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And yet... they would kill me now, if Branwen willed it.

So I stand here. Between survival and sacrifice. Between what I am and what I should have been. I grip the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh like it means something. Like it’ll save me when the moment comes. But I know better. I’m not fast enough. I’m not strong enough. I’m notenough.

Sure—I carry wrath in my veins, envy in my blood, sloth coiled in my bones like it belongs there. The bond runs through me like a second spine, humming with heat and heartbreak. I havetheminside me, tangled into every inch of what I am. But none of that makes me powerful.

Because I don’tknowhow to use it. Not really.

Not like they do.

So what am I, then? A mistake. A miscalculation wrapped in skin. A soft thing that keeps surviving out of sheer, defiant accident. A body just waiting to be killed.

And gods—gods—do I hate that more than anything.

I don’t know enough about Ambrose. Not really.

Not about what he is beneath all that cool restraint, that silk-wrapped cruelty he wears like armor. Not about how far his power reaches—what it candowhen he’s not holding it back. Not about where the limit is, or if he evenhasone. Everything about him feels calculated. Curated. Like he’s the only one who knows where the edge of the blade is, and he’s just waiting to see if I’ll step on it.

But I know this—he’s not winning right now.

Caspian’s whip cuts again, and Ambrose dodges by inches, too slow. He spins back, eyes sharp, mouth tight, and his hand flies out, fingers curling like he's trying togripsomething that isn’t there. Something that maybe once obeyed him without effort. But now it staggers. Fails.

I see it when he clenches his side.

His hand stays there too long. Blood paints his fingers, dark and thick and soaking through what’s left of that sharp, pristinecoat he never should’ve worn into a war. It's not just the wound—it’s how it’sdraininghim. With every movement, with every breath, I can feel the way he hides the limp, the tremble in his wrist, the way his stance is faltering. He's bleeding too much. Too fast. And he’s pretending it's fine because that’s what Ambrosedoes.

He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t falter in front of anyone.

He justendures. Even when it's killing him.

And Caspian—Caspian doesn’t even look winded.

He’s terrifying like this. Graceful in a way that shouldn’t exist in the middle of a battlefield. His power radiates off him in waves, lust twisted into something volatile and sharp, and I know he’s notin therefully—not the version of him that reads in shadows and teases with lazy charm and walks like he owns the space beneath his feet. This Caspian is silent. Fluid. Controlled.Occupied.

And he’s pressing Ambrose back step by step, blow by blow.

I catch a glimpse of Ambrose’s face as he deflects a strike with a wave of his hand, the magic rippling like gold too tarnished to shine. His eyes flick to me—just for a heartbeat—and in that moment, I see it. What he doesn’t want me to know.

He’s not holding back because he’s arrogant.

He’s holding back because he’sdrowning.

And he won’t stop.

Because he knows—if Caspian gets through him, I’m next.

And he’d rather bleed out protecting me than admit hecan’t.

It happens so fast I don’t have time to breathe, let alone brace.

Caspian slams his head into Ambrose’s face with brutal, unrelenting force. The sound is obscene—sharp and final, a crunch that splits the air and seems to echo inside my chest. I watch Ambrose’s head snap back, blood erupting from his nose in a sudden, grotesque spray that blinds him instantly. It doesn’t slow Caspian. Itopens the path. Ambrose stumbles,and Caspian moves like a blade released from its sheath—silent, inevitable, devastating.

He’s on me in a breath. And I know it’s coming. Ifeelit before it hits—something primal, visceral, bone-deep. My body tries to move, to twist out of the way, to summon something,anything. But it’s too late.

The blade sinks into my shoulder just beneath the collarbone—too close to my heart. For a moment, everything stills. Not from shock. Fromrecognition.

Because I feel something strange. Somethingwrong.

Caspian’s hand isn’t wrapped around the hilt. He isn’t gripping the weapon like a soldier. His palm is flat against the blade itself, forcing it forward—forcing it into me—while the steel carves into his own flesh. Blood pours down the metal from both of us, slick and warm and terrifying. And yet he doesn’t stop.