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The words gut me worse than any blade could.

So I do it.

I stay. And I make her a fucking crown.

I should’ve seen it coming. The second Silas starts humming to himself, that dangerous, too-sweet hum he only does when he’s about to commit a crime against basic decency, I should’ve stood up and walked away. Or buried him alive. Something permanent.

But I’m too distracted by Luna beside me, her fingers threading carefully through stems, her eyes darting up at me every few seconds like she can’t quite believe I’m here, on the ground, in the dirt, making something for her.

So when I glance up and see Silas digging into the inside pocket of his jacket—grinning like a devil caught mid-heist—it’s already too late.

He pulls out glitter.

Not a little.

Handfuls.

Fucking handfuls of glitter, like he’s a goddamn Fae gremlin loose in our world, and I don’t even have time to react before he’s tossing it into the air, spinning on the balls of his feet like some demented sprite.

“Blessings upon your union!” he cackles, voice high and ridiculous, blowing a handful of the shimmering dust straight at us like a fucking wedding officiant on crack.

The glitter hits me square in the face. I blink, unmoving, one hand still holding the half-finished crown of roses, now dusted in silver sparkles like some cursed offering.

Luna’s sharp, delighted laugh cuts through me, and when I glance over, she’s clutching her stomach, head thrown back, glitter clinging to her hair and lashes like she was born out of starlight and chaos.

“Silas,” I grind out, my voice rough, low, too close to feral.

He claps his hands, glitter falling from his palms like ash. “You can’t be mad, Riven,” he says brightly, sidestepping like he’s ready to bolt. “You’re literally covered in love dust.”

She reaches out, swipes a smear of glitter off my cheek with her thumb, eyes shining sharp and soft and dangerous.

“You’re sparkly now,” she whispers, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

I shake my head, resigned, because this is my fucking life now—flowers in the dirt, glitter on my skin, and the girl I’d burn kingdoms for laughing like I’m something she wants to keep.

“Next time,” I mutter darkly, glaring at Silas, “I bury you alive.”

Silas just winks, hands on his hips, glitter falling off him like rain.

The glitter’s clinging to my arms like a curse when the voice cuts through the night like a blade dipped in acid.

“What the fuck is this?”

Ambrose’s voice. Cool. Controlled. Except it’s not. It’s edged sharp, like he’s already regretting looking at us.

I glance over my shoulder and there he is—arms crossed, expression carved from marble, that perpetual scowl of his deep enough to crack kingdoms. He’s glaring at the three of us like we’ve just violated every law of the universe.

Silas beams like he’s been waiting for this.

“Welcome to Craft Night, Dalmar,” he calls, spreading his arms wide, glitter still falling off him like he’s the Fae King of Chaos.

Ambrose’s gaze drags over the scene in front of him—Luna sitting in the dirt with a crown of roses half-built in her lap, me with glitter in my hair and dirt on my knees, Silas looking like he just crawled out of an explosion at a rave—and something dangerous flashes in his eyes.

“I leave you unsupervised for one fucking hour,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose like this is somehow his problem.

Luna glances up at him, her smile lazy, sharp at the edges. “You’re late. We’re making flower crowns.”

Ambrose’s stare shifts to her, softening for half a second before he remembers who he is, what this is, and how utterly beneath him it should be.