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The door slams open like the start of a bad joke—the kind where someone leaves bloody. A gust of cold air chases the three of them inside, swagger carved into their steps like they think they own the place. Village boys, but the kind who know they're good-looking and tall enough to make trouble. One in particular—the biggest of them, broad-shouldered, smug, eyes like chipped glass—zeroes in on her.

She’s at the bar, leaning against the scarred wood, chin tucked, smiling faintly at whatever the barkeep just said. Her hair a tangle of gold and shadow down her back, her glass near empty. Alone.

My stomach knots.

He doesn’t hesitate. Like he was hunting, and she’s already caught.

He leans into her space, too close, too casual, his voice a murmur that cuts across the tavern when the music dips. "How much for the night, sweetheart?"

The entire fucking room stills.

The words slice through the ale-haze like a blade, and my eyes narrow so fast the pressure behind them throbs. Across the table, Riven’s head snaps up. Caspian goes rigid, knuckles white around his mug. Silas stops mid-laugh, the sound dying sharp in his throat. And Elias—Elias already looks like he’s calculating how many ribs he’s going to crack.

I don’t think.

I move.

The chair groans as I stand, calm, controlled, because that’s what I do—but I can already feel the way my power coils in me, wild and razor-edged, because how fucking dare he.

Riven’s chair scrapes back behind me, deliberate and deadly. Caspian doesn’t bother with subtlety—he’s already stalking toward the bar like he’s going to eat the bastard alive. Silas grins, mean, elbows Elias, who groans but gets up anyway, already rolling his sleeves like we’re back in the Pit.

But me—I cross the space like I’m strolling, cutting through the crowd that’s realized something’s about to blow.

The village boy’s still talking when I reach him, leaning one hand on the bar, trying to cage her in. “Could’ve sworn someone like you had a price.”

Luna’s staring at him with a look that could end worlds. She doesn’t flinch. But her hand is flexed against the bar, magic humming beneath her skin like a loaded trigger.

I tap the guy’s shoulder once. Just once. He turns, annoyed—and I punch him straight in the mouth. He goes down like a sack of bricks, and everything after that is chaos.

Silas is a blur at my side, throwing himself gleefully into the fray as the other two friends surge forward. Caspian’s already got one by the collar, slamming him against the wall, smile sharp and lethal. Riven’s tearing through the crowd like he’s cutting wheat, efficient and brutal. Elias grabs a bottle and cracks it over someone’s head when they try to swing at Silas.

And me?

I drag the one who dared speak to her like that up by the front of his shirt, voice quiet, cold enough to cut bone. “Next time you open your mouth about her,” I murmur, knuckles bleeding, “you won’t be walking away.”

Then I slam his head into the bar.

The tavern erupts around us—chairs crashing, glass shattering, bodies hitting the floor—and when I glance over my shoulder, Luna’s smiling like this is the best fucking thing she’s seen all week.

Because it is.

Because she’s ours.

And we burn everything for her.

The bar descends into ruin like a match dropped in dry brush. The second the bastard’s skull hits the bar, the whole room snaps. Tables overturn, ale splashes like blood across the wood, fists flying without rhyme or reason. A brawl, sure—but this isn’t just fists and ale-fueled rage. It’s something uglier, heavier, something that's been boiling under all of us for months.

And I'm right in the fucking center of it.

I don’t lose her.

Even with bodies flying past me, even with Caspian dragging some poor fool into the corner and slamming his head into a wall, even with Riven tearing through the crowd like a storm of bone and fire—my eyes never leave her.

She’s moving like a spark in a hurricane, weaving between chairs and flailing limbs. Someone tries to grab her—stupid, so fucking stupid—and I knock the man’s hand away before she even sees him, my knuckles splitting again. Blood doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the way her smile curves sharp, feral, electric. Like she loves this chaos. Like she loves that it’s all for her.

The man who spat the words at her is still crawling on the floor, bleeding from his mouth, scrambling like he can outrun what he lit. He can’t.

Glass shatters somewhere to the left. A bottle whizzes past her head. She ducks, laughing—like this is a dance.