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Riven’s out front, jaw tight, eyes sharp, rage coiled under his skin like a loaded weapon, becausehe’sthe one in charge when shit hits the fan. But me? I’m the second-in-command, notbecause anyone voted me in but because I declared it. Loudly. Often. With great fanfare. And nobody has kicked me out of the spot yet, which means it's mine.

And Ambrose—tall, cool, calculating bastard—thinks he can just swagger in here and steal my spotlight like he stole my barrel roll? Not a fucking chance.

So, I do what any responsible, chaos-fueled second-in-command would do.

I step right in front of him. Cut him off like I’m a drunk driver with a death wish, pivoting neatly on my heel so I’m facing him, walking backward, arms spread wide like I’m ready to receive an award forBest Disruption of Authority.And yeah, I know how to make an entrance, even mid-walk.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I announce, lifting a hand and splaying it over his chest to stop him, ignoring how solid he feels under my palm because this isn’t about that. "What the hell do you think you’re doing, Dalmar?"

Ambrose barely lifts a brow, like I’m an insect buzzing in front of his face, mildly amusing, vaguely annoying. "Walking."

"Nah." I shake my head, lips twitching. "You’releading.You’re not in charge, buddy. There’s a chain of command, and unfortunately for you, I’m the chaos gremlin who put himself right under Riven’s snarling authority."

Ambrose tilts his head, eyes glittering like he knows exactly how to disarm every one of us and chooses, very deliberately,notto. "And you decided this when, exactly?"

"Since always." I clap him on the shoulder, keeping us both moving now, but I force him to walk a step behind me. "I’m the heart of this operation, the pretty one, the mouthpiece, the entertainment, and occasionally the reason we all survive."

"You’re the reason we almost die," Elias mutters, catching up on Luna’s other side, dragging his fingers lazily through his hair,grin crooked and dangerous. "And you’re not even the pretty one."

"Rude." I flash him a wink, then throw it at Luna too because she’s watching me with that dangerous look again—the one that says she’smineand she loves every ridiculous thing I do even when I shouldn’t.

Ambrose sighs like the weight of our stupidity is heavier than the crumbling magic around us. "And here I thought the apocalypse would kill me. Turns out, it’s this."

I glance back over my shoulder at him, grin sharp, cutting. "Nah, Dalmar. We’re the apocalypse."

Ambrose cuts in front of me again, like the gods themselves handed him permission to steal every last ounce of spotlight I’ve carved out for myself. He’s walking too loose, too light, the corners of his mouth twitching with something dangerously close to a grin. Not his usual cool, dead-eyed calculation—thisis something new. And it’s pissing me off in the best possible way.

I don't even think about it. My body moves on instinct, slipping around him with a sidestep so smooth it should be illegal, and I shoulder-check him—not hard, but enough to let him know I’m still here, and I’m still better.

He hums, low in his throat, and sidesteps right back, cutting me off again like this is some kind of dance, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

“Oh, we’re doing this now?” I say, dropping my arm dramatically across my chest like I’ve been mortally wounded by his audacity.

Ambrose doesn’t answer, but there’s a flicker in his gaze, sharp and amused. His pace slows, matching mine deliberately, letting the distance collapse between us until I can smell the faint, earthy spice of whatever cologne he wears like a second skin. He shifts again, blocking my path so seamlessly it feels like choreography.

I pounce.

Literally.

I launch sideways into him like a goddamn feral creature, catching him off guard enough that he stumbles, the edge of his coat whipping around my arm. He recovers too quickly, hands catching my shoulders, and for one second, we’re tangled, chests brushing, breath close enough I can count it.

“Careful, Veyd,” Ambrose mutters, voice silk-wrapped steel. “You’ll start something you can’t finish.”

I grin—too wide, too sharp. “Sweetheart, that’s my entire personality.”

Before he can get another word out, I twist, slide under his arm, and spin back in front of him like this is the goddamn ballroom and I’m leading. My boot scrapes against broken stone, the ground of this cursed realm crumbling beneath us like sugar.

He lunges again—not with power, but with sheer physicality, matching me move for move, and we end up circling like two idiots in the middle of Branwen’s hellscape while behind us, the others’ footsteps fade like a dare.

And fuck, Ambrose is smiling now. Barely, but it’s there—carved into that sharp mouth like a secret, like he’s been dying to let it out and didn’t know how.

“You done?” he asks, breath curling, voice low but lighter than it’s ever been.

“Not even close.” I spring forward again, this time knocking into him shoulder-first and darting back like a tease. “You wanna dance, Dalmar? I’ll give you the whole damn show.”

And then, before he can react, I bow. An actual fucking bow, ridiculous and sweeping, one hand at my stomach like I’m about to perform for the gods themselves. “Your move, Prince Charming.”

Ambrose just shakes his head like I’m the world’s worst mistake, but there’s something in his eyes now—something that wasn’t there before. A spark. A sliver of light where there was only cold calculation.