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Just the way she finally glances over at me, her expression still tight—but something in it less hollow now. Like I pulled her back from whatever cliff she was dancing too close to.

I lean down, murmur low enough that only she can hear me.

"You ever get that look in your eyes again," I say, "and I will not ask. I willdragit out of you. You hear me?"

She nods, solemn. And then—then—the ghost of a real smile flickers across her lips. It’s enough to make my rage settle, just barely. Enough to make me feel like maybe we’ll survive what comes next.

Silas’s screech cuts through the hush of the path like a blade, sharp enough to make the birds scatter from the low-hungbranches overhead. My head jerks toward the sound on instinct, because with Silas, you never know if he’s actually being murdered or just being himself.

He's got a stick clutched in both hands like it’s some legendary weapon, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead, eyes wild and gleaming. And Elias—godsdamned Elias—is half-heartedly swinging his own branch, a look of eternal suffering stamped across his face like it’s physically paining him to entertain this.

For every lazy step Elias takes, Silas takes ten. Darting, ducking, weaving like he’s dancing around a battlefield no one else can see. He flips backward, almost trips over his own feet, then twists back around and lunges at Elias with a war cry that rattles the leaves.

"Come on, Dain!" Silas shouts, voice too loud for how early it is, "Swing like you mean it! Put your whole back into it, coward!"

Elias doesn’t even blink. He shifts the stick between two fingers and deadpans, "I will shove this down your throat and call it a sword swallow, Veyd."

Luna snorts beside me. I can feel it rather than hear it, the tug of her lips, the barest roll of amusement through our bond. It’s quieter now—that haunted edge tucked away—but I don’t loosen my hold on her wrist. I won’t. Not until I know it’s really gone.

Silas spins dramatically, then drops to his knees like he’s been mortally wounded when Elias finally, lazily taps his shoulder. "Ahhh!You’ve bested me, you bastard. I die. Tragically. Beautifully."

He collapses backward into the dirt like some wilted, chaotic prince, arms spread wide, grin feral.

"You’re an idiot," I mutter under my breath, and Luna breathes out a quiet, soft laugh like she can’t help it.

Elias glances our way, raising a brow. "You’re just mad we didn’t ask you to join."

"You know why," I growl. "Because I’d actually knock both your asses into the dirt."

Silas lifts a hand from the ground, still flat on his back, grinning up at the gray sky. "That’s the point, Kain. You need to loosen up. You’re wound tighter than Elias’s—"

"Finish that sentence, Veyd," Elias cuts in, pointing his stick at him, "and I will time-dilate your entire existence into misery."

Ambrose fucking barrel rolls.

I blink. Once. Twice.

And there he is—coat flaring like wings, silver hair catching the light in a streak of arrogant defiance—as he tumbles across the dirt path and pops up like he’s just auditioned for the role of “Dramatic Bastard #1.” His grin is sharp, self-satisfied. Not the cold one that cuts, but something else. Something younger. A shadow of what he must’ve been before this world pressed in on him like a blade to the throat.

He lands next to Elias and Silas like he planned it, like this wasn’t the result of Silas yelling,"Bet you won’t roll like a hero, you cryptic lord of doom!"

“Payback,” Ambrose says, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder, “is a dramatic bitch.”

Silas lets out a howl so loud it startles birds into flight. “You absolutemadman—was that a three-point landing?! Do it again! Do it with a flip! I’ll give you gold. Real gold. Ambrose! Come back!”

But Ambrose is already striding past him with that casual, bone-deep elegance like he didn’t just defy every expectation we’ve been hanging off his shoulders for the last year. He walks past Luna—who’s frozen mid-step, lips parted in what looks suspiciously like awe—and his hand brushes hers. Not a touch, just a ghost of one. Intentional. Calculated. Barely there.

Her eyes narrow, cheeks flushed. I don’t miss that either.

Neither does Ambrose. The bastard doesn’t even look back, just smirks to himself like he’s solved a puzzle none of us knew existed.

“Okay,whatthe actual fuck was that,” Elias mutters as he watches him go. “Did he just—didAmbrosejust out-cringeSilas?”

“Impossible,” Silas says, hands on his hips. “I’m the reigning champion of unhinged flirtation.”

“Debatable,” Elias answers dryly. “You nearly proposed to a sentient wardrobe once.”

“It washaunted, Elias. And hot.”