.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
There’s something sickly sweet in the silence between us. Something that coils between my ribs and whispers that I’m already lost. That this—this—is what it feels like to be owned by something I can’t kill.
Behind us, the village is beginning to stir. A door creaks open three buildings down. Two children run out barefoot into the frostbitten street, chasing each other through smoke trails and the scent of salted meat. Normal. Almost idyllic.
It’s a lie.
The banners flutter above their heads like warnings dressed in celebration. Whatever festival this is—it’s not meant for joy.
I glance at Luna again, and her eyes are on them. But her expression is unreadable. That’s what makes her dangerous. Not the magic. Not even the bond. It’s the way she feels everything and shows nothing.
“Lucien wants to ask around,”
she says quietly.
“See what these people know.”
“They won’t talk.”
She finally looks back at me.
“You sure?”
“They smell like secrets. Like they’ve been keeping them so long, their teeth have grown over them.”
She flinches at that, just slightly. Then says.
“That’s poetic, .”
I bare my teeth.
“It’s not meant to be.”
She exhales, and it fogs in the space between us like a ghost trying to take shape.
“You’re always like this,”
she says.
“Sharp. Ready to burn everything down.”
“Better than pretending it isn’t already on fire.”
She doesn’t argue. Just studies me like she’s trying to find a place to press deeper. A weakness to unravel.
The problem is—she already has.
The bond pulses low and hard in my chest. Not demanding. Not even seductive.
Just present.
And gods help me, I want to rip it out and keep it at the same time.
“Come back inside,”
she murmurs.
“No.”
“I’m not asking.”
I step in close, grip her chin in my hand—gentle but firm. She gasps softly, just once. I lower my head until my breath hits her lips.
“I don’t belong in the light, little flame,”
I whisper.
“And if you keep dragging me into it, I’ll burn you with me.”
She doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just smiles.
“Then stop pretending you don’t want to.”
“What the fuck do you want from me, Luna?”
The words come out like gravel scraped from my throat, rough and louder than I meant them to be. My back hits the stone wall beside the tavern, fingers curling into fists at my sides, desperate for something to punch, something other than the helplessness wrapping around my lungs like barbed wire.
She doesn’t flinch. Of course she doesn’t. She never flinches when it’s me.
She just steps closer, arms crossed like she’s tired of this conversation—but still not walking away from it. From me.
“I want you, ,”
she says, voice low, calm, maddening.
“Just as you are. I would change nothing about you.”
And there it is. That sentence. That curse.
She says it like it’s simple. Like it’s sane.
But it’s not.
It’s not.
Her gaze doesn’t waver.
“I won’t cage you. I won’t press my will or whims on you. And I think I’ve made that clear.”
She has. She has, and that’s what makes me want to tear the sky in half. Because she’s giving me a freedom I don’t know what the fuck to do with.
“You say that,”
I grit out, shoving off the wall.
“You say it, Luna. But everything about you asks.”
Her brows furrow.
“Asks what?”
“For me to stay,”
I snap.
“For me to stop pretending this bond is a fucking mistake.”
She stares at me, and gods, her expression—it's not pity. It's not softness.
It’s clarity. Like she’s always seen what I refuse to. What I can’t.
“You’re the only one still calling it that,”
she says quietly.
“A mistake.”
I stalk toward her before I can stop myself, shadows wrapping around my boots like they’re drawn to the heat radiating off my skin. My anger, my desire—it bleeds out, twists around us. She doesn’t retreat. She never does.
“I am wrath, Luna. I was made to destroy. That’s all I’ve ever been good for.”
“You were made to burn,”
she whispers.
“And maybe I was made to survive the fire.”
I press my hands to the wall on either side of her head, caging her in without touching her, without making contact—and gods, I want to. I want to drag her into me until the war in my chest quiets.
But that would be admitting something. That would be surrender.
And I don’t surrender.
She tilts her head, her breath brushing my throat.
“You’re angry with me. Why?”
“Because you make me want things,”
I hiss.
“You make me hope.”
“Good.”
I freeze.
Her lips curve into something soft. Not smug. Not cruel. Just... knowing.
“I hope you keep wanting,”
she says, voice like smoke curling into my ribs.
“Even if it kills you.”
And maybe it will. Maybe this is how I die. Not in war. Not in blood. But here. With her. Long before my body breaks.
“Why are you so afraid to love me?”
Her voice doesn’t echo—it lives. It slams into my ribs and nests in the spaces I’ve spent centuries carving hollow.
I grit my teeth. My fists curl so tight my claws pierce my palms, a sweet sting that reminds me I’m still here. Still not entirely lost to her.
If I open my mouth, it won’t be words that come out—it’ll be everything I’ve buried since the moment we bonded. The want. The shame of that want. The slow, inexorable pull of her that I’ve tried to tear away from like it’s a parasite eating me alive.
She doesn’t move. She just waits. Like she always does. Like she believes I’ll come to her when I’m ready.
“I’m not afraid,”
I say, voice low and bitter.
“I just know how this ends.”
“With what?”
she asks, and fuck, she sounds so calm, like we’re discussing the weather and not the slow detonation inside my chest.
“With me breaking? Or you?”
“Yes.”
Her lips part, but I don’t give her a chance to speak.
“I destroy everything I touch,”
I say, dragging my gaze to hers, daring her to look away.
“Even the things I love.”
There. I said it.
Love.
The word hits the ground between us like blood—spilled, irreversible. But she just exhales. Not soft. Not sad. Just steady.
“I know.”
She knows. And she’s still here.
“I don’t want your promises,”
she says.
“I don’t want you to become something you’re not.”
I flinch. Because that’s what scares me. Not that she’ll ask for too much—but that she’ll take me as I am. That she already does.
“What do you want then?”
I growl.
“Because I don’t have anything left to give.”
She steps closer, and the warmth of her presence is worse than any blade. Worse than any wound.
“I want the part of you you hate the most,”
she whispers.
“Because that’s the part you never let anyone love.”
My knees almost buckle. I turn away from her, but her fingers catch my wrist. Not to restrain. Just to remind.
“You think you scare me, ?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“You should.”
My voice is ragged.
“You should be running.”
“I already did,”
she says.
“And I still ended up here.”
And then she walks away, back into the tavern, back to the others.
And I—I stand there like the god of wrath, undone by a girl who doesn’t fear the fire. Only the cold it leaves behind.
The door closes behind her with a softness that feels cruel. Final, like a blade sliding home. I don’t move. I can’t. I sit there, anchored to the edge of the tavern’s outer steps, every part of me clenched so tight I might fracture from the inside out. My shoulders bow forward, forearms resting on my thighs, the heat of my magic churning beneath my skin like it’s looking for a reason to burn something down.
But I stay still.
Because stillness is the only thing that keeps the flood back.
She’s inside me. She’s everywhere. And it’s not the bond. It’s not the damn magic. It’s her. Luna. The girl I never wanted to know. The girl I can’t unknow now, no matter how hard I try. She presses into every scar like she belongs there. And somehow, she does. She doesn’t ask me to soften, and yet she already has. She doesn’t demand anything from me—and I still want to give her everything.
And that terrifies me in a way nothing else ever has.
It isn’t the pull of her. It’s the inevitability.
She’s going to die.
The realization lives at the base of my spine, curling like smoke, laced with memories I’ve buried so deep I thought I’d outrun them. But they claw their way up now—memories of other Sin Binders. Others who burned too bright, who thought they could handle our power, hold us, change us. And maybe they did. But it didn’t save them. It never does.
I’ve seen it.
I held one in my arms once, her blood staining my chest, her body going limp as I screamed promises I couldn’t keep. Her name’s gone now—too dangerous to remember—but the pain remains. The loss carved itself into my bones, made me what I am. Wrath. Not rage. Not fury. Something older, darker. The kind of fury that exists because the world takes and takes, and you learn to stop giving a damn.
And now Luna’s here.
Soft. Strong. Fragile.
She doesn’t act like she’s breakable, but I can feel it. In the bond. In the way her life thrums like a flame caught in a storm. She isn’t like the others—but that doesn’t mean she’ll make it. The Hollow’s already feeding off her. Severin’s watching her like she’s prey. Branwen has her hooks in the shadows around her.
And the more I care, the more I become the thing that will shatter when she’s gone.
I dig my fingers into my thighs, trying to steady my breathing. It’s not working. My magic prickles at the edges of the village, disturbing the stones. Not enough to crack them, but enough to let the world know I’m close to coming undone. Again.
The door creaks behind me. I don’t have to turn to know it’s Orin. His presence doesn’t announce itself. It simply arrives—quiet, ancient, steady. Like the only thing in the world not trying to ruin me.
“I told Lucien we shouldn’t linger,”
I mutter, watching the wind toy with the festival banners strung between buildings.
“This place remembers too much.”
Orin says nothing at first. Just steps up beside me and stares out over the square, as if the stillness means something. Maybe to him, it does. He’s always known how to wait.
“You’re not wrong,”
he says eventually, voice a low, contemplative thing.
“But you’re not the only one who remembers loss, .”
I bark a quiet, bitter laugh.
“Don’t need a sermon.”
“No,”
Orin agrees, calm as ever.
“You need to stop pretending she hasn’t already gotten inside your bones.”
My gaze snaps to him, a scowl rising fast—but it dies under the weight of his stare. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his mug of coffee to his lips and looks at me like he sees every bloody, broken thing I’m made of and loves me anyway.
“You think I don’t know how this ends?”
I say, the words catching on something sharp in my throat.
“You think I haven’t already seen it?”
“I think,”
Orin says slowly.
“that you love her. And it’s easier to carry that love as anger than admit you’re afraid.”
My hands curl into fists. And still—he doesn’t stop.
“She’s going to die,”
I grind out, jaw tight.
“Like the others. Like every Binder before her.”
“And yet here you are,”
Orin murmurs.
“Still choosing her. Even if you won’t say it. Even if you can’t.”
He lets the silence stretch then. Lets it settle. Like he’s giving me room to break quietly. And then, as he turns to go, he says the one thing that undoes me:
“So love her anyway.”
He leaves me with that. No parting glance. No sympathy. Just the truth I’ve spent centuries avoiding. Because I do love her. And I already know I’ll burn the world when she dies.
Lucien
They think I’m buying time. And they’re right—but not for the reasons they assume.
believes I’m stalling to study the terrain, waiting for Branwen to reveal her next move. Silas keeps nudging for distractions—more ale, another song, something to numb the undercurrent. And Luna… gods, Luna watches me like she knows. Like she already sees the storm I’m trying to hold back. But even she hasn’t guessed the truth of it.
I’ve played the scenario through every possible permutation. A thousand ways to shift the outcome. Adjust the players. Delay the loss. But the math doesn’t change. The Hollow was never meant to be balanced. And Branwen’s not after balance. She wants power—ownership. Not just of this place. Of us.
I glance at her across the village square, her laughter too bright for a place like this, too sharp for a world that’s bent on fracturing her. She’s laughing at something Silas just said, and Elias is doing that awkward grin he wears when he can’t decide whether to be smug or possessive. And — just watches her with that permanent scowl, but he’s closer than usual, which says more than he realizes.
They’re all caught in her orbit now. So am I.
And that’s the problem. She doesn’t submit. Not to me. And I—godsdammit—I can’t make myself want her to. Even when I should. Even when everything in me says she’s the variable I can’t predict. The threat I can’t contain. The ache I can’t control.
That’s why the equation always ends the same way. Orin and I have to go. Voluntarily. Quietly. We let her take us—me, Orin, maybe Caspian if I can convince him. We give Branwen what she wants. Her trophies. Her leverage. Her distraction. Because if we can keep her busy enough—if she thinks she’s already won—maybe she won’t notice what Luna’s becoming until it’s too late.
Maybe Luna will survive.
Or maybe she won’t. But I’m done pretending survival is part of the outcome for all of us.
“Lucien.”
Orin’s voice slices through my thoughts, low and level as ever. He doesn’t need to say more. I look up, meet his gaze across the tavern table we’ve claimed for our so-called strategy session. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s known longer than I have.
“You’re not hiding it as well as you think,”
he adds, taking a sip of whatever he insists is coffee in this gods-damned village.
“Luna’s going to notice.”
“She already has.”
I rake a hand through my hair, letting the pretense fall away for a breath.
“But she doesn’t know what she’s seeing yet.”
Orin sets the mug down with a soft clink.
“She will.”
I nod, once. Final.
“Then we better move quickly.”
Outside, the banners flap lazily in the wind, strung up for a festival that doesn’t feel real. The villagers are starting to appear again, like they’ve been summoned—not by bells or schedule, but by something older. Something deeper. Magic thick in the seams of this place, hiding in smiles and glances and the way no one asks questions when strangers wander through with blood on their boots.
And still… the people are smiling. Children dart between the stalls. There’s a smell in the air—sweet, spiced, familiar in a way that makes the hairs on my neck rise.
Branwen’s already watching.
Planning.
Hollowing out her space in our story.
I can’t stop her.
But I can buy Luna time.
Orin hasn’t said it out loud. He doesn’t need to.
I’ve known him too long. Fought beside him, bled beside him, watched him make decisions that turned kingdoms to ash. He doesn’t flinch easily. Doesn’t break. But when it comes to Luna… there’s something unshakable in his stillness now. Not devotion, not quite. But clarity. He’s already made peace with the cost.
And that guts me more than I’ll ever admit.
Because I haven’t.
Not really.
Even as I calculate the angles—how long we can stay in this village without tipping Branwen off, how many exits the tavern has, how many villagers might be sleeper agents in her grasp—I keep looping back to the same fucking point. There are too many of us now. Two Sin Binders where there should be one. Two halves pulling in opposite directions. And magic, for all its chaos, doesn’t tolerate imbalance for long.
Something will have to give.
Someone.
And I won’t risk Luna being on the altar when the blade falls.
So yes—I’ll stall. I’ll buy us a few more days in her presence. I’ll lie, manipulate, do what I do best. Because if Orin and I are going to walk into Branwen’s hands, it won’t be without a strategy. And if we fail… at least we’ll fail while she’s still breathing.
I glance across the square again.
She’s there, just at the edge of the marketplace, her back to me. Wind catching the ends of her dark hair, the threads of her dress pulling like they belong to something older than fabric. She’s not dressed like a queen. She doesn’t speak like one. But everything bends around her like she’s already been crowned.
She doesn’t know what she’s becoming.
And none of us know what it’ll cost when she finishes.
“You’re staring.”
Orin again. Still calm. Still unreadable.
I don’t look at him.
“Just thinking.”
“That’s your problem.”
A pause. He lifts his mug again, sips once, then adds.
“She’ll make it. You don’t have to die for her.”
I finally turn to him. “Don’t I?”
Orin tilts his head, studying me.
“You don’t believe in fate.”
“No.”
I shake my head once.
“But I believe in math. And the numbers say we’re fucked.”
He almost smiles.
“Then maybe it’s time to stop thinking like a tactician and start thinking like a believer.”
“Is that what you’ve become now?”
I arch a brow.
“A zealot for the Binder?”
“I’ve lived long enough to see stranger things.”
I can buy us days. Maybe a week, if Branwen’s distracted enough. But in the end, the Hollow doesn’t forget. And neither do the gods.
One Sin Binder.
One throne.
One ending.
And Orin and I are the only ones willing to pay the price to make sure that ending isn’t written in her blood.
“Just enjoy the time you have left with her,”
I mutter, not bothering to temper the steel in my voice. It isn't bitterness, not exactly. It’s truth sharpened into something more lethal. Something I can aim.
“You make it sound like offering ourselves up is the solution.”
He lifts his gaze slowly, the morning sun catching the edge of his irises, making them look almost gold instead of that old, impossible black.
“It may be necessary,”
he agrees with infuriating calm.
“But it’s not the end of our story, Lucien.”
I scoff.
“And what, exactly, do you think is? You plan on being the one who shoves the dagger in Branwen’s heart?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares past me toward the square where the festival banners sway, colorless in the dawn light. The wind cuts through the silence like a blade, lifting the scent of ash and brewing storms off the rooftops.
When he finally speaks, it’s quiet.
“It doesn’t have to be one of us.”
I round on him, fury pulsing behind my eyes.
“It can’t not be,”
I snap.
“And if you think for a second I’m taking the girl anywhere near Branwen, you’re more deluded than I thought.”
Orin’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s weight behind his stare now. A reckoning unspoken.
“She’s already near her. She always has been.”
“That’s exactly why she doesn’t get closer.”
I don’t raise my voice, but every word is a lash.
“She doesn’t know how deep this goes. What Branwen wants from her. What she is. You think she’s ready to face that?”
“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”
“She’s a fucking child compared to what we’ve faced. She doesn’t know the cost—”
“She’s the one paying it,”
Orin interrupts, and that silences me in a way nothing else could.
The words hit like stone cracking ice.
“She’s paying it every day she chooses to stay,”
he says.
“Every time she reaches out to us, knowing what we are. Knowing what we’ve done.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate more that I can feel her even now, a warm thread wrapped just barely around the edges of my awareness. She’s not looking at me, not touching me, not speaking my name. And still, she pulls.
“She doesn’t need you to save her, Lucien,”
Orin says quietly.
“She needs you to let her fight.”
“No,”
I grind out.
“She needs someone to make sure there’s a world left for her when this is over.”
Orin studies me for a long time. Then, with that maddeningly serene tone, says.
“Then don’t die for her yet.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because there’s something fraying in me, something I’ve kept tightly coiled around bone and breath, and Orin’s voice threads right through it. The choice I made long before Luna ever said my name. Before she looked at me like I wasn’t something to obey—but something to understand.
I step away from the table, ignoring Orin’s steady gaze. The village stretches ahead, deceptively peaceful. Somewhere beyond it, Branwen waits, with her blood magic and her knives and her ancient, rotted ambition. She thinks she’s winning.
Let her.
For now.
Because I’m not handing Luna over.
Not to her.
Not to fate.
And not to anyone who thinks they can dictate the end of my story.
We who are bound can’t not fight her. That truth lands like a nail driven into the marrow of my spine. I’ve known it, of course. But knowing and feeling are two different beasts. Knowing is clean. Cold. Measured.
Feeling it—realizing it—that’s a messier thing. It hits like rot seeping beneath armor, something slow and spreading, impossible to cut out once it’s inside you.
Because this isn’t just about winning anymore. It’s not even about surviving. Branwen is a tactician, same as me. Only difference? She’s playing with pieces she’s already broken.
If she gets me—if she turns me—I won’t be able to stop it. Not if I’m bound. Not if she siphons what she needs from whatever twisted magic she’s threading through the Hollow. I’ve studied her longer than the others know. Watched the way she moves through the world like it’s already hers. She’s building something. A kingdom of corruption. A throne for the godless.
And if she decides I’m the sword she needs to drive through Luna’s chest—I’ll do it. I won’t want to. But the bond won’t give a fuck what I want. Not if she carves her way in deep enough.
And that—
That’s the thing I haven’t said out loud.
If Branwen uses me to kill Luna…
The thought cracks something behind my ribs. Not with sentiment. Not with grief. With rage.
Because that’s mine. She’s mine.
Not in the way the others say it, whispering it into her mouth like a vow or bleeding it into the bond like devotion. Mine because I see the cost of her. Because I knew the second she walked into that fucking courtyard she’d ruin every system I built to keep myself apart. She didn’t kneel. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t obey.
And now she’s inside me. Crawled in beneath the Dominion and made herself permanent. I press the heel of my palm into my chest, trying to root it out, knowing I never will. She’s threaded into my damn bones.
“I won’t let it happen,”
I say aloud, though no one’s around to hear me.
“I won’t be the weapon that takes her from them.”
Or from me. Because that’s the thing no one’s said either. Not even Orin. Not even Luna.
None of us walks away from this unscathed.
But I’ll be damned before I let her die at my hands. I’ll kill Branwen first. And if I can’t? I’ll die before I’m used. And I’ll take whatever piece of that bitch I can carve out with me.
Her voice is honeyed rot.
It slides through the cracks in my mind like it belongs there—like I asked for it. Like I welcomed it. Which I didn’t. Which I would never.
And still.
Still, she’s in.
I don’t hear her out loud. It’s worse than that. Branwen doesn’t speak so much as she infects. She curls her words around the spine of my thoughts, wraps them tight, until they’re not just commands—they’re compulsions. My own Dominion turned in on itself.
Get up.
Two words. Gentle. Measured. Undeniable.
My hand twitches first. Then the other. Then the subtle shift of my spine like I’ve decided, on my own, to rise from the table. But I haven’t. I haven’t decided a damn thing.
The tavern is quiet. Too quiet. The others are gone—scattered across the village or still in their rooms. No one left in this room but the cold dregs of coffee in Orin’s cup and the war drum in my chest.
I grip the edge of the table like it’s the only thing anchoring me to myself. My knuckles go white. My jaw locks.
Come to me, Lucien.
I shake my head.
Not even aloud. Just once. A flicker of defiance. It burns through my bloodstream like acid. It’s not enough. She’s already inside the part of me that’s bound, and that’s the part that answers.
My legs move.
Stiff at first, like I’ve been cursed. Then smoother. Purposeful. Like I’m the one who wants to do this. Who wants to leave. Who wants to see her again.
I don’t.
I don’t.
The door swings open too easily, and the cold outside doesn’t bite. That’s how I know this is her. That she’s numbing me, manipulating even the environment to match her grip. I step into the street, the cobblestones slick beneath my boots, the banners overhead catching no wind. The village feels paused. Like it’s waiting.
No one sees me go. No one stops me. That’s the worst part.
And I realize—this is how she’ll win.
Not with fire. Not with steel. But with quiet steps and swallowed screams and men like me walking through shadowed streets with no one to watch us bleed.
She’s waiting.
And I’m being dragged straight into her arms.
A sharp crack splits through the spell like a gunshot in still water.
White flashes in my vision as my knees buckle. The cobblestones catch me like punishment, unforgiving and cold. My cheek kisses the stone, and then my body folds the rest of the way, every muscle seizing in confusion, in rage, in—
Relief.
For one blissful second, I can’t hear her voice anymore. No sweet rot, no whispered command threading itself into my blood. Just silence.
And the heavy sound of breathing above me.
“Didn’t think I’d have to knock out our fearless leader this morning,”
mutters, voice flat, but I can hear it—barely contained fury. It drips from every word like venom.
“But you were walking like a fucking puppet, Virelius.”
I don’t open my eyes. I don’t move. I’m trying to piece myself back together before she finds another way in.
The weight of ’s boot nudges my shoulder, then his voice drops lower.
“Tell me it was her. Tell me you didn’t just decide to go see Branwen for a cozy little reunion on your own.”
I manage a breath. One word.
“Yes.”
It’s not enough. But it’s all I can give.
His silence stretches like a blade across my spine. I know what he’s thinking—how long he’d been watching, how close he came to letting me keep walking. And then.
“She’s got you tied tighter than I thought.”
“She’s in the bond,”
I grind out.
“Using my own Dominion to make me move.”
swears under his breath. Low. Sharp. He crouches beside me, grabs my collar, yanks me halfway upright until my back slams against the nearest wall.
“We need to sever it. Before she uses you like a goddamn weapon.”
“I am a weapon,” I hiss.
He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at me, red eyes glowing like embers in the early morning gloom.
“Not against her,”
he says.
“Not for her.”
His grip loosens. Just slightly. Enough that I can breathe again.
The bond is quiet. But not gone. She’s waiting. Watching. Always.
straightens and offers me his hand. I hesitate. Then take it.
He pulls me up hard and fast, like he’s punishing me for taking so long to fight back.
As I stand, I catch the faintest sound—wind moving through the banners of the festival, bells clinking faintly in the distance. The village looks the same. But I’m not stupid.
Something has shifted.
And we’re running out of time.
“Let’s go,”
says.
“Before she figures out I interrupted her little puppet show.”
stalks off ahead of me, hands clenched at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to punch me again—just for good measure. My jaw aches where his fist landed, and there's blood in my mouth, bitter and metallic, but it’s the ringing silence inside the bond that rattles me most.
For now, she’s gone.
I dust myself off, fingers slow over the collar of my coat. The village square is too quiet. Festival banners flutter above like they're waiting for music that never comes. And then—
She appears.
Luna.
She stands at the edge of the street, the sun behind her painting her in light she doesn’t deserve to wear so well. Her gaze finds mine instantly, unflinching, too knowing. Something tightens in my gut—not desire. Not quite. Something uglier. Something older.
She turns to the one person she can trust to be as loud, chaotic, and unfiltered as possible.
Silas.
He’s lounging beside her, eating something fried and far too cheerful for this hour of the godsdamn morning. He watches me with a lazy kind of curiosity, then leans toward her as she whispers something in his ear.
His eyes spark.
“Who kicked your ass?”
I say nothing.
Luna whispers again, and Silas gives a deeply exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like he’s wounded.
“Oh my gods, kicked your ass? I always knew he was the hot-tempered one, but Lucien, darling, you’ve got to learn to dodge. What’s the point of all those broody muscles if you don’t use them?”
He winks at me. And I resist the urge to light the entire street on fire.
Another whisper from Luna. Silas turns serious—for half a second.
“Okay, okay,”
he says, lifting his hands.
“I’ll stop. She wants to know if you’re compromised.”
He gestures wildly with both hands.
“And she says—and I quote, mind you—‘if you even think about lying, she will find a way to make your balls implode.’”
I blink at him.
“Implode,”
he repeats with a solemn nod.
“Very specific. Very concerning.”
I glance at Luna. She stares back, impassive.
“I’m fine,”
I say, slow and clipped.
Silas arches a brow.
“Which is exactly what someone who’s not fine would say.”
Luna nudges him in the ribs. Another whisper.
“She wants to know how close Branwen got.”
Silas’s tone drops, his grin vanishing beneath a thin sheen of seriousness he rarely wears.
“How deep did she reach into your head, Lucien?”
I can’t look at Luna when I say it.
“She didn’t speak. Not aloud. Not in words.”
I take a breath.
“But she used Dominion. Through the bond.”
Silas’s face shutters. Even he knows what that means.
Luna’s gaze sharpens. There’s a flicker of something wild beneath it—rage, maybe. Not at me. For me. No one’s ever looked at me like that. Like they’re furious I was hurt.
She whispers again.
Silas shakes his head.
“That’s a terrible idea.”
More whispers. Fierce this time.
“Still a terrible idea, but okay, sure, let’s get murdered today.”
He sighs, turns to me, and scratches the back of his neck.
“She says she wants to see if she can pull it out. The bond. If she threads hers through yours, she might be able to force Branwen out.”
My mouth goes dry.
“You’ll kill yourself,” I snap.
Silas shrugs.
“Wouldn’t be the first time one of us tried.”
Luna’s hand brushes his arm.
He softens immediately.
Godsdamn them both.
“Tell her no,”
I growl.
“Tell her to stay the hell away from me. Branwen is in me. If Luna gets too close, Branwen will feel her through me.”
“She knows that,”
Silas says.
“She’s not trying to save you, Lucien. She’s trying to sever you.”
He steps back, voice light again, but his eyes stay locked on mine.
“And, buddy, I don’t think she’ll ask twice.”
“She’s stupid if she thinks she can sever a fated bond.”
The words leave my mouth like a curse, low and lethal, and for a heartbeat, I don’t care who hears them.
Silas blinks, his smile faltering for the first time in what feels like centuries. He shifts his weight, expression unreadable now, like maybe for once he’s unsure if this is something he can joke through.
Luna doesn't move. Doesn’t flinch. She just watches me, lips parted like she wants to speak, like she’d carve through the marrow of me if she thought it might save me.
Godsdamn her for it.
“Lucien—”
Silas starts, but I cut him off.
“No. You want me to stand here and pretend this is noble? That letting her dig her power through my veins, into something Branwen already touched, is going to save me?”
I take a step closer, my voice sharpening.
“This isn’t a fairytale, Silas. You don’t sever a bond like this. You die with it.”
She still doesn’t speak. I hate that. Hate that she can’t because of me. Because Branwen turned me into a listening device, a weapon dressed in loyalty I never gave.
Luna reaches out, palm brushing Silas’s shoulder. She leans in and whispers something again. His brows raise and then he exhales, slow and heavy.
“She says,”
Silas says, tone unusually careful.
“she knows it won’t work. But she has to try. Not because she thinks you’ll thank her for it, or because she wants to be the hero in your story—she says this is her fucking story too. And she won’t have Branwen rewriting it through you.”
A chill moves up my spine—not from fear. From recognition.
That’s what makes her dangerous. Not her magic. Not the way she pulls us in without even trying. It’s her defiance. Her refusal to yield even when the odds are carved in blood. She doesn’t want to save me. She wants to win.
“Tell her no.”
Silas shifts. “Lucien—”
“No.”
My gaze snaps to hers.
“You touch this bond and Branwen will feel it. And then we’ll all be fucked.”
Luna's face doesn’t fall. She doesn’t shrink. Instead, she steps forward. Not close—she knows better—but enough to make her presence hit me like a gale to a flame. Her bond pulses under the surface like a second heartbeat, restrained, suffocating.
I know what she’s thinking. I’ve known it since the first moment she looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. She’ll try anyway.
And that terrifies me more than anything Branwen could do.
Because if she threads her bond through mine, she won’t just brush against the rot Branwen left behind—she’ll link with it. And Luna, for all her power, doesn’t understand what it means to be bound to a Sin not by choice, but by fate warped and wielded by someone else’s hands.
I take one last breath, trying to temper the burn inside me.
“You want to save something? Save yourself. Stay the hell away from me. Because the next time Branwen calls, I won’t have time to fight her off.”
I turn away.
And for a moment—I swear to every god who’s ever damned me—I feel her reach out for me.
But she doesn’t stop me.