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EPILOGUE: BRYNN

So, I return home to find that my brother’s been buried underground and my sister’s been carried off by a supposedly extinct dragon.

That’s a first, even for Darkbirch.

And they have the audacity to cast shade in my direction for wanting a quiet life; as if I’m somehow the villain for not signing up to their meltdowns.

Oh, and let’s not forget that Grandma’s spirit has been scattered. Along with ninety-seven percent of our coven’s spiritual anchors. Which, in case anyone forgot, are theonlythings standing between us and full-on security collapse. They’re the reason the clearblood spirits trapped in our barrier don’t break loose and eat us alive. They’re not just guardians—they’re the magical power grid, the prison wardens, and the emergency failsafe all rolled into one.

It’ll take at least three months for them to piece themselves back together—ifthey even can. In the meantime, we’re running on fumes. The only graveyard spirits we haveleft are the ones currently wrapped around my comatose brother like spectral duct tape.

So again, I ask:whothought it was a good idea to sendevery single remaining spiritafter Esme?

No, seriously. I want names. If it was Grandma’s idea, I’d scatter her soul myself.

This is what happens when people mistake recklessness for leadership. Throw the entire spiritual foundation of the coven behind a single attack, and now we’re all scrambling to patch unraveling seams with a handful of haunted gauze.

To say the coven is in chaos would be an insult to chaos. Chaos at least implies some kind of structure. This? This is more like watching a bonfire eat a library while everyone argues about candle placement.

And now, as if all that weren’t enough, Corvin has announced “emergency restructuring measures.” Which, in council-speak, meanssomeone’s about to be sacrificed and it won’t be the ones in velvet robes.

Naturally, it’s falling on us—the younger generation. More drills. More magical combat rotations. And a shiny new trial system that hasn’t been used in over a century because it was deemed“psychologically destabilizing.”You know, fun things like mirror duels that force you to fight your worst memory. Or being dropped into pocket dimensions where the rules change every hour and nothing you kill stays dead. Or the Severance Test—where you’re magically bound to a partner and only one of you leaves with your powers. And let’s not forget the Grave Recall, where you relive the final hours of a dead ancestor, magic and all. My personal favorite? The compatibility trials that pair you with someone you’d rather feed to a demon than share a classroom with.

Which brings me to Chad Valgrave. My “mentor.” And I use the term loosely, because he’s more like a hex in human form. He watches me like I’m some volatile potion he’s itching to uncork just to witness the carnage. Every syllable that leaves his mouth is razor-sharp, precision-crafted to draw blood. He savors the moment people recoil. Especially me.

And then there are the incubus twins, whose relentless pursuit has transformed my dorm into a fortress after sunset. They keep trying to get into my pants—psychically, magically, physically—sometimes all at once. One tried to charm my bedsheets. The other left a soul-bonding sigil in my laundry. I now ward my pajamas and sleep with a blade under my pillow.

And that isn’t even the start of my list.

But sure,I’mthe soft one.

No.

I call mefunctional under siege.

And considering I haven’t hexed anyone bald yet, I’d say I’m showing remarkable restraint.

FML.

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