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Luna

The ground shudders beneath my boots—not from my magic, not from the Hollow’s natural malice—but from Riven. His fury pours off him in waves, a quiet, unrelenting earthquake that pulses beneath the dirt, cracking stone and unseating roots. The earth answers him because it remembers his touch, remembers the rage that once shaped mountains and split valleys. It bends beneath him now, reverberating like a drumbeat to a war he never wanted to fight.

He’s not angry at Lucien. Or Orin. Or Caspian. He’s angry at Branwen. Furious that she’s reached this far, sunk her hooks so deep into his brothers that they’ve become extensions of her will. Not warriors. Not men. Puppets, reanimated by the most sophisticated kind of cruelty—a bond that demands obedience, even when it corrodes everything they once were.

Lucien is the first to strike. Not with ceremony. Not with warning. Just movement—a blur of precision and force as he crashes into Riven like their bodies were made to clash. His blade catches Riven’s shoulder, and sparks fly when steel meets stone-laced skin. Riven doesn’t retaliate, not at first. He absorbs the blow like it belongs to him, jaw clenched, gaze locked on Lucien’s—not with hatred, but with something heavier. Grief. Recognition. He knocks Lucien back with a spire of rock, not sharp enough to kill, just enough to create distance. His magic is defensive. Desperate. Every step he takes is a plea:wake up, brother. Fight her.

But Lucien’s eyes are hollow. Not empty—just misdirected. Like he sees Riven, knows who he is, but can’t quite remember why he shouldn’t be trying to gut him.

To the right, Orin has closed the gap between himself and Elias, their blades clashing in a rhythm that looks too practiced to be coincidence. I forget, sometimes, that they trained together once—before the world fractured, before the power struggles, before I existed in the orbit of their destruction. Elias parries with a flash of deflection magic and a sharp grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re still too slow, old man,” he huffs, breathless, blood trailing from his lip like punctuation.

Orin doesn’t answer. Doesn’t taunt. Doesn’t hesitate. His movements are mechanical, brutal in their efficiency. He’s not trying to win. He’s trying to end. Elias laughs again—too loudly, too suddenly—and lets the next hit land across his ribs like hewantsto bleed for it. Like pain might be the only thing real enough to remind him Orin is still in there somewhere.

Silas is chaos, as always. But not in the joyful way I’m used to. There’s no grin. No breathless dare. Just motion—five of him materializing at once, circling Caspian like wolves trying to overwhelm a lion. But Caspian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. He lifts one hand, fingers curling like a conductor calling for silence, and every illusion vanishes in a blink. No struggle. No spectacle. Just eradicated, like they never mattered.

Silas barely ducks in time to avoid Caspian’s blade. He scrambles, curses, rolls to the side, but it’s clear: he wasn’t expecting that kind of clarity. That kind of cold. Caspian’s magic is precise, deadly, and dispassionate—the same way he looked at me the first time we met. The same way he looks at Silas now.

Through it all, Ambrose doesn’t move. He stays beside me, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His blade remains sheathed at his side, fingers twitching like he might draw it butdoesn’t trust himself to commit. He watches the chaos unfold like it’s happening behind glass, like the battle is already lost and he’s still trying to decide which side deserves to win.

The battlefield is spiraling. Lucien’s sword finds Riven again—this time slicing deep into his shoulder, the sound of it sickening. Riven stumbles, curses, his power flaring with the heat of a volcano, but he still doesn’t strike back with full force. He could. Gods, he could end this with a thought. The Hollow would rise for him if he let it. But he doesn’t. Because somewhere beneath all that fury, he still believes they can come back from this.

And that belief—it’s killing him.

The Hollow itself groans beneath us. Not from the magic. Not from the blades. But from the grief. The kind that seeps into the cracks of ancient stone and remembers. This place was already broken, but now it watches us like it’s bearing witness to a second shattering.

This isn’t a war. It’s a tragedy in motion. That none of them asked for it. They’re not villains. They’re not willing.

They’re just bound.

I only have the ache of watching them tear into the people they once would’ve died to protect.

And knowing—Branwen is smiling. Watching it unfold. Because this is her theater. And we’re all bleeding for her curtain call.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

There’s no snap of magic, no visible fracture in the air—just a slow crawl of dissonance that starts behind my eyes and ripples out like an echo from a forgotten spell. I feel it before I see it, the unnatural lull of everything around me—movement slowing, sound stretching thin like it’s being pulled through syrup. Even the Hollow seems to recoil, confused, caught in the breathbetween moments. A leaf frozen mid-fall. Dust suspended like ash in water. Time, diluted.

Only one person moves freely.

Elias.

Not easily. Not effortlessly. But with the deliberate grace of someone trying not to collapse under his own weight. Each step is sluggish, dragged from a body already nearing its limit. I watch him exhale as though it hurts, his chest rising slow, trembling with the strain of pulling this power from the marrow of his bones. It’s not just time that slows around him—it’s life. The rhythm of the Hollow, the chaos of the fight, the flicker of magic—it all bends inward, suffocated by his ability to warp the world into submission for just a few precious breaths.

Across from him, Orin doesn’t rush to meet the moment. He doesn’t unsheathe his weapon. Doesn’t brace himself for an attack. He simply turns his head, ancient eyes locking on Elias with a gaze that is not cruel, not eager—but devastating in its patience. There’s no triumph in his expression, no pleasure in what’s about to unfold. Only inevitability.

He takes one step forward.

And the world reacts.

Where his foot touches the earth, it withers. Not violently, not in some dramatic burst of decay, but quietly. Purposefully. The way age creeps in. The way rot settles. It isn’t a display of power—it’s a reminder that Orin is a creature of consumption, that even the ground beneath him must pay a price for his movement.

Elias doesn't flinch, but I see his body lock up—just slightly. His fingers twitch at his side like he’s restraining the urge to lift his blade, even though they both know this fight isn’t about violence. It’s about endurance. About who can hold on longer to what’s left of themselves without giving in to what’s pulling them apart.

They don’t speak right away. The silence between them isn’t tense—it’s heavy. Worn. It carries history. Regret. The ache of too many things left unsaid.

Orin’s voice, when it finally breaks through the stillness, is a low hum threaded with something like sadness. “You should’ve let someone else do this.”