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I’m not listening to them anymore. Not really. My focus is on Ambrose, who now stands ahead of the group, arms crossed, surveying the stretch of forest ahead like he owns it. Maybe he does, in whatever way a man like him claims ownership of silence, of mystery, of inevitability.

But that—that—laugh? That wasn’t inevitable. That was unexpected. Unshackled.

I glance at Luna. She’s still watching him. And I don’t like the way her eyes have gone soft.

The ground crunches under my boots as I move up beside her, close enough to shoulder into her gently, grounding her back to me. To us.

She looks up, and her lips twitch.

“Did he just—?”

“Yes,” I mutter. “Don’t talk about it.”

She leans into my side anyway. Not fully. Just enough for me to feel it in my ribs. I think she does it to calm me. I think it works.

Ahead, Ambrose tilts his head, smirking like heknowsit worked.

And gods help me—I don’t barrel roll, but I almost want to.

Silas screams like he’s been set on fire—which, knowing him, might still be on the table—and charges Ambrose with a stick held high like he’s storming a battlefield, not a dirt trail in the middle of nowhere.

“FOR HONOR! FOR GLORY! FOR WHATEVER THE HELL THIS IS!”

Ambrose doesn’t even blink. He bends, smooth as anything, and picks up a stick of his own—longer, slightly curved, unnecessarily elegant for a piece of tree limb—and raises it like he’s fencing in a ballroom instead of a goddamn field.

“I warned you last time,” Ambrose mutters, twirling it with ridiculous precision, “I do not lose to idiots.”

Silas howls and lunges. Ambrose parries. With flourish.

The sticks clash with a satisfyingcrack, and Silas spins, overcorrects, and Ambrose smacks him on the ass with the tip of his stick like he’s a fucking fencing instructor punishing poor posture.

“En garde,peasant.”

“Oh youbastard—” Silas growls, tripping over a root and somehow turning it into a dive-roll that lands him behind Ambrose. “You cheat with class, you evil, beautiful spreadsheet of a man!”

Elias finally ambles in, dragging a broken branch that looks more like driftwood than a weapon. “Alright, alright, if someone’s going to die today, it better beme,” he says, deadpan. “This stick? This stick is named Regret. It represents my life choices.”

Silas swings wildly. Ambrose blocks with the ease of a man used to handling chaos.

“Regret is a terrible name,” Ambrose says, sidestepping a lunge. “It’s too on the nose for you.”

“I was going to call it ‘My Future,’ but then I remembered it’s already broken,” Elias deadpans.

Ambrose swings. Silas ducks. Elias blocks it with Regret and immediately yelps as the branch splinters in his hand.

“I’VE BEEN BETRAYED!” Elias yells, tossing the remains and clutching his chest. “My weapon has turned against me. Likeeveryone I’ve ever loved.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Ambrose mutters, breathless now, laughing quietly as he spins to knock Silas’s stick from his hand—only for Silas to whip outanotherstick from his coat like he’s been waiting for this exact moment his whole life.

“Double wield,baby!”

Ambrose freezes. “You brought backup sticks?”

Silas beams. “You think I walk into chaos with justonestick? Amateur hour.”

Elias has now found a rock and is brandishing it like a dagger. “Fear me,” he says, voice hoarse, “I have a pebble and nothing to lose.”

And for a moment—all three of them are locked in this ridiculous, lopsided triangle of chaos: Ambrose wielding grace like a weapon, Silas practically vibrating with energy, Elias somehow lethally pathetic. It’s a mess of flailing limbs, clashing sticks, dramatic battle cries, and one sharp yelp as Silas tries to leap over Ambrose and lands face-first in the grass.