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Of rage. Of every monster that’s ever been what we are. And that’s when it settles inside me, heavier than everything else—the war isn’t over.

It hasn’t even begun. Because the sins buried here? They don’t stay dead.

And Luna’s at the center of all of it, whether she knows it or not.

I lean back, exhaling slow, voice like ice sliding through the warmth of the room. "We’re about to have a lot of angry ghosts clawing at our throats."

Orin lifts his glass then, finally, toasting to the hell that’s coming.

And for once, I drink with him.

The table’s edge digs into my palm as I lean forward, voice low, slicing through the din of the tavern like a blade. "Do we have a number?"

Orin doesn’t glance up from the drink he’s barely touched. His fingers trace the rim absently, like the movement helps himkeep the weight of what’s coming at bay. "Two hundred and twenty."

The words land like a stone in my chest.

Two hundred and twenty Sin Binders. Before her.

I glance at Riven, who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react. He knew. He’s probably been counting them since the moment he walked through that cathedral and felt their bones humming under the earth.

I lean back, exhaling slow, biting down on the sharp edge of something ugly and unsettled in me. "Most of them we hated."

Orin hums in agreement. "Some we loved."

"Some we bound to," I add, voice sharp as glass.

The weight of it drags heavier across my shoulders, across all of us sitting at this cursed table. I don’t like looking back. Don’t like remembering how many of those binds we walked away from, cut loose, killed, or lost. Because none of them stuck. None of them mattered enough to last.

And yet—

I glance over at her. The girl who should be the biggest mistake we’ve ever made, the one thing that should’ve brought us to ruin. Instead, she’s still standing. Stronger. Louder. More dangerous.

I drag my gaze back to the table, thumb tapping once, twice, sharp against the wood.

"I’m not bound to anyone else," I murmur, half to myself, half to them.

It’s not a confession. It’s a curse.

Because if there were others, if those binds still existed—they’d hum inside me. Like venom in my bloodstream. Like Branwen’s always did.

But there’s nothing. Just silence. Just the ghost of a bond that turned to ash the second she died. Before the thought cantighten around my throat, Riven lifts his glass and says, dry and flat, "You might want to go easy on Luna."

That draws my gaze back to him, sharp and unimpressed.

He shrugs. "She’s sensitive about the whole thing."

I bark out a humorless laugh, but it feels like scraping steel against my ribs. "You mean the whole graveyard of exes who might crawl out of the fucking woodwork to tear her apart?"

Orin’s voice cuts in, low and knowing. "That’s not what he meant."

Of course it isn’t. It’s never about the battle, the politics, the corpses we left behind. It’s about her. It’s always about her.

I drain my drink in one long swallow, slamming the glass down hard enough to crack. "Well, then," I mutter. "She better grow teeth."

Because what’s coming? May devour us all.

Riven leans back in his chair like he isn’t holding the weight of every fucking war we’ve fought, his mouth tugging at the corner in something almost like a smile—but darker. "You remember the last time we were in this dump?" His voice cuts through the low murmur of the Fang Tavern, easy, casual, as if he’s not about to drop something volatile into the middle of this already loaded conversation.