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Luna’s still watching me like she’s plotting where to bury my body and how many witnesses she’ll leave alive. I tip two fingers to my brow in a mock salute, my smirk sharp enough to slice, and keep whistling. Because I haven’t done anything wrong.

Yet.

But the night’s young. And she’s looking at me like she wants to devour me whole or start a war. Maybe both.

And either way, I’m going to let her.

Ambrose’s voice cuts clean through the easy rhythm we’d fallen into, the sharp line of his arm pointing across the horizon like he’s presenting us with something sacred or doomed—maybe both. "There," he says, the word brittle, carved sharp with something heavier beneath. "That’s where she is."

The cathedral stands like a shadow at the edge of the world. Black stone, veined in something older, something that hums even from here. I can feel it at the backs of my teeth, a warning and a promise. The land curls around it, trees stripped bare, theground unsettled like it remembers the weight of what she did to us.

Branwen.

We all go quiet for a beat, the name unspoken but slithering between us like it belongs in the marrow of our bones.

It’s Riven who breaks it, his voice low, gruff. "We’ll stop in the village tonight." He doesn’t look at any of us when he says it, gaze fixed on the cathedral like he’s already walking into hell. "It’s a half day’s walk past. We’ll need the rest."

And then, like the responsible, self-righteous bastard he is, he adds, "No one’s drinking tonight."

Silas snorts immediately, elbow grazing mine, and it’s all I can do not to laugh because we both know that’s a fucking joke. Riven says it like it means something, like he doesn’t know us at all. Like we aren’t about to end the night shit-faced and half-naked in some cursed inn, because that’s how we’ve always done this—leaning into the chaos right before everything burns.

I don’t say anything, but I catch Silas’s eye, and it’s clear. We’re drinking. Tomorrow we walk into the lion’s den, and we’ll do it with whiskey in our veins, because that’s how you survive when you know you’re not coming out clean.

Caspian’s the only one who hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t looked at any of us since Ambrose pointed out the cathedral, his jaw tight, his eyes hollow in a way that carves at something in me I don’t like looking at too long.

And then he moves. He drifts toward her like gravity doesn’t apply anymore, like Luna is the only thing tethering him to this world. She’s been quiet too, her gaze on the cathedral, her fingers curled loosely at her sides like she’s holding herself back from tearing the damn thing down with her bare hands.

But when Caspian reaches her, her entire posture shifts. She softens—not visibly, not like anyone else would notice, but I do.We all do. The way she angles her body slightly toward him, like she’s been waiting.

We give them space. No one says it, but we step back, all of us, because whatever conversation they’re about to have isn’t meant for the rest of us. It’s carved from something delicate, something cracked.

I drag my gaze from them, letting out a long breath and rubbing the back of my neck.

Silas leans in close to me, voice pitched low. "Do you think Riven’ll actually kill us if we drink tonight?"

I smirk, watching Caspian tilt his head toward Luna like she’s the only thing that makes sense in this cursed place. "Only if we don’t invite him."

And the thing is—when we leave the village tomorrow, when we march toward that cathedral, we’ll either come back with Orin and Lucien… or not at all.

But tonight?

Tonight, we drink.

My legs ache, which is a cosmic joke considering I can literally slow time itself. I could stop the whole damn world spinning if I wanted—but can I stop us from walking for what feels like the thousandth hour straight? No. Of course not. Because apparently, the universe hates me and thinks cardio is character building.

I mutter under my breath, low enough so Riven doesn’t bite my head off for complaining again. “You’d think being one of the Seven Deadly Sins would come with a personal chariot. Or at least a cursed horse.”

Silas catches it, of course he does. He’s always listening when he shouldn’t be, grinning like he’s waiting for me to snap. He slows his pace until he’s next to me, then dramatically huffs like I’ve burdened him with the weight of the world. "You poor delicate thing," he drawls, all fake sympathy, then withoutwarning, drops into a crouch and slaps his hands over his thighs. "C’mon, princess. Up you go."

I blink at him, then glance around to make sure no one else is watching. Luna’s ahead with Caspian, her focus entirely elsewhere, but Riven’s sharp gaze catches everything, and Ambrose is probably cataloging my every move like I’m another pawn on his board.

I shouldn’t.

But my legs really do hurt, and I haven’t been able to breathe without thinking about how close we’re getting to Branwen and how it’s all going to come apart.

So I sigh—long, theatrical—and hook my arms over Silas’s shoulders, letting him haul me onto his back like some ridiculous prince being carried through hell.

Silas hoots loud enough to startle a bird from a branch. "See?" he says, hands gripping beneath my thighs. "This is how we bond, Elias. Physical affection. Sibling-level chaos. You should be thanking me."