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Like she knows I’ll never get it back.

The tavern empties in a haze of slurred goodbyes and the scrape of overturned chairs. The fire’s burning low, the shadows longer now, drunk laughter fading into the streets beyond. The scent of ale and sweat clings to us like a second skin, the sweet burn of it still curling at the back of my throat.

Riven, voice rough and clipped, negotiates for a room. It’s the last one, of course. The woman at the counter doesn’t bother hiding her look—like she knows exactly who we are, what kind of chaos we drag in behind us. She gives us the key anyway, like it’s a warning.

The room isn’t much. A slanting ceiling. A single bed shoved against the far wall. A warped window with the latch broken. It smells like dust and old wood and too many bodies who've passed through without leaving anything behind.

We pile in, a mess of staggered steps and muttered curses. No one says anything when Luna collapses onto the bed like she belongs there—because she does. All of this, the blood, the bond, the exhaustion gnawing at our edges, it’s been orbiting around her from the start.

The rest of us hit the floor without ceremony.

Elias groans, flopping back dramatically, one arm slung over his face. “This floor’s fucking sticky,” he grumbles, voice muffled and petulant, as if the entire universe personally offended him by putting him here.

There’s a rough snort from the corner, a low curse, someone’s boot hitting the wall.

I sit against the frame, spine pressed hard into the unforgiving wood, gaze locked on her silhouette in the moonlight cutting through the cracked curtains. She’s breathing steady now, like she’s not the reason we nearly burned down the tavern, like she’s not the reason we’re all bruised and limping, singing ourselves hoarse hours ago.

The others drift into a loose rhythm of sleep or near-sleep, bodies heavy around me. But I stay awake.

Because she’s there.

And for one stupid, reckless second, I wish I’d fought harder for the bed—not for comfort. For proximity. For the war I want to lose.

Caspian

The night settles heavy on my shoulders, the cold slicing clean through the ale still burning in my blood. I leave the creaking floors of the tavern behind, the muffled snores and restless shifting of the others like ghosts in the walls. Out here, the quiet isn’t soft—it’s a blade.

The village center is empty at this hour, save for the rickety benches and the flicker of lantern light spilling from shuttered windows. The stones beneath my boots are slick with dew, the air sharp enough to remind me I’m alive.

Barely.

I drop onto a bench like I’m made of lead, lean back, and stare up at the cracked, bruised sky. The stars don’t look right here. Everything in Branwen’s world feels…off. Twisted. Even the gods here bleed differently.

Tomorrow, we walk into hell. I’ll see her again—Branwen. I’ll hear that voice. That voice that once folded around me like silk while she wound her leash tighter, laughing at the way I begged and didn’t know it.

And no matter how far I’ve come, how much distance there is between her and me now, the thought of her voice makes my skin crawl. Because I remember how she used to whisper sweet things, poison wrapped in honey. How I’d fall for it, again and again, until I didn’t know which pieces of me were mine and which were hers.

I drag a hand down my face, jaw locked so tight it aches.

Lucien’s still in her grasp. I know it. She wouldn’t have let him go unless she’d already broken something important inside him. And I wonder—when we find him, will he look like me? Empty-eyed. Shattered. Will he hate himself the way I did? Or worse, will he believe her the way I did?

The knot in my chest tightens, dark and ugly, because I want to think Lucien’s stronger. That he’ll fight harder than I did. But I know what Branwen is capable of. I know how she gets inside you without you even realizing she’s there. And I don’t know if anyone walks away from her untouched.

The wind cuts low through the village square, rattling loose shutters. My fingers twitch against the splintered wood of the bench. I breathe out, a ragged sound, and tilt my head back to the stars.

A door creaks somewhere behind me.

The footsteps behind me aren’t hesitant. They’re heavy, deliberate, the weight of them pressing into the cobbled street like the night itself is folding around the sound.

I don’t bother glancing over my shoulder. There’s only one of us who moves like he’s carved out of cold stone and expensive regret.

Ambrose doesn’t say a word at first. He lowers himself onto the bench beside me without preamble, posture loose but sharp at the edges, like a man who never quite learned how to rest even when he’s trying.

For a minute, we sit there in the dark, staring out at the hollow village square like it might offer us something worth holding onto.

It won’t.

"Couldn’t sleep?" he asks finally, voice low, careful. Too careful.