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The first clone disintegrates before it even breathes on the pillar. A crackling sound, like bone fracturing under too much pressure, and the illusion implodes inward, sucked into Orin’s outstretched hand.

Another clone lunges, cocky, grinning.

Orin doesn’t even blink. His veins, those black vines snaking beneath his skin, pulse once—hungry—and the copy crumbles, devoured whole.

It’s not magic. It’s consumption. Like he’s drinking them down, draining the spark out of every image until there’s nothing left but dust and the faint, bitter taste of ash.

Silas freezes beside me, his real body, the corner of his grin faltering. "That’s not new," he mutters, almost admiring. Almost terrified.

I don’t have the luxury of watching.

Because Lucien moves next.

Quiet as a breath, deadly as a blade. He slams into Riven before I can even call out, a blur of motion slicing between the flickering shadows. No weapon—he doesn’t need one. He’s always been sharper than steel, faster than the rest of us when it mattered.

The room erupts.

I push time sideways, slowing everything within reach—Branwen’s cold smile twisting in slow-motion, Orin’s shadowsunfurling like a net across the cathedral floor, Silas’s chaos magic fracturing under Orin’s hunger. The cathedral itself groans like it’s being torn in half.

But it’s not enough.

I can’t slow them.

Not Orin.

Not Lucien.

Not when they’re bonded like this, when Branwen’s leash is coiled so tight around their throats it’s become a noose.

Silas shouts something unintelligible, launching himself toward Lucien, reckless and wild, swinging at him with every ounce of rage he’s got, but Lucien sidesteps him like he’s nothing, like he’s a child flailing.

Caspian cuts toward Orin, slipping past the shadows, too smooth, too fast. He’s not fighting to win—he’s trying to get to the pillar.

And me?

I do what I do best. I slow everything. And I aim myself at Orin, because he’s the key, the one tearing Silas’s copies apart like playthings, the one standing between us and the end of this nightmare.

I reach him just as his hand snaps out to crush another Silas illusion—and I slam into him, my body colliding with his, knocking us both to the floor in a chaos of limbs and snarled curses.

"Hi, Orin," I mutter, breathless, snarling the words in his ear as I pin him. "Miss me?"

His eyes flare with something monstrous, somethingnotOrin.

And I know I have seconds before he drains me too.

But seconds?

Are all I need.

Caspian’s whips crack through the air like thunder snapping a leash. I don’t think I’ve seen him like this in weeks. SinceLuna. Since she peeled him off the floor of whatever black hole Branwen dragged him into and made him feelwantedagain. Not used. Not devoured.Wanted.

Now? He looks feral.

Not the flirt. Not the tease. Not Lust with a purr and a wink. No. This is Lust as weapon. Lust as punishment. He’s not here to seduce—he’s here to destroy.

And he’s aiming straight for Branwen.

Caspian’s whip snaps around one of the larger support beams and yanks him forward, vaulting him over two of Silas’ illusions and into the center of the cathedral. The floor shudders when he lands. He doesn’t hesitate. The whips fly again, carving through shadows and illusion, clearing a path straight to the dais where Branwen watches.