Luna
The menu’s a mess of gothic fonts and questionable puns—Latte of the Living Dead, Scone But Not Forgotten, Witch’s Brew (with oat milk). It’s a tragedy in cursive and plastic skulls, and I can feel Silas in my bones just begging to make fun of it.
He’d have said something stupid the second we walked in—loud enough for everyone to hear. Something lik.
“Finally, a café that matches my soul aesthetic and digestive issues.”
Then he’d ask the barista if their blood orange tea was brewed with real sacrifices or just vibes. He’d wink at me over his cup like we weren’t all rotting from the inside out, and I’d pretend not to laugh.
I miss him.
Which is ridiculous. Because it’s only been hours. But Silas is the kind of ache you notice when he’s not right beside you—loud and spinning and shameless. He takes up space. In a room. In my mind. In my heart.
I trace the edges of the menu with my nail, half-reading, half-breathing.
And Ambrose?
Ambrose is a bruise I pressed on myself.
He stands beside me now, silent, unreadable as always, and the air around him is too still. Not in the quiet way. In the hollow way. Like he could leave at any moment and the space he occupied would collapse, not echo.
This isn’t a date.
This was never going to be a date.
Ambrose is not Silas with his soft desperation, his terrible metaphors, his chaotic devotion.
He’s not Elias with his mouth too quick and his heart too slow, looking at me like I might be the last honest thing he knows how to ruin.
Ambrose is a transaction I never should’ve made.
He offered me clarity and I took it.
Sex, I told myself. A clean cut. No strings. No fallout.
Except I cried when he left. And not because he did. But because I let myself hope he might not.
Riven saw me. He waited until I was done swallowing it down. Then he laid with me, quiet, protective, immovable. Like the grief had claws and he was daring it to try again.
It helped. Riven always helps.
And now I’m here, in a shop that looks like a Hallmark Halloween gift store exploded in a candle aisle, scanning potions disguised as drinks and pretending I’m not thinking about last night when I let Ambrose split me in half and left my soul in his teeth.
He doesn't say anything. Not about the menu. Not about me. He just stares at the wall like it owes him something.
I don’t look at him when I speak.
“I’m getting the black rose latte,”
I say.
“Because I’m dramatic. And maybe hexing myself with rose syrup will make me stop making poor decisions.”
His jaw ticks. Barely. But I catch it.
I press the heel of my boot into the floor and step forward in line, still not looking at him. If I do, I’ll say something worse. Something like do you regret it? or did I ever matter at all?
But I won’t.
Because I already know the answer.
And I’m done crying over bargains I made with people who never promised me anything real. Ambrose was a beautiful mistake. A night carved out of grief and desperation. He’s the shadow you follow because it looks like safety, not the flame you burn for.
I order the drink. I pay for it.
And I don’t ask if he wants anything.
Because he doesn’t deserve a question he won’t answer.
I step away from him. Not a big movement. Just enough to draw a line between what this isn’t and what I refuse to let it become. Not a date. Not penance. Just two people tangled in something neither of us has the language—or the emotional dexterity—to label. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just… inconvenient.
And naked. Once. In a shower. With tears I didn’t mean to shed and hands that lingered a second too long after it was supposed to be over.
I roll my eyes at myself. The melodrama of it. A slow punishment that matches the one humming under my skin. I deserve it.
The barista hands me my drink without eye contact. She’s maybe seventeen, already dead inside, eyeliner thick enough to be war paint. Her name tag reads MORBIDIA, and she says it like a curse when I thank her. I kind of love her.
I’m about to find a table, maybe a dark corner to sit in and pretend I’m not spiraling, when Ambrose steps up beside me.
He doesn’t speak.
He just holds something out.
A cupcake.
The frosting’s black—of course it is—with silver sugar dusted over the top like ash from a ritual fire. A single candied skull is pressed into the swirl, grinning like it knows something I don’t.
I stare at it.
He doesn’t explain.
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
He just… offers it.
As if this is his apology. A cupcake. Not words. Not acknowledgement. Just sugar and death, presented like a peace treaty between monsters.
It’s ridiculous.
And sweet.
And stupid.
And so Ambrose it physically hurts.
I take it. Not because I forgive him. Not because it fixes anything. But because I’m starving for something that isn’t grief. And maybe, just maybe, frosting laced with artificial remorse is better than nothing.
I lift my eyes just enough to meet his. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t smile. But his jaw relaxes—fractionally. Like the worst of the storm passed the second I didn’t throw the cupcake back in his face.
I turn without a word and walk to the far corner of the shop. There’s a table tucked between a crooked bookshelf and a stained-glass window depicting some sort of demon tea party. I sit.
He follows. Because we’re poison. And still—we keep drinking.
The sunlight hits just right—no, wrong. Wrong in that it’s splintering through the stained-glass demon wings and casting halos in all the wrong places. And Ambrose, with his sharp jaw and colder eyes, is sitting there looking like a damned fallen seraph caught mid-redemption arc.
Except he’s not an angel. He’s a dick. A beautifully constructed, cryptically seductive dick with a power complex and a god-tier resting bitch face.
And right now, he’s also very, very uncomfortable.Which I’m kind of living for.
He doesn’t know what to do with this place. Or this table. Or me.
It’s too human, too casual. The chipped mug in front of him isn’t ancient or cursed or full of blood contracts. It’s just almond milk and espresso. It doesn’t tremble under his touch. Doesn’t belong to him. And I think that might bother him more than he’s willing to admit.
I sip my latte slowly, licking a bit of the black rose syrup off my bottom lip just because I know it makes his jaw flex. He sees it, pretends he doesn’t, and keeps his gaze pinned to the window beside me.
We sit. In that awful silence that isn’t heavy, isn’t thick, but loud. Like a scream in a cathedral.
He shifts. Takes a sip. And then, low—like it betrays something to even say it—he mutters:
“This tastes like regret and cremated flowers.”
I blink. Then snort. Hard.
“That’s because you ordered The Macabre Macchiato,”
I say.
“which literally has ‘bitterness and grief foam’ in the description.”
He glances at me, eyes narrowed.
“You let me.”
“You insulted the menu with your eyes. I assumed you knew what you were doing.”
“I always know what I’m doing.”
“Mmm.”
I tilt my head.
“Except, apparently, when it involves baked goods and personal growth.”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest pull. But it’s there.
And maybe it’s not forgiveness. Maybe we’re not healed. But it’s something. A thread. A crack in the armor we both wear like penance.
I break off a piece of the cupcake. The skull crunches between my fingers as I pop the bite into my mouth. It's rich. Decadent. Sinful in a way I haven’t allowed myself to be in weeks.
“You’re really not going to eat yours?”
I ask, nodding at his untouched pastry.
Ambrose stares down at it like it’s offering him a second chance he didn’t ask for.
“I don’t do sweets.”
“Figures,”
I say.
“Even your palate is emotionally unavailable.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose, finally looking at me.
It’s not the way he looked at me that night—the night I broke a rule I didn’t know I had. It’s not lust. Not heat.
It’s worse.
It’s careful.
Like he’s remembering not to touch me. Like he’s trying to forget what it felt like to watch me cry in his arms.
I don’t want to be careful.
I want to feel. I lean back, stretch my legs out beneath the table until the toe of my boot brushes against his. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But his fingers tighten around the mug.
The cupcake’s gone now. The frosting lingers on my tongue like something sweeter than this silence deserves. Ambrose is still flicking gazes toward the door every so often like he’s half-daring the world to interrupt us again.
I’m done pretending this is more than it is.
Still, something in me itches to move the story forward. To shift the weight sitting between us into something I can actually use. A question. A distraction.
“So,”
I say, rolling the paper cup between my palms.
“are we still doing the play tonight?”
His eyes sharpen, refocus.
“The Council requested it be attended by all representatives.”
“‘Requested,’”
I echo.
“Is that the new word for mandatory?”
“Mandatory sounds oppressive.”
His lips curve slightly.
“This is more… theatrical coercion.”
“How charming.”
I arch a brow, but my stomach flips. I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be seen as something other than bloodline and anomaly. The Council’s public pageants are never just for show. They’re tests. Staged obedience with knives behind the curtains.
I lean back in my chair.
“What’s it called?”
Ambrose sips his coffee—grimaces like he’s just remembered what it tastes like.
“Death of the Last Oracle.”
“Of course it is.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“It’s symbolic.”
“So is a knife in the back.”
“Then wear armor,”
he says.
“Or silk. They bleed the same under pressure.”
I go still.
Because the thing is—I don’t have anything to wear. Not for a night like this. Not for a production layered in performance, expectation, and centuries of ritual dressed in couture.
I glance down at my boots, scuffed and half-laced, and then to my jacket—worn, fitted, undeniably me, but not built for optics.
Ambrose watches me think. I hate that he always knows.
“You need something else,” he says.
I scowl.
“What I need is for the world to stop spinning on aesthetics and power plays.”
“Too late,”
he murmurs.
“You want to survive the spectacle, you’ll need to look the part.”
“I’m not some doll they can parade around.”
“No,”
he says softly.
“But you are the reason they’re watching.”
I blink. My breath stills.
And then he stands.
“Come on.”
I don’t move.
“Where are we going?”
“To get you something worth bleeding in.”
The boutique we step into is tucked between a cursed jewelry shop and a gallery that only exhibits haunted mirrors. The sign outside is a single silver eye stitched into black velvet. No name. Just promise.
Inside, the lighting is dim and decadent, like moonlight filtered through sin. Racks of dresses hover like specters—dark silks, violent reds, metallics that shimmer like a blade mid-swing.
I trail behind, fingers brushing fabrics that feel like spells—things meant to bind, not just adorn.
A shop attendant appears out of nowhere. All angles and glamor, hair braided with thin silver chains. She doesn’t look at Ambrose. She looks at me. Like she knows exactly who I am, and exactly what tonight means.
“Something for the Oracle’s execution?”
she asks, tone bored but efficient.
I blink.
“Excuse me?”
Ambrose steps in smoothly.
“She’s not the one dying. Just the one everyone’s watching.”
The woman nods. Unbothered. She gestures toward the back with a flick of her fingers.
“You’ll want the private section.”
I glance at Ambrose, uncertain.
He just leans close, voice low and dry at my ear.
“Try not to pick something that screams rebellion. Or do. I’d like to see Riven choke on his own hypocrisy.”
I roll my eyes. But I go. Because whatever this is turning into—performance or not—I know I’m going to walk out of here as someone they won’t forget.
The fitting room mirror has a gilded serpent wrapping around its frame, its tongue slivered into a sigil I don’t recognize. Every surface in this place feels charmed—enchanted, haunted, or just expensive enough to make you think twice about breathing near it.
The first dress I try on is a disaster.
Sheer in all the wrong places, slit to the hip like it was stitched by someone with a vendetta against fabric. The color is a sickly green that makes me look like I’ve been raised in a crypt without vitamin D. I step out of the dressing room anyway because I know exactly what I’m doing.
Ambrose is perched on the velvet chaise across from the fitting stalls, legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back like he’s in no rush to pretend he doesn’t enjoy this. The lighting slants across his cheekbones in a way that would make lesser girls abandon common sense on sight.
His eyes lift as I step into view. Pause.
Then—he laughs.
Not a smirk. Not a scoff. A real, short, surprised sound that slips past his lips before he can stop it.
I raise my arms like I’m showing off a crime scene.
“What do you think? Ready for the execution, or should I add heels that scream ‘medieval tragedy’?”
“You look like a cursed garden.”
“Perfect,”
I deadpan.
“I was going for necrotic nymph.”
He’s still smiling—barely, but enough.
“Try again.”
The next one is worse. Blood red with feathers. Feathers.
I step out, stone-faced.
Ambrose chokes on something that might be a laugh or a death wish.
“That is not a dress. That is a vendetta with sleeves.”
I turn slowly in the mirror.
“It’s bold.”
“It’s a war crime.”
“I kind of love it.”
“I will personally bribe the Council to ban you from entering the theater if you wear that.”
I raise a brow.
“Is that an actual threat, or just your version of flirting?”
His mouth flattens, the amusement sinking into something deeper. And it hits me—that look. That brief hesitation before he remembers to stay unreadable. I go back into the dressing room without waiting for a response. I don’t need it.
The next one I try on… it’s different.
Black. Simple, but not plain. The fabric clings like it was made for me, dipping low in the back, cut high at the thigh. The neckline is sharp, the stitching brutal. There are silver threads sewn into the seams—barely visible, but enough to catch the light like whispers of a blade.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
I don’t look like prey in this.
I look like the thing they should’ve run from.
I step out, slow this time. Not for effect, but because something about this feels final. Like stepping into a role I never auditioned for but can’t refuse.
Ambrose doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t smile.
He stands.
That alone says everything.
His eyes drag down and up again, unhurried, like he’s counting sins. When his gaze meets mine, it’s not hunger. Not even possession.
It’s reverence. And I hate that it makes me ache.
“This one,”
I say, voice softer than I mean it to be.
Ambrose nods.
“That one.”
I don’t look away.
Neither does he.
But I feel it—that edge between us sharpening. Not dulled by pain or resentment, just… refined. More dangerous than before.
I turn back toward the fitting room, fingers brushing the hem at my thigh.
And I don’t miss it—his voice, low and rough, just before the curtain falls shut.
“You’ll kill them in that.”
And that’s the thing.
Them.
Ambrose said it like he isn’t included. Like he’s already decided where he stands—on the outside, watching the fire, not in the burn of it. Like the others falling is inevitable, and he’s only here to witness the ruin. Maybe shape it. Maybe enjoy it.
But not stop it.
The dress clings to my skin, fitted to the hollows and curves like it knows me intimately, and still—it feels like armor I wasn’t meant to wear. Because the war isn’t over. Not even close. And what’s the point of dressing for the performance if half the cast is missing?
I stare at my reflection one last time.
I look like power. Intention. A threat dressed as elegance. But none of it matters if I can’t get them back.
Orin would tell me what this feeling is.
He’d name it—wrap his voice around it like a spell and make it manageable. Make it make sense. He’d remind me that grief is clever. That guilt wears different faces. And that loyalty isn’t about proximity—it’s about weight.
He’d say something maddeningly cryptic, then touch my cheek in that infuriating, achingly gentle way that makes me feel seen without being dissected.
And gods, I miss him.
His absence isn’t sharp—it’s quiet. A void threaded through every moment. We’ve only been without him—and Lucien, and Caspian—for a few days. But already it feels like the seams are unraveling. Like our rhythm is offbeat.
I haven’t heard Lucien’s voice. Haven’t been mocked by Caspian’s drawl or soothed by Orin’s steady wisdom.
I don’t even know where they are.
Branwen has them. That much we know. And yet here I am—buying dresses, sipping cursed lattes, pretending this performance means something when the people who built this rebellion with me are gone.
The curtain slips closed behind me as I change back into my regular clothes, the dress folded over my arm like a promise I’m not sure I want to make.
When I step out, Ambrose is waiting. Still silent. Still composed.
But something in my face must shift—something must show—because he straightens.
“What is it?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. I don’t have the words. Or maybe I do and I’m afraid they’ll come out as grief instead of fury.
I glance down at the dress, then at him.
“We’re acting like this matters.”
His eyes narrow, studying me like I’ve shifted shape in front of him. “It does.”
“No. They matter.”
My voice doesn’t crack, but it edges close.
“Lucien. Caspian. Orin. We haven’t moved an inch toward getting them back. We’re dressing up for a Council play while they’re rotting in Branwen’s court.”
“They’re not rotting,”
Ambrose says calmly.
“No?”
I snap.
“Then what are they doing, Ambrose? Rehearsing for her next power grab? Entertaining her like loyal pets while we sip coffee and shop for outfits?”
His mouth hardens.
“You think I don’t care?”
“I think you’ve already decided they’re lost.”
His silence answers before he does.
“They’re not lost, . They’re held. And there’s a difference.”
“Held is just a prettier word for trapped.”
I look away, jaw clenched so tight it aches. The boutique feels colder now. Less velvet, more bone. Less opulence, more failure.
“I just…”
I exhale, sharp.
“I feel like we’re moving on without them.”
Ambrose steps closer, not quite touching. But near enough that I feel the gravity of him—pulling, pressing, refusing to let me drift too far.
“We’re not moving on,”
he says.
“We’re surviving. And when the moment comes, we’ll do more than that.”
I meet his gaze.
He holds it. I believe him. But that doesn’t stop the ache in my chest, the one with Orin’s name carved deep into it.
I nod, but my hands tighten around the fabric in my arms. I’m coming for you, I think. All three of you.
And this time—I’ll be dressed for war.