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I smile then, slow and deliberate, leaning in so she feels the weight of me at her throat.

"No," I breathe. "I wantyouout of the way."

I step back and gesture lazily toward Caspian, who’s coiled behind me like a blade about to strike, his magic humming at the edges of the void she created.

"She's yours," I tell him, voice silk and steel. "Make it count."

And I watch, cool and untouched, as Caspian’s power snaps forward—because I know how this ends.

With her erased.

With us free.

With Luna’s name still burning in my mouth like a curse I’ll never spit out.

The cathedral is chaos—firelight and shards of magic, bodies crashing through the haze like fallen stars. But I’ve never minded chaos. It’s predictable in its own way. Like a negotiation, when the other side starts to panic.

And Branwen is panicking.

Not that she shows it. No, she’s standing like a queen made of ash and rot, her body leaking Lucien’s strength and Orin’s wisdom like it’s hers to wield. But every flick of her wrist is a little too fast, a little too desperate. Every spell cast from someone else’s soul. The threads holding her together are fraying. And I’m watching them come undone.

Elias is a blur—unnaturally fast, unnervingly precise—his power warping the perception of movement around him. Everyone else drags in molasses, butheis sound slicing throughskin. Time-diluted violence. His expression is unreadable, but his aim is surgical—dodging Orin’s blasts and Lucien’s ice with the kind of grace that can’t be taught, only weaponized.

And then there’s Silas.

I don't know what spell he used—probably made it up on the spot—but there are versions of himeverywhere.Clones bursting across the room in exaggerated theatricality, some screaming war cries, some moonwalking, one performing some kind of backflip off a pew like we’re on a stage instead of in the middle of a war. He’s not even attacking anyone. Just distracting, disorienting,chaos incarnate.

Branwen’s magic stutters.

She can’t target anything. Every time she tries, it’s a version of Silas with a stupid expression or glitter in his hair—and she doesn’t know which one’s real. That’s the point. It doesn’t matter. Elias sweeps behind her, a blur of precision and speed, catapulting one Silas after another through the cloud of smoke and light.

And in the center of thatspectacle, I move.

No magic. No flare.

Just purpose.

I glide between the fragments of war like they part for me. My boots don’t make a sound. My hands don’t shake. I see the lines of power crackling off her like veins—Lucien’s cold rage, Orin’s worn wisdom—and I slip through them, carving a path of stillness in the riot.

Her eyes flick toward me.

Good.

I want her to see it coming.

My hand grazes a shattered column as I pass it, and Iownit—stone fusing to my will, humming under my skin like it’s waiting for my command. I touch the floor next, and the marblelistens.I don't even need to give the order yet. I’m collecting everything I need. Building the strike. Silent, inevitable.

"Stay the fuck back," she rasps, voice low and raw now, and I can hear the cracks behind it, thefearshe’s trying to swallow.

I don’t.

"You stole the wrong gods’ toys," I say softly, and I press my palm to the edge of her throne.

Her powerjolts, like she feels it—something slipping away from her grasp. She lashes out with a thread of ice, jagged and wild. I sidestep. I don’t blink.

"You never learned how to wield power, Branwen," I murmur. "You just learned how to beg for it."

My magic slides into the throne—into the stone, the veins of the cathedral itself—andseizes. The pillar behind her flares in resistance, but it’s not hers. Not entirely. She’s dying already, just too proud to admit it.