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Elias mutters from behind, “Well, that’s ominous as fuck.”
“Good,” I murmur without looking away. “She needs to be afraid of it. Just a little.”
“I’m not afraid,” Luna says flatly.
I reach out. Brush my knuckles down the side of her face. A touch too brief to be tender. Too heavy to be meaningless.
“No,” I say. “You’re not. And that’s what scares me.”
Lucien steps into the firelight, and the moment fractures. He looks at Luna, then at me, and something passes between us. Not accusation. But recognition.
Elias stands too fast. “Alright, what the fuck did I miss? Is this the part where you two start speaking in cryptic prophecy again? Should I be worried the fire just flickered like it heard you?”
“No,” I say, calm. “But you should be worried that it listened.”
Riven snorts. Silas doesn’t move.
Luna straightens, eyes back on Layla. “She’s leaving in the morning.”
“We all are,” Lucien corrects.
“No,” she says. “She’s going north. Toward the old Temple ruins. The Sub-Sins are drawn to places that remember their names.”
I look at her again, and this time, the world tilts.
She’s leading us. Without realizing it.
Without permission.
Perfect.
“Then we leave at dawn,” I say. “All of us. For now, rest. Whatever comes next won’t wait for permission either.”
Elias groans. “Can’t wait. Nothing says good dreams like impending cosmic collapse.”
He drops to the ground beside the fire and mutters something about ‘asshole prophecies’ and ‘death by allegory.’
Luna doesn’t laugh. But her mouth twitches like she wants to.
Progress.
I return to the fire, watching the flames twist toward the stars that don’t quite exist. The Hollow listens. It always does.
But for the first time in a thousand years… it isn’t listening to me.
It’s listening to her.
And that changes everything.
She waits until the others drift. Until the fire burns lower, until Elias starts snoring, not real sleep, just loud enough to pretend he’s not listening. Layla’s already gone quiet, curled beneath the edge of Lucien’s warding spells like she can out-sleep what’s coming.
But Luna lingers.
She gets up to stand just beyond the firelight, arms folded, weight shifted like she’s pacing internally. She doesn’t speak, not right away. I let her come to me. I always do.
When she finally does, her voice is quieter than I expect. Not uncertain. Just… stripped.
“Explain it to me again,” she says. “The pull. Before the binding.”