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“Is this the part where we sell Layla to the devil?” Elias asks, voice too light, but there’s an edge under it that betrays him. “Because if we are, I want my cut in irony and blood.”
Lucien doesn’t respond. Neither do I. It’s Orin who shifts, his ancient gaze flicking to Elias like he’s deciding whether or not this intrusion is worth acknowledging. That alone makes Elias snort.
“I’m serious,” Elias adds, picking up a loose rock and tossing it in the air before catching it again. “You three look like you’re planning a murder or a marriage proposal, and honestly, I’m not sure which one terrifies me more.”
He glances at me then, sharp and too perceptive. “Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re not fighting the plan, Riven. That’s what’s got me worried. You’re the king of hell-no. If you’re this quiet, it means you’re thinking about actually doing it.”
I grind my teeth. “It’s not a plan. It’s survival.”
Elias hums low in his throat and lets the rock fall, dusting his hands off on his pants as he leans back on his elbows. “Right. And survival just happens to mean handing over the only girl who hasn't given up on saving our sorry asses.”
“She’d be the one to suggest it,” Lucien says flatly. “You know she would.”
Elias rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, and that silence, rare for him, makes my skin crawl.
Then he shifts again, more serious now, eyes dark and glinting with something too raw to be dismissed. “You’re forgetting something,” he says, low and bitter. “Severin doesn't want her power. He wants her. And he doesn’t love like we do. He consumes.”
Lucien leans forward again, palms together, elbows on his knees. “Which is exactly why we control the terms. If she’s going to be bait, we make sure the hook’s poisoned.”
Orin looks over at Elias, and I swear, it’s the first time I’ve seen something like respect pass between them. “Would you rather we do nothing?” he asks.
Elias sighs, running a hand through his hair. “No. I just... hate that we’re here. That this is what it’s come to.”
I get it. I hate it too. But hating something doesn’t make it untrue.
“She’ll fight us on it,” I say. “Hard.”
Elias quirks a grin, sharp and weary. “Yeah, well, she fights best when she’s angry.”
And suddenly, it feels like we’re already too late. Like Severin knew exactly what we’d do, knew we’d fracture around Layla, around Luna, around whatever this has all become.
Still, we plan.
Because even monsters get desperate.
Silas thinks he’s subtle. He’s not.
The idiot tries to slink into the edge of our group like he wasn’t just eavesdropping from the shadows, except he moves with the finesse of a drunken crow. His boot catches on a root, or maybe a ghost, knowing our luck, and he crashes into us with the graceof a thrown brick. Arms flail, weapons shift, and Lucien curses under his breath like Silas just insulted his bloodline.
I grab him by the back of the collar before he knocks into Layla or sets Elias off again. “You wanna fall into my lap, Veyd, just ask. You don’t have to stage a fucking production.”
He grins, all wide teeth and no shame. “Wasn’t falling. I was rolling in dramatically. Adds flair.”
“Adds noise,” Elias mutters, shifting to make room, even though no one asked him to. “Also, pretty sure you tripped on your ego.”
Silas flops down beside me like we’re about to roast marshmallows and not barter Layla’s safety to a half-mad god. He stretches out like he belongs, like he hasn’t just elbowed his way into a conversation none of us were ready to let him into.
“So what are we plotting?” he asks, leaning his head on his hand and kicking his feet up like we’re gossiping over tea instead of survival.
Lucien doesn’t answer. Orin doesn’t either. I glare at him, long and hard, trying to burn the question out of his skull.
But Silas, Silas sees too much and pretends it’s all a joke. That’s the thing about him. People think the fool doesn’t notice the war in the room. But he notices everything. He just doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s not something he can laugh off or flirt around.
“You know Luna’s gonna be pissed,” he says, voice lighter than it should be, eyes too sharp. “And I mean Riven-level pissed. Which is saying something. Are you planning for that too? Or just hoping she forgives you because your brooding is hotter in firelight?”
“Shut up,” I snap.
He does. For a moment.
Then softly, too quietly for anyone but me to hear, he adds, “She’d do it, you know. For us. For Layla. Even if it ruins her.”
And that’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.