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He rolls to his feet with theatrical flair, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Rude.”

“You're fighting like you're stalling.”

He grins, but there’s something under it. A flicker of sharpness in his gaze. “Maybe I am.”

“Branwen watching?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t answer. Which tells meeverything.

She is.

And he’s trying not to hurt me.

Just like I’m trying not to make him bleed.

We’re both trapped. Fighting not because we want to—but because the bond pulls me like a marionette. Except Silas? Hefakesit. Hides the pain behind the jokes. Drowns the resentment in theatrics and flirtation. But I see it. I know it’s there. The way his jaw clenches too tight after every lunge. The way his hands shake, just a little, when he resets.

And I know what that means.

He’s burning through too many powers at once.

Too much envy. Too many stolen things that were never meant to fit inside him.

He’s falling apart.

And smiling while he does it.

He spins. Not just once. All versions of him—twirl in unison like they choreographed the move during a blackout drunk séance. Barrel rolls. Actual barrel rolls. Across the scorched ground, through smoke and scattered ash, each Silas commits to the bit like we’re in a combat ballet directed by a madman.

When he lands—graceful as a cat, blades raised like he stuck the damn landing at the Olympics—he shoots me a look so smug it should be illegal.

“Well?” he calls out, winded but grinning. “Scale of one to badass, how cool did that look? Be honest.”

He’s not askingme.

Not really.

His eyes flick to the right—subtle, fast—but I know who he’s performing for.

Luna.

She stands too far to hear him clearly, but that never stopped Silas from trying. The clones mirror him, all facing the same direction now, all puffed up with pride and glittering mischief, and gods help me—

Ismile.

It hurts. It hurts in a way I’m not ready for.

Like something deep in my chest has been frozen for too long and is finally cracking under heat it doesn’t know how to handle. My face pulls with it, this soft, unwilling expression I didn’t give permission for. A curl of amusement. A flicker of affection. Something ancient and sharp and unspeakablyfond.

Because gods, I missed him.

I missed this.

His chaos. His irreverence. His inability to take anything seriously—even now, when the world’s unraveling and our hands are slick with magic and blood. I missed the way he moves like gravity is optional. The way he talks through pain, through exhaustion, through every rule we’ve ever been told not to break.

Even now—especiallynow—he performs.

For Luna.