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And still.

Still.

She smiles. Like shewantshim to come closer.

But she didn’t count on Ambrose being the one beside him.

Ambrose doesn’t bother with weapons. He never does. His magic is precision. A curse folded into a thought. A trap hidden in the edge of a syllable. He lifts his hand, murmurs something beneath his breath—and Branwenstumbles.

Not much.

Just a half-step.

But it’s enough.

It’s enough for Caspian to slam his whip into the base of her throne, shattering the marble. The whole platform groans under the pressure. She rises, barefoot, blood-slick on the floor beneath her, and finally—finally—she stops smiling.

Back near the pillar, I choke on my own power.

Orin’s still draining me. My veins burn. My bones ache. Every second I stretch time is another part of me unraveling—but Iholdit. Ihold himthere. Because I see it.

Silas.

The real Silas, weaving through his copies like a fucking ghost, mouth drawn, eyes not laughing for once.

He’s close. Closer than any of us have gotten.

All he needs is—One second.

Caspian lashes again. Ambrose says something cruel and impossible and Branwenscreams.

And Silas runs. Straight for the pillar.

Lucien plows into Silas like a freight train made of grief and blood loyalty.

I see it too late to warn him—too wrapped up holding time, watching Caspian crack Branwen’s throne open like a ribcage. My power buckles as Lucien launches himself across the cathedral. One second Silas is charging for the pillar, grin wide, stupid-ass spell name probably forming on his lips. The next—

He’s airborne. Flung backward, body twisting midair like a ragdoll possessed. He hits the ground in a graceless sprawl, limbs splayed, groaning—but I hear the laugh under it.

Of course he laughs.

“Bro,” Silas wheezes, flat on his back as Lucien looms over him, one hand already glowing with that grotesque gray light Branwen feeds them with. “Consent. You gotta buy me dinner first if you’re gonna throw me down like that.”

Lucien doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just raises his hand higher like he’s about to crack Silas open like a fucking egg.

And Silas—

Silas fuckingcackles.

“Is this foreplay?” he gasps, rolling to the side just as Lucien’s magic hits the stone, shattering it with a sound like a scream. “Youareinto me. Shit, don’t tell Luna. Or do. Maybe we can all—”

Another blast. Silas rolls again, flings a clone forward, then another, three, four, five—blurring around Lucien in a flurry of long limbs and mad laughter.

“You can’t drain me if you don’t know which one’s me!” he howls. “Or can you? Fuck, can you? Because that wouldsuck, bro.”

Lucien closes his eyes, brow furrowed—draining. I feel it ripple through the room like a slow exhale of death. One by one, the clones drop.

But Silas doesn’t stop. He’s already up, running straight at Lucien again—unarmed, unhinged, absolutely Silas.