Page 92 of The Sin Binders Ascent

Because I am, too.

I reach for her hand. Not for comfort. Just so she doesn’t forget I’m still here. Still with her. Still bound. Her fingers curlaround mine slowly, like she doesn’t want to admit she needs the contact.

Above, the domed ceiling of translucent vines curves high and wide, the veins inside them glowing a faint gold that pulses in slow intervals. Motes of something like dust drift through the air, but when they settle on your skin, they dissolve without a trace. The walls are rounded, made of overlapping roots and vines, woven together like ancient ship hulls abandoned to overgrowth. Parts of it glisten as if polished, and others sag with soft, hanging sacs of moisture that swell and drip without sound. It feels like we’ve been swallowed by something massive and old and patient.

The copper tree looms to our right. Its bark has begun to hum. A low, metallic resonance, barely audible, felt more in the chest than in the ears. The leaves above shift slightly again, and one falls, not with a flutter, but straight down like a blade. It lands near the pool, doesn’t break the surface, just rests there, a silver sliver, unmoving.

Luna sighs, dragging her fingers through the thick moss beside her. She plucks one of the dark purple spores, rolls it between her thumb and index finger, then flicks it into the water. It vanishes before it touches the surface.

“I want pancakes,” she says suddenly. Her voice is tired, but not weak. “Thick ones. The kind they make in that little corner café in Red Fern. Cinnamon swirl. Maple butter. Real maple. Not that processed shit in a bottle.”

I raise a brow, watching her hand like it might do something more dangerous than flick spores into glowing water. “That’s your first craving after near-death and starvation? Pancakes?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ve clearly never had good ones.”

“Never had any. Pancakes weren’t a thing the last time I got to walk around freely.”

She blinks. “Wait. Seriously?”

“I spent the better part of my existence in a gilded cage. Breakfast menus weren’t part of the decor.”

Her laugh cracks out sharp and unexpected, echoing up toward the domed ceiling like it doesn’t belong here, but refuses to apologize for existing. “God, no wonder you’re so dramatic all the time. You’ve never had brunch.”

I tilt my head. “What is brunch?”

She stares at me. Mouth parted. Genuine horror blooming across her face. “You mean to tell me you’ve walked the Earth, seduced royalty, destroyed cities with a whisper, and you don’t know what brunch is.”

“Sounds like a made-up word.”

“It is. That’s what makes it powerful.” She shifts, folding one leg under herself as she turns fully toward me now, animated for the first time in hours. “Brunch is sacred. It’s eggs and French toast and something alcoholic you’re pretending is juice. It’s sitting in the sun with a hangover while your friends tell you how much they hate their lives.”

“That’s what humans do for fun now?”

“Better than summoning ancient spirits to solve their emotional damage.”

I smirk. “That still happens more than you think.”

“Well then, maybe they’d do it less if they just had access to a really solid Eggs Benedict.”

I shake my head, trying not to smile, but I fail. “What else, then? What’s next after the mythical brunch?”

She pretends to think, eyes narrowing dramatically. “Baklava. A whole tray. I want the kind from that bakery down in Greystone, the one with the pistachios stacked so thick you have to eat them with both hands. And shawarma. Extra tahini. And that street stand near the old library that sells those greasy little fried rice cakes wrapped in seaweed and dipped in soy.”

“None of those sounds real.”

“They’re not. They’re divine.”

She lies back in the moss, staring up through the glowing canopy. Her hair fans around her like wet ink in water. The glow of the pool catches on the edge of her jaw, lighting it in that pale, unreal gold. For a second, she looks almost fragile. And I know better than anyone that she’s not.

She tilts her head just enough to look at me. “You know what your problem is?”

I lean back on one arm. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s been denied things. You walk around like you invented suffering.”

“Not suffering. Want.”

“Same difference.”