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Lucien grabs him by the throat mid-sprint.

And still, he grins.

“Choke me harder, Daddy,” Silas whispers. “Idareyou.”

Lucien falters. Just a second.

But that’s all Silas needs. He spits in Lucien’s face, yanks back, kicks him square in the gut and bolts past. Not toward the pillar now—no. TowardOrin.

“Tag out, Elias,” Silas yells, ducking a swipe of magic. “I’ve got the pretty one!”

I drop the time dilation with a gasp, stumbling back as everything slams into full motion again.

Chaos.

Branwen screaming spells in a language older than dust. Caspian’s whips carving arcs through the air. Ambrose laughing like the monster he is, slicing magic into threads. And Silas?

Silas chasing Orin with nothing but nerve, a shitty grin, and a new spell name on his lips.

“Operation—I’m Gonna Kick Your Soul In The Dick!Commencing!”

Gods help us all.

Silas has never been subtle a day in his life. He’s a whirlwind of sharp elbows and worse ideas, and right now, he’s a blur acrossthe cathedral floor, weaving between falling stone and spells like he’s invincible.

Which he’s not.

I see Orin’s magic spear toward him, gray tendrils slick and greedy, ready to drag Silas down. And because I know how this works, I wait—counting under my breath—one, two—

There it is. Silas flicks his fingers at me, tongue poking between his teeth like he’s about to say something obscene. The signal.

Showtime.

I sigh, because it’s always me. Always.

“Operation Time-Sexy-Murder-Go is a go,” I mutter, and twist time around us like a ribbon.

The cathedral slows—the fall of shattered glass caught mid-air, Branwen’s snarl pulling like sap through molasses, Lucien’s fists dragging against the current like he’s punching underwater. Only Silas and I move at normal speed.

And that’s when the idiotgrins, bare teeth and wild eyes, like we’ve been waiting centuries for this one moment.

“We rehearsed this,” he pants, sidling up to me, elbow knocking against mine like we’re on a fucking date. “You ready?”

“No,” I reply dryly, flicking my fingers to the rhythm we practiced weeks ago while drunk in the academy courtyard. “But I’m prettier than you, so let’s go.”

Silas spins, ducking beneath Orin’s sluggishly swinging arm, and I step behind him like a shadow.

We move together. I slow time for everyone but us, wrapping it tighter, compressing the second like I’m crushing a star in my fist. Silas darts left, right, and then springsup—vaulting off a pew like a lunatic.

He lands on Orin’s shoulders.

“Hey, handsome!” Silas sings, wrapping his legs around Orin’s neck like he’s riding him. “Miss me?”

Before Orin can react—because in my little pocket of warped time, he’s moving at a snail’s pace—I slam into his side, the weight of years pressing through me as I shove the entire world faster around us, spinning it into sharpness.

Silas flips backward off Orin’s shoulders, kicking him square in the face.

“Synchronized chaos!” Silas yells.