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And the trap is already set.

The cathedral swallows us whole. It’s not built like a place of worship—nothing holy about it. The walls breathe power, bones stitched beneath the marble, cracked mosaics of Sins threaded through the floor like a graveyard dressed up pretty. High above, the vaulted ceiling disappears into shadows, ribs of stone arcing over us like a beast’s cage. Every inch of the place feels older than the Academy, older than anything, humming beneath my skin like a secret I almost remember.

Lucien moves ahead of us, stiff and mechanical, like a marionette wound too tight. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t slow. His mouth is sealed—not literally, but it may as well be. Branwen’s fingerprints are all over him, slick and suffocating, like she’s puppeteering the words he won’t say.

The doors grind shut behind us. A sound that makes the hair on my arms lift.

I shove my hands deep in my pockets, try to act like I’m not memorizing every corner, every trap stitched into the architecture. There are glyphs carved into the walls—ancient ones, the kind that predate us, that predate the Academy. They’re not here to ward. They’re here to bind, to bleed, to twist.

Every step echoes like a heartbeat.

The corridor opens into a nave, but it’s nothing like the ones at the Academy. Here, the pews are slabs of polished stone, cold and cracked, arranged not to invite worship but to direct attention. Toward the altar at the far end, where I know she’ll be waiting.

And gods, she’s theatrical. Branwen always did like her stages.

Above us, the stained glass isn’t of saints or martyrs—it’s of us Sins. Twisted, desperate, beautiful and ruined. The light that filters through their faces fractures the room, casting slashes of crimson, gold, violet across the floor like fresh wounds.

I glance at Luna. She’s walking straight, chin up, like the shadows can’t touch her. But I can feel her through the bond, vibrating beneath her skin like a blade ready to snap.

Ahead of us, Lucien doesn’t even twitch.

The closer we get to the altar, the worse it feels. Like the walls are leaning in, the air thinning, every breath heavier than the last. I can almost taste her power here, sweet and poisonous, like honeyed venom.

I murmur under my breath, half to Elias who’s at my shoulder, half to myself, “You’d think if you built your little murder cathedral, you’d at least spring for comfier chairs.”

Elias snorts quietly, but it’s hollow. Even he knows we’re walking into something worse than death.

I drag my gaze back to the altar. There are no offerings there—no candles, no prayers. Just a single, empty throne carved from obsidian, split down the middle like it remembers being shattered once.

The Sin Binder’s graveyard. That’s what my fantasy version of Luna told us. And she was right. This place isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a monument to every Sin Binder who’s died and every one who’s been devoured.

And now it’s our stage.

Lucien finally stops at the base of the altar steps. His shoulders lock, like his strings have pulled taut, and I know—without looking—that Branwen is behind that door at the far end. Waiting. Watching.

A smile curls at the edge of my mouth, sharp and ugly.

Good.

I want her to see me when I tear this cathedral down around her.

Lucien’s fingers twitch when he gestures toward the door, the same door he’s been leading us to like some obedient, possessed little soldier—but his eyes, sharp and frantic, slice back to uswith a silent, desperateno. He doesn’t speak—he can’t—but he’s screaming in every other way, in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way he sets his feet like he’s bracing for us to walk away.

And I don’t give a single shit about what he wants.

I step forward without ceremony, without asking, without caring what anyone else thinks about it. I’m done waiting. Done playing along. Done with the theatrics and the cat-and-mouse Branwen has been spinning like she’s the weaver and we’re the thread.

The door groans under my hand, older than it looks, like it remembers how many Sins walked through it only to never come back out.

The cathedral’s main chamber swallows me whole.

And there she is. Branwen looks nothing like the venom-laced villainess she likes to play. She’s slumped on the throne, a cracked thing of stone and bone at the top of the dais like she thinks she still rules over us. Her head lolls lazily, skin ashen, hair tangled at her shoulders like she hasn’t slept in weeks. There are dark circles bruised beneath her eyes, and she looks brittle in a way that has nothing to do with her magic.

I let the grin stretch across my face, sharp and brutal.

“You look like shit,” I say casually, loud enough to snap through the cathedral like a slap. “Didn’t think I worked you over that hard last time. But, hey—age hits us all eventually.”

Branwen lifts her chin, slow and deliberate, like every movement costs her. Her eyes are the same—they’re the only thing that’s still sharp. Still dangerous. Still a knife glinting in the dark.