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I catch her wrist as she straightens, dragging her close enough to hear me over the riot. “Stay with me,” I murmur, low, rough, and the smile she gives me is wicked enough to split the earth.

“You’re the one who keeps wandering off, Dalmar,” she breathes, breathless and bright.

Some idiot barrels toward us, swinging wildly, and I move on instinct—twisting Luna behind me as I plant my fist in the man’s throat. He goes down gasping, and I don’t look back.

The thing that crawls under my skin—the thing that makes my teeth grind—is that he’d called her a whore like it was truth. Like she wasn’t the closest thing to divinity any of us had ever touched.

That’s why I don’t stop.

The entire bar's in it now. Even the barkeep’s beating someone with a stool leg. It’s anarchy, beautifully stupid anarchy, and Silas is in the middle of it like he was born here—grinningthrough a split lip, shouting something obscene at Caspian, who’s trying to drag a man twice his size out the door.

And I—I keep Luna in my sight, always, pulling her close every time someone stumbles too near, cutting down anything that tries to touch her.

Because she’s not a whore.

She’s the thing we’ll bleed for, every fucking night if we have to.

She ducks against me as another chair crashes somewhere behind us, her breath warm against my throat. “You’re bleeding,” she says, too calm for the madness around us.

I grin, teeth stained red. “So is everyone else.”

The bodies thin out like smoke as the last of the idiots get tossed, bloody and staggering, out the door. Splinters crunch underfoot, the bar smelling like stale ale and sweat and adrenaline. And Silas—chaotic, shameless Silas—leans across the busted bar, pulling gold from nowhere like it’s water from a spring.

“Here,” he says, dropping coin after coin onto the warped surface, each one singing sharp as it hits. “For the mess. And for the entertainment. And because I’m pretty, and you’re welcome.”

The barkeep just nods, not questioning how the mountain of gold multiplies under Silas’s fingers. Nobody ever questions how Silas can make people crave what he touches. They don’t know that Envy has teeth.

I drag a chair backward until it scrapes against the floor, the legs uneven from the fight. Caspian’s on the other side, a split lip and bruised cheek, but the way he’s looking at Luna like she’s the only light left in the room hasn’t changed. Riven’s crouched near the door, knuckles raw and ready to go again at the first spark.

And Luna—she’s back at the bar, perched like nothing happened, like she isn’t the reason this entire village’s drinking hole is barely still standing.

Silas plops down next to her, sliding a fresh mug toward her like he’s offering absolution. Then, because he has no goddamn filter, he leans in and says too loud, “Also, for the record, anyone who calls you a whore again gets their tongue ripped out. Politely, of course.”

Luna snorts around her drink, but her eyes flick to me, sharp, curious. I stay slouched in my chair, playing with the gold coin Silas tossed my way, flipping it over my knuckles like I’m not paying attention—but I am. I always am.

“You make it sound like you’re the authority on whoring, Silas,” I murmur, lazy smile cutting across my lips. “Which, to be fair, you might be.”

Silas beams like I handed him a crown. “And yet, I’ve never been paid. Tragedy.”

The tavern is an inferno of sound—shouted laughter, mugs clashing against wood, boots stomping along to a song none of us remember the words to but are determined to sing anyway. The ale flows like a river, spilling over the edges of dented tankards, sloshing across the scarred tables and worn floorboards. Heat presses in, the kind that softens muscles and dulls edges, makes even a man like me lean back and smile like he’s got nothing left to lose.

Silas is leading the madness, one foot on the bar, mug raised like a weapon. He’s already halfway slurring, shouting something about us being “the prettiest bastards this side of damnation,” and the whole bar howls in agreement.

Elias is draped over Riven’s shoulder, arm around his neck, dragging the poor bastard into the chorus whether he wants to be there or not. Riven’s grimacing like he’d rather punch us all, but his mouth twitches like he’s fighting not to laugh.

Caspian’s quiet, tucked next to Luna, but even he’s got a faint smile edging his lips as she leans into his side, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed from the ale and chaos. She’s singing too—off-key, soft—but every time she glances at me, there’s something sharp in it, something alive, like she’s daring me to join in.

And gods help me, I do.

I don’t sing. I don’t play. I don’t let myself indulge in idiocy like this.

But tonight? Tonight, I let it bleed out of me, low at first, until Silas hears me and shouts, “Dalmar’s singing! Hell’s frozen over!” and the whole tavern roars.

It’s messy, ugly, loud. It’s the kind of noise that scrapes something raw inside my chest and leaves it aching. Because I never had this. Not once. I was raised on cold commands and quieter, sharper things.

But now I’m here—shouting lyrics I don’t know, with her voice slipping like a promise through the din—and for once, I don’t care about the outcome.

Luna’s eyes find me across the chaos, and when I hold her gaze, she grins, wicked and wild and soft all at once, like she knows I’m slipping.