Page 215

Luna
Lucien is pacing again. Sharp turns, clipped footsteps like the floor personally insulted him. His jaw clenches every third step. I count it. One. Two. Clench. He’s trying to think, to strategize, to fix it, but he’s running on anger and caffeine, and neither are helping.
Riven’s leaned against the wall like he wants it to pick a fight. His arms are crossed, eyes narrowed, radiating enough irritation to crack drywall. No one speaks to him unless they’re ready to bleed.
Orin sighs quietly, the kind that holds centuries of weight and no solution, like even he doesn’t know how to carry this kind of failure.
Ambrose and Caspian are gone.
And yes, it’s serious.
Yes, we’re spiraling toward war with a dead sin binder who crawled out of her grave with enough power to rip through our wards like paper.
But, gods, does this house have to be so damn miserable?
I’m sitting on the floor beside the couch, my knees pulled up, hair still damp from a rushed shower that did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves. Across the room, Silas and Eliasare throwing shadows against the ceiling like two delinquent children trapped during a thunderstorm.
“Look,” Silas whispers loudly, holding up his hands in an exaggerated shape, “it’s Lucien’s soul, empty, hollow, vaguely bird-shaped.”
Elias snorts. “No, no, that’s your intelligence. See? Completely flat and unintimidating.”
They dissolve into whispered laughter like they didn’t just watch the world fracture.
Lucien stops pacing and glares at them. “Do you two ever think before you speak?”
Silas doesn’t even blink. “Absolutely not. That’s your thing. We’d hate to step on your moody little throne.”
“Do you even care what’s happening?” Lucien snaps.
“I care,” Elias says, draped across the couch like he was born in that position. “I care deeply. But my version of caring involves not letting my insides rot from the anxiety stew you’re serving. So maybe dial back the doom before someone throws themselves off the balcony.”
Riven mutters something under his breath. Something that sounds suspiciously like “I’ll push you first.”
And gods help me, I laugh.
I’m not supposed to. It’s the wrong moment. The kind of moment that demands silence and fear and dark solemnity. But I’ve got Elias’s dry wit buzzing in my bloodstream now, and Silas’s irreverent chaos curled in my spine like a second skin, and the absurdity of it all just cracks me open.
Everyone turns to stare.
Lucien’s brow furrows. “You find this funny?”
“No,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I find you funny. And all of this. Because if we don’t laugh, we’re going to drown in the dread you’re all pouring into this room like molasses.”
Lucien’s mouth opens, probably to reprimand me, or scold, or condescend, but Orin cuts in, his voice quiet but firm.
“She’s not wrong.”
Silas perks up. “Wait, did Orin just agree with us? Mark the calendar.”
Elias raises his hands. “End times. We’ve reached the prophecy.”
“Enough,” Lucien mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
But the edge in the room? It’s cracked. Not gone, but less sharp. And for the first time since we realized Branwen had taken them, I can breathe without feeling like the house itself is pressing in on me.
I’m changing. I can feel it in the way my tongue moves quicker, my thoughts sharper, edged with humor that doesn’t quite feel like mine, but is mine now. That’s the thing about bonding with chaos.
It doesn’t just cling. It infects.