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But then she laughs, low and breathy and unhinged. "Oh darling," she croons. "You think I ever wanted you?"

She’s still trying to pull the strings. Still playing like she has any cards left.

"You’ve made your move," I say flatly. "And you’re running out of time."

She looks at me, and I know—she knows exactly how literal that is.

Her gaze flicks past me, past all of us, to the pillar behind her, and then back to me. "Time won’t save you here, Elias."

I flash her a smile, all teeth and venom. "It doesn’t have to."

And when she looks away, when she turns her focus to Luna like she’s trying to bait her into something, I flick my fingers once. Just once. Time ripples at the edges of the cathedral. Not enough to move. But enough to remind her that if she thinks she’s playing with shadows—

She forgot who we are.

Silas calls it “The Silas Spectacular”—because of course he does. The name’s obnoxious, ridiculous, and entirely him, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t brilliant.

I glance at him, meet those wild, unhinged green eyes for a heartbeat, and he winks, his fingers flicking like he’s casting a spell, even though it’s me who handles the magic. That’s how it’s always been with us—I pull the threads, and Silas sets the world on fire.

The second he snaps his fingers, the cathedral groans like it knows what's coming. Shadows peel off the walls, stretching and folding into shapes that shouldn’t exist. Dozens of Silas’s—some grinning, some sneering, one flipping off Branwen’s throne like he’s rehearsed it.

They’re everywhere.

Climbing the ruined archways, sprawled in the rafters, hanging upside down like deranged bats, perched on crumbling statues with devil-may-care smiles. Each one an echo of chaos wrapped in flesh.

And Branwen?

Her smile falters.

Good.

I dial the seconds back, the cathedral stretching thin around us. The edges of reality slow, just enough for us—not enough for Orin and Lucien to feel it, but enough to make her question her grip.

Her power flickers, a pulse at the corner of my vision.

Silas’s illusions flood the space, laughing, heckling, leaning in close to whisper sweet, obscene nonsense in Branwen’s ear. One drops from the ceiling and lands next to her throne, grinning like a lunatic, “Tell me, love, is this your kink? Thrones and lies and sad little boys?”

Her lips curl back, but she doesn’t speak. She can’t. She’s trying to figure out which Silas is real, which threat is real, and by the time she figures it out, it’ll be too late.

I keep my power wrapped close, feeding the illusion, letting it bleed through every inch of stone and shadow. The pillar behind her flickers too—a crack, subtle but there, like the magic holding this whole place together can feel us unraveling it.

Silas’s real body darts through the crowd of himself, moving fast, deliberate, like a dagger slicing through fabric. And I move with him, a breath behind, slowing time just enough so no one can catch us—not Orin, not Lucien, not even Branwen.

We’ve done this before. Not here, not like this—but in the alleyways of Calverin, in the back alleys of Seven Sins, when everything was a game and we hadn’t yet known how high the stakes would get.

The world tilts around us, the hum of the pillar growing louder, Branwen’s smile stretched too thin, too brittle. And when I catch her looking, hunting, I flash her a grin that’s all blade and venom.

“You always underestimated the two of us,” I murmur across the space, my voice a quiet, lethal thing. “That was your first mistake.”

One of Silas’s copies flips her off again and cartwheels toward the pillar.

And this time?

She looks scared.

The moment the first Silas illusion slips too close to the pillar, Orin’s head snaps up like a hound catching scent. His eyes flash—too dark, too hollow, a void swallowing the man we once knew.

And then he moves. Faster than he should.