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“I look like a villain’s favorite mistake,” I murmur.

Silas beams. “That’s what I was going for.”

“Perfect,” I say, standing. “Let’s go rob the academy.”

Silas turns with a gleam in his eye and the eyeliner still clenched between his fingers like a dagger. “Your turn,” he announces with deadly cheer, eyes locked on Elias.

Elias—bless him—doesn’t even pretend to consider it. He bolts from the armchair like it’s on fire, tripping over his own foot as he scrambles backward. “Don’t come near me with that demon pencil,” he barks, fumbling behind the couch like it might swallow him up and save him.

“You’re the one who said I was wasting my talents,” Silas sings, stalking after him, eyeliner in hand and a wild smile curving his mouth. “Now let me bless your face with my artistic rage.”

“Artistic rage?” Elias hisses, holding up a throw pillow like a shield. “You made her look like a Bond villain and a backup dancer for Hades’ drag show.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

I don’t move to stop them. Watching them is like watching fire flirt with oil. Glorious and doomed.

“I swear to all the Hollow’s cracked bones, Silas, if you touch me with that thing—”

“You’ll what?” Silas dares, crouching on the couch now, eyeliner still poised. “Scream? Cry? Moan a little?”

Elias makes a noise that’s half disgust, half something else he probably doesn’t want to admit, and it makes me grin. Caspian walks in at that exact moment, blinking once at the scene: Silas lunging over the couch, Elias halfway behind it like a cornered cat, and me, leaning on the counter, eyeliner wings sharp enough to slice egos.

“What the hell is happening?” Caspian asks, his voice rough with sleep and disdain.

“Silas thinks he’s a makeup artist,” Elias grits out, still pinned by the threat of glitter and chaos.

“Correction,” Silas says, teeth bared in a grin, “Iama makeup artist. I just happen to specialize in unwilling canvases.”

Caspian walks past us and grabs a water bottle from the fridge, cracking it open with a twist of his wrist, like none of this is worth intervening in. “If you get eyeliner on the couch again, Riven’s gonna burn your soul out of your body.”

“I don’t fear Riven,” Silas replies breezily.

“I do,” I mutter, and that gets a bark of laughter out of Caspian.

Elias finally shoves Silas off him with a groan. “Luna, make him stop.”

“I’m not your babysitter,” I say sweetly, hopping off the counter and sliding past them. “Besides, you’d look great with a little smoky shadow.”

Elias glares at me like I’ve committed a war crime.

Silas winks. “See? The queen has spoken.”

I leave them there, still bickering like idiot gods in mortal bodies, and head toward the garage.

Silas and Elias come crashing out of the house like badly-behaved fireworks, shouting over each other, one of them probably still holding a tube of eyeliner like a damn weapon. Elias stumbles down the porch steps, eyes wide with laughter and chaos, and Silas is two steps behind him, howling something about “beauty is pain, baby!”

Caspian follows behind them at a saunter, hands buried in his pockets, mouth curled in that soft sad smile he wears now. He doesn’t say anything, just walks like a storm disguised in silk, glancing at me only once—and it’s enough to make my skin hum.

Ambrose is already there. Leaning against the black iron fence that borders the estate, perfectly still, perfectly unreadable. The moon slicks across his cheekbones, painting him colder than usual, if that’s even possible. He doesn’t acknowledge the others. Doesn’t need to. He’s waiting for Riven.

So am I.

But I can’t stop my eyes from drifting down the hill, past the weeping pines, to the shadowed silhouette of the school. It looks abandoned in a way that feels intentional. Like something watching you from behind the blinds. The gates are still warded. I can feel the hum of power threaded through them even from here—a dense, ancient spellwork meant to keep us out. Or something else in.

Blackwell hasn’t returned. Neither have the students. Not since Severin set this place ablaze in fear and blood, and the Council swept through like a cleansing fire. But the building stands. The Academy doesn’t fall easily, not without taking pieces of you with it.

“Looks friendly,” Elias says, breathless, already pulling a silver ring from his pocket—one etched in wards I haven’t seen before. “Shall we knock, or break the door like psychos?”