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He finally turns, just enough to glance at me, red-eyed and hollow. “And what do I do until then?”

“Sleep,” I say. “Eat. Shower. Breathe. Stop apologizing.”

He stares. Then buries his face again in the pillow like he can’t handle hearing it.

I rise. Move to the door.

“You’re not forgiven,” I say before I leave. “But you’re not abandoned either.”

Then I close it, leave him with the silence. He’s not the only one Branwen broke. But he’s the first to admit he’s shattered. That’s something.

It might even be enough to start putting the pieces back together.

Silas is pacing like a madman outside Caspian’s room, his boots scuffing the ancient stone floors in a rhythm too erratic to be anything but agitation dressed in chaos. His shirt’s halfway untucked, and his fingers are doing that twitchy thing again—like he can’t decide whether to punch a wall or hug someone and call it a joke. When he sees me, he stops mid-stride, eyes flickingover my face like he’s trying to read the damage before I can say a word.

“Well?” he asks, voice pitched low, but still unmistakably Silas—coated in sarcasm, dipped in worry. “Is he dead, or just emotionally constipated?”

“He’s not dead,” I say, dryly. “Though if he keeps wallowing, he might drown in his own guilt.”

Silas lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further like he’s punishing it for existing. “I tried talking to him. Told him some of my best jokes. Even did the thing where I pretend to be a ghost haunting his regret. Nothing. Guy just looked at me like I kicked a puppy.”

“He’s not ready for jokes.”

“He’s never ready for jokes.” Silas leans against the wall, head thunking back against the stone. “I don’t know what to do with him when he’s like this. He’s all…” He gestures vaguely with both hands. “Feelings. And sadness. And like, poetic tragedy bullshit. I’m not built for that.”

“No,” I agree, “you’re built for chaos, misplaced flirtation, and setting things on fire.”

“Exactly.” He grins, briefly. “And charming the hell out of your girl.”

I glance at him, sharp. “She’s not mine.”

Silas snorts. “You keep telling yourself that, Ambassador. Maybe one day it’ll be true.”

Before I can answer, the door behind me clicks shut. Caspian didn’t come out, but the weight of him still lingers in the air, heavy and haunted. I ignore Silas’s smirk, push off the wall, and start down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“To see Luna,” I answer, without turning around. “Someone has to tell her Caspian’s not going to slit his wrists with his own reflection tonight.”

Silas follows, of course. He always does. A shadow made of noise and nonsense. But when he falls into step beside me, his voice drops.

“Do you think she’ll finish the bond?”

The question hangs between us like smoke.

“She has to,” I say. “Or it’ll kill her.”

“But what if it kills her anyway?” he murmurs.

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know.

But I know this: Luna has already survived things that should have broken her. And if she chooses to tether herself to Caspian—to that blood-soaked bond still pulsing between them—I’ll be there to make sure she survives again.

I pause outside Luna’s door, one hand resting on the polished wood, and take a breath I don’t need. She’s just inside, probably sitting upright with that too-calm expression she wears when she’s already picked her answer and is waiting for the rest of us to catch up. That’s what she does—lets the world fall apart around her while she stands in the middle, daring the wreckage to touch her. But this? This will touch her. Caspian always did.

She asked if he was okay.

That question keeps chewing at me like something rotten. She bled for him. Nearly died because of him. And still—still—she asks if he’s all right, like her heart forgot who it belongs to. Or maybe it just never learned how to protect itself in the first place.