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And I don’t know who Luna’s going to be on the other side of this.

But I know one thing—I’m still going to love her. Even if every one of these beautiful, broken bastards burns the world down trying to.

“Let’s all calm down,” I say, holding my hands up like I’m about to break up a bar fight instead of a gathering of the most powerful assholes on this side of the Hollow. “Riven, go talk to Luna about it. I’ll take Caspian back to his room, babysit him until she decides if she wants to fry him or forgive him.”

Riven doesn’t move. His jaw ticks, his gaze glued to Caspian like he’s waiting for one more excuse to end him. The kind of stillness that comes before a slaughter. But I step between them anyway, becausesomeonehas to be the voice of reason, and today, apparently, that’s me—God help us all.

“Look,” I say, softer now, voice dropping like I’m trying not to spook a wounded animal. “Luna needs to wake up with her own mind, not yours in it. You don’t get to make this call for her.None of us do. If she decides to kill him—great. I’ll even hold him still. But that choice? That’s hers.”

Riven’s eyes flash, but I see the break in him. The restraint. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’ttrustit. But he nods once. A curt, bitter slice of movement. Then he turns and storms out, the sound of his boots against the marble like war drums fading down the hall.

I exhale, slow.

Then I look at Caspian, who still hasn’t moved from the spot where he tried to vomit his soul out. His hands are shaking again. Or maybe still. I can’t tell.

“C’mon, Lust Boy,” I mutter, gripping his elbow and hoisting him up. “Let’s get you tucked in before you accidentally start bonding with the furniture.”

He doesn’t resist. That alone scares the hell out of me.

As I guide him through the hall, the silence between us isn’t comfortable—but it’s honest. He doesn’t try to talk. I don’t joke. Not right now.

This is beyond what happened with Luna.

Yeah, the stabbing was the worst of it. Obviously. You don't skewer your maybe-almost-soulmate in front of a wrathful demigods and walk away with a slap on the wrist. But right now, as I watch Caspian shuffle beside me like his body’s still catching up to the horror of what he did, I realize something deeper's been gutted.

He’s like a bird with too much weight tied to its wings. Not frail. Not delicate. Justbarely holding it together. The Caspian I know—the one who weaponizes seduction, who preens in front of any reflective surface like it owes him rent—hewould’ve made a show of this. Shrugged, smirked, spun the guilt into something poetic. But this Caspian? He hasn’t said a word since we left the war room. His gaze stays low, steps shallow, like the ground beneath him isn’t real.

And suddenly, as we round the hall toward his door, it hits me.

“Ohshit,” I mutter.

Caspian glances at me, just the faintest flicker of interest. Like even curiosity costs too much right now.

I wince. “Did I…? Idid, didn’t I?” I’m talking to myself now. “Godsdammit, Idefinitelycleaned your room this morning.”

He stops walking.

“...You what?”

I throw him a grin, exaggerated and ridiculous, hoping it might un-glitch something in his brain. “I might’ve... done a little light redecorating while you were gone.”

His face doesn’t move, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not even close. But something. A ghost of the Caspian we knew before everything came undone.

I nudge the door open with my boot and gesture grandly. “Ta-da! Welcome to Casa de Veyd. Now featuring alphabetized potions, folded silks by colorandemotional trauma, and—just for you—a fresh set of sheets not reeking of your usual musky tragedy.”

The door creaks open to reveal exactly what I feared.

Flawless.

I made it tooperfect. The throws are arranged in cascading gradients. The books are stacked in meaningful symbolism. His incense is lit, and his bed…his bedlooks inviting enough to make the most celibate monk reevaluate his life choices.

Caspian walks in, slow. Like he's afraid of breaking it. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he just needs a clean place to fall apart. So I stay. I don’t leave, don’t fill the silence. I sit on the velvet bench near the foot of his bed and pull out one of the lemon pastries Elias smuggled from the kitchen.

And I wait.

Because the decision hasn’t been made yet. But whatever Luna chooses—he’ll need someone to help him stand. Even if it's justthe chaotic idiot who reorganized his lingerie drawer by how likely it is to seduce a queen.

Caspian lowers himself onto the edge of the bed like he’s aged a thousand years in a day, and not in the hot, immortal, tortured-warrior way he usually carries himself. No—this is worse. It'scringe. His movements are slow, awkward, not quite dramatic enough to be purposeful. Just sad. And dirty. Gods,he's so dirty.