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Silas
I drum my fingers against the table in a lazy rhythm, each tap a countdown to when Lucien finally shuts the hell up. He’s still talking about strategies, probably, or the implications of something ancient and awful, but I tuned him out somewhere around “repercussions” and “arcane disturbance.” My attention is locked on the butterfly drifting just beyond the cracked window. Pale yellow, almost translucent wings catching slivers of dying sunlight. It flutters like it doesn’t know this place is cursed. Like it doesn’t care.
I envy it. Or maybe I want to set it on fire. Hard to tell.
The room is dim but tense, not that I’m allowed to say that word, so let’s go with something better. It’s a coil, tight and ready to snap. Riven’s practically vibrating in the corner, Lucien’s pacing like he’s orchestrating a war council, which, okay, he technically is. Elias is trying to mimic Lucien’s every step behind him, a parody with exaggerated grimaces and jazz hands. I nearly choke trying not to laugh.
Then Luna snorts.
It’s soft, like she didn’t mean to let it slip, but she did, and now my chest’s doing that thing it shouldn’t, tightening around the bond between us like it’s tethered to something dangerous and divine. Her hair falls in front of her face as she looks down,probably to avoid catching my eyes, which is stupid because I’m already staring.
Lucien pauses mid-sentence and scowls at her. “Something funny?”
“Yeah,” I say before she can. “Your voice. It’s got the same effect on me as an Ambien, only less useful.”
Elias wheezes beside me and doubles over like he’s been stabbed, and Luna’s trying to hold back another laugh, which makes her shoulders shake. Riven glares at me like I just personally insulted the concept of wrath. He might combust.
Lucien doesn’t even blink. “Do you ever think before you speak?”
“Nope,” I grin. “And if I did, I probably wouldn’t be as charming.”
“You’re not charming,” he snaps, right as Elias whispers “debatable” behind a fake cough.
I stretch like a cat, hands laced behind my head. “Look, I get that this is all very dramatic and end-of-days or whatever, but someone’s gotta keep the mood light. Otherwise, you’re all going to brood yourselves into early graves.”
Orin, patient as the storm waiting on the horizon, finally speaks from the corner. “We should be focused. Branwen is not done.”
I deflate a little. Because yeah. That’s the truth that kills the laugh in my throat. Branwen’s not done. And we’re not ready.
But I glance at Luna again, and she’s watching me this time, that wild gleam in her eyes , equal parts challenge and invitation, and I think maybe I’ll burn if she keeps looking at me like that.
Still worth it.
“Anyway,” I say with a shrug, “who wants to blow something up?”
Lucien growls. Elias raises his hand.
And Luna, goddess help me, smiles.
I shoot to my feet like the idea just struck me, half-baked and full of trouble, the best kind of idea. Lucien’s mid-sentence again, talking strategy, logistics, whatever makes his cold little soul tick, and I think I hear the faint strain in his voice when he realizes I’m not listening. I grin like I’m about to start a fire, which, let’s be real, is usually true.
“Sit your ass back down,” Lucien snaps, without even glancing my way.
I freeze. One hand splayed across my chest like I’m offended, deeply, dramatically, sexually wounded. “Lucien,” I say, dragging his name out like a curse wrapped in silk, “if I had a coin for every time you tried to boss me around, I’d be richer than the Council.”
“You are richer than the Council,” Elias mutters from the couch, one leg hanging off the armrest like he owns gravity.
“Exactly,” I say, pointing at him like we just solved a world-ending puzzle.
Lucien turns slowly, all cold fury and Dominion authority, and the room stills around him , except for me. I’m already walking. Now that I’m up, there’s no way I’m sitting down again. My mood’s too restless. There’s a thrum under my skin, not quite adrenaline, not quite magic. It’s her. Luna. The bond between us crackling like a live wire, like her magic wants to run its hands over my body and twist.
I don’t even know where I’m going, but it’s not back to that chair.
“She’s not a threat to you,” I say instead, suddenly, loudly, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
Lucien narrows his eyes. “Who?”
“Luna,” I shrug. “I mean, yeah, she could probably kill us all if she wanted to. But look at that face, she doesn’t want to.” Iglance at her, catch the barely-there tilt of her mouth. Victory. She knows exactly what she’s doing.