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His eyes narrow. “You think I haven’t thought about it?”

“I think you’re the only one here playing at detachment while she bleeds for all of us. She gave you a place in this. You’ve donenothingbut stand outside and watch.”

Ambrose’s voice drops. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“No,” I say, stepping closer, “but she does. And she still wants you. That alone should fucking terrify you.”

I feel Luna getting closer now. Her light breaking through whatever darkness lingers in this room, in this old blood-soaked altar. She’s always coming for us—even when she shouldn’t have to.

So I turn away from him. Because if he wants to miss it, that’s on him.

But Luna?

She’ll always have me.

Silas strolls in shirt flapping open like he's in a damn romance novel, boots scuffing ancient stone, and absolutely no sense of reverence in his body. He stops dead when he sees it—etched into the floor with that kind of brutal precision that doesn’t fade. A binding circle. Not the pretty kind. Not the Council’s ceremonial, veiled-in-gold kind.

No, this one is raw. Unfinished. Cut into the floor like whoever carved it was trying totrap something that didn’t want to stay.

His eyes go wide like a kid unwrapping explosives on their birthday. And then he’s moving—too fast, too eager. Drops down cross-legged at the edge of the thing and pulls out—of course—black eyeliner from his back pocket.

“Silas,” I growl.

He doesn’t even look at me. “Don’t worry. I’m only going to finish it a little.”

“You don’tfinisha circle like that a little.”

“I just want to see what happens,” he says, completely unbothered, already sketching an arc where the line was severed. “It’s probably nothing.”

“That’s what people say right before they die screaming.”

He hums, not denying it. Not stopping either. The lines he draws aren’t random. That’s the worst part. Heknowswhat he's doing. His hand moves with practiced ease, like he’s done this before. Like some part of him—beneath the chaos and cringe—is quietly cataloguing forbidden shit he should’ve never touched in the first place.

I step closer, casting my gaze over the runes. They're old. Twisted. Some of themaren’t from this world.This wasn’t just a binding. This was a warning. A containment. Maybe both.

“Silas,” I say again, lower this time. Controlled.

Still nothing. Until he looks up at me, all faux innocence and a grin that belongs in a padded room.

“I’m not saying I want to resurrectBlackwell,” he says, smudging a rune with his thumb, “but if Ihadto pick someone to haunt the headmaster’s wine cellar...”

“I’ll bury you right here,” I snap.

Luna steps in behind me, and that damn bond flares like it always does when she’s near. Sharp, bright, maddening. She sees Silas on the floor, eyeliner halfway to conjuring hell, and her expression folds between exasperation and poorly-hidden amusement.

“Silas,” she says slowly, walking toward him, “who exactly are you trying to bring back?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Murder Mittens.”

“Murder...what?”

“The cat. You remember. The one that used to live in the dorms. Feral as fuck. Bit Elias once. Still walks better than Ambrose.”

Ambrose mutters a curse behind us.

“Ilikedthat cat,” Silas continues. “It scratched Lucien and never even tried to run. Iconic behavior.”

“He’s not buried here,” Elias deadpans.