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And then—hethrowshim.

Hethrows Silaslike a weapon forged in madness and spit and spite.

Time snaps.

And Silaserupts.

Blades drawn. Power stealing through his veins like borrowed lightning. His body twists mid-air, and I can feel the war song of it, every step of that move built not in theory butin trust. The wild kind. The kind only idiots and brothers are stupid enough to pull off. And for once, for the briefest damn moment, I don’t want to strangle either of them.

Branwen sees it too late.

She turns.

And Silas hits her like the embodiment of every mistake she ever made.

Luna

Silas sails through the air like he was born to defy gravity, like the laws of physics are more of a suggestion than a rule he’ll ever obey. His body twists mid-flight, a blur of blades and borrowed magic, and the Hollow catches the motion with too much clarity—dust suspended, time fractured at the seams. It’s poetry written by chaos, and of course it’shimat the center of it.

And then—because he is who he is—heopensthe bond. Not the low, instinctive hum we always share, not the wordless link between hearts and magic.

No. He throws the doorwide. His voice crashes into my mind, loud and crackling like he’s yelling through a speaker that’s half on fire, and dripping with so much smugness I want to scream.

“How cool do I look right now?”he asks, like he’s not mid-air, like he’s not an arc of sharpened death barreling straight toward a woman who coulderase him.“One to ten. Eleven? Twelve? Do you wanna fuck after this? I’m thinking post-murder glow sex, yeah?”

I blink. Once.

And it takes everything in me not to laugh.

Everything.

Because this is exactly the kind of chaos he breathes into battle. It’s his signature—the flirtation laced in recklessness,the absolutely criminal timing. And worse—he’s not joking. Not entirely. There’s too much sincerity bleeding through the ridiculousness, too much boyish hope beneath the snark.

My heart stutters with a violent, unwilling affection.

Godsdammit, Silas.

I don’t answer him. Not with words. I let the bond pulse back once—sharp, hard, biting—more like a slap than a kiss. A warning. A promise.

He chuckles through it.

Ifeelthe grin twist across his face before he even lands.

And despite the firestorm unraveling around us, despite the screams and the spells and the certainty that not all of us are walking out of this alive—

There’s something warm lodged in my chest. Because only Silas could make a warzone feel like a flirtation. And only I would be stupid enough tofeel it back.

I’ve got bigger problems than Silas trying to flirt while midair—though gods help me, that disaster is branded into my mind now. No, right now it’s Caspian—Caspian—who’s charging again like the leash on his mind is snapping tighter, not looser. And Ambrose is the only thing standing between him and me.

Ambrose, who’s still bleeding from the knife that should’ve never touched him. A knife meant for me. A knife he took without hesitation.

Because of me.

He doesn’t falter, not visibly. Ambrose would let the world burn from the inside out before he gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing him stumble. But the blood on his side is dark now, soaking deeper with every movement, and I can feel it—how it's slowing him, inch by inch. How he's gritting through it like it’s an inconvenience, not a wound.

And Caspian… Caspian looks wrong.

His face is blank, pale in a way that doesn't belong to him, all the desire wiped clean and replaced with that distant sheen I hate. It isn’thimbehind those eyes. Not completely. Branwen’s magic sits thick in his veins, twisting his will, curling every ounce of charm into something weaponized and grotesque. He doesn’t want to be doing this—I can feel it in the tremble of his aura, the flicker of hesitation—but he’s still moving like he does.