Page 62

“I vote for both,” Silas grins, eyes lit. “We knock first—then blow it up when no one answers.”

“Of course you do,” Caspian murmurs, not looking at him.

Ambrose speaks finally, low and clean. “We don’t touch the front entrance. That’s where he’ll have layered the deepest protections. We go in through the chapel. The wards will still sting, but it’s our best shot at getting past them without waking whatever he’s bound into the floors.”

That silences everyone. The chapel.

I glance at Silas, and for once—even he’s quiet.

“What do you think we’ll find?” I ask. The question is meant for Ambrose, but it’s Riven who answers as he steps through the gate behind us.

“Secrets,” he says. “And probably something that wants to kill us.”

He doesn’t look at me, but when his hand brushes mine, he lets it linger for a second too long before walking ahead.

The others follow. And I do too—toward the place that made us all what we are, toward the office of a man who’s been silent too long, toward whatever truth the Academy buried beneath its stones.

The Hollow is shifting again. And I’m done being careful.

Riven’s back is to us at first, his silhouette sharp and carved in shadow, framed by the splintered moonlight filtering through the trees that claw at the chapel. The doors—tall, carved with old runes worn down by weather and age—don’t yield to him, not even a groan. He stands completely still, both palms pressed flat against the cold stone, his head bowed like he’s listening for something just beneath the surface.

The rest of us go quiet without being told. There’s a gravity to him when he’s like this—when the rage isn’t blinding but focused, tuned like a blade.

Then he speaks.

“Why the fuck would you let Silas do your makeup?”

His voice cuts across the stillness like a blade dipped in disbelief. He turns his head toward me, one brow raised, and that barely-there scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s fighting not to smirk.

I blink at him, then lift a shoulder in a shrug, feigning innocence. “Because he said he had to. Something about ‘goth-bitch realness’ or the aesthetic of morally ambiguous burglary.”

Riven blinks once. Slowly.

Silas, behind me, perks up like a damn feral cat. “See? She gets it.”

“She looks like a sad raccoon,” Elias mutters, squinting. “A hot one, sure. But like, still very nocturnal and deeply troubled.”

“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “That was exactly the look I was going for.”

Caspian hums from where he’s leaned against a twisted column, the remains of an old angel statue crumbling beside him. “I think it’s art. Chaos as expression. Rebellion by eyeliner. Very... Silas.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Riven growls, fingers twitching against the door. But the scowl softens just a fraction as he glances back toward me.

“Should I be worried about the door?” I ask, stepping forward. The chill coming off the chapel isn’t just temperature—it’s magic, ancient and awake. I can feel it trying to press against my skin, trying to taste me.

Riven grunts. “It’s not locked. It’s warded. Old spells. Layered. And pissed.”

“Like you,” Elias offers, unhelpfully.

“Touch it, and it’ll snap your soul in half,” Riven continues, ignoring him. “Or at least curse you with boils. Possibly worse.”

I glance down at my eyeliner. “I mean, I’ve already committed to the look. Might as well finish it off with a little hellfire.”

Riven’s jaw tics. “Cute.”

“I thought so.”

“Don’t touch the door, Luna.”