Page 144

Orin
Elias kicks at a loose stone, sending it tumbling down the uneven path ahead of us. His steps are slower than usual, his usual swagger dulled, shoulders hunched like he's got the weight of something far heavier than his blades pressing him into the dirt. I don’t comment at first. I just walk beside him, hands clasped behind my back, listening to the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath our boots and watching the two at the back of the group , Luna and Silas , heads bent together like conspirators.
Her laughter floats forward, low and warm, brushing along the bond like smoke. It doesn’t reach Elias. That’s the part he hates most.
“You’re going to trip over your own sulking,” I murmur, my voice low enough only he hears it. “Should I be worried about your emotional stability? Or is this your version of brooding?”
He glances up at me with a half-scowl, but there’s no real heat in it. “If you’re trying to read me like one of your dusty books, Vale, you’re gonna need a better translator.”
“Mm,” I hum, because I already have. “So... you’re jealous.”
That earns a sharp snort and an exaggerated eye-roll. “Jealous of Silas?” He gestures wildly, like just saying the name leaves a foul taste in his mouth. “Please. The man thinks foreplay is shouting ‘surprise’ before diving in headfirst.”
I arch a brow, mildly amused. “Not jealous of Silas. Jealous of her.”
He stills mid-step. Just a fraction. But I see it. The pause. The stutter in his gait. And then he’s walking again, too casual, too loose, shoving his hands in his pockets like that’ll hide the sting in his chest.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters. “Why would I be jealous of Luna?”
“Because she’s taken your place,” I say gently. “He doesn’t need you the same way. Not since her.”
Elias doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek. When he speaks, it’s quieter. Almost honest.
“He used to come to me for everything,” he says, more to himself than to me. “I was the one who made him laugh when the weight got too heavy. The one who pulled him back when he got too deep in his head. And now she just , exists , and he’s...different.”
“She makes us all different,” I say. “That’s not a weakness.”
He scoffs. “Tell that to my rapidly diminishing relevance.”
We walk in silence for a stretch, the wind picking up dust and flinging it past us like the Rift’s way of reminding us where we are. I glance back at Luna again , her hair catching light, her gaze on Silas like he’s something sacred , and feel the old ache stir in my chest. The one I never name. The one I never indulge.
“She’s not trying to replace you, Elias,” I say quietly. “But she does see him. And that’s rare.”
Elias doesn't respond, but his fingers twitch at his sides, like he's fighting the urge to throw a pebble at someone, probably Silas.
And yet, he walks beside me. Still here. Still loyal.
I don’t ask right away. I let the question breathe between us, nestled in the silence like something fragile, waiting to bestepped on. Elias is doing his best to look unbothered, but that only makes it more obvious, shoulders too straight, smirk too sharp, gaze flicking back to where Luna’s walking with Silas like he can’t help it, like some masochistic part of him craves the sight.
I clear my throat, slow and deliberate. “So,” I say, letting the word stretch between us like a knife, “are you thinking about it?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just kicks another rock, this one with more force. It skips, hits a twisted tree root, and bounces into a patch of thornweed. “Thinking about what, your eternal wisdom?”
I smile because he’s predictable. “Binding to her.”
That gets his attention. He stops walking altogether, throws both arms in the air like I’ve accused him of murder. “Oh, fuck off, Orin. Are you serious right now?”
I arch a brow, waiting. Because yes, I am.
He exhales dramatically, rakes a hand through his already-messy hair. “First of all,” he says, holding up a finger, “she’s entirely too smug. I don’t trust anyone who looks that pleased when they win an argument.”
“She’s usually right,” I murmur, just to prod him.
“Second,” he continues as if I didn’t speak, “she doesn’t laugh at my best material. I had a perfectly crafted necromancer joke last night, crickets, Vale. Absolute silence. That’s a red flag.”
“Or a sign of taste.”
“Third,” he presses, ignoring me completely now, “she looks at me like I’m the stupidest man she’s ever met. Which is so unfair because I’m at least the fourth stupidest, and she’s bound to Silas, so her bar is clearly in the Rift.”