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“Also,” I add, pointing a dramatic finger at the ceiling, “if my mouth starts randomly confessing anything about dreams involving wedding rings and a house full of chaotic magical toddlers that are definitely not mine but definitely look like Luna, youshut that shit down immediately.”

Riven stares. Then turns, deadpan, walking off like I’m not worth it.

I follow Riven because he’s moving like something matters, which means I should probably pretend to care. Even if my brain is still half-frosted with sugar and the memory of my mouth saying something to him that Iabsolutely never said.I’m not even talking in metaphors this time. I literally did not say that. My lips stayed closed. My soul, however, apparently didn’t get the memo.

And now I’ve got a new problem. Because it’s happening again.

“I sometimes rehearse insults in the mirror just in case I run into Orin again.”

The voice is mine.Exactlymine. Not similar. Not mimicry. Mine. Except I didn't say a word. I'm just walking.

“Shut up,” I mutter under my breath, and Riven glances back like I’m about to try a cartwheel down the hallway.

I wave at him. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just—uh—exorcising my internal monologue. Very spiritual.”

He snorts. Actually snorts. Like I’m amusing. Which isdeeply offensivebecause I am hilarious and should be treated with awe, not mild entertainment.

We turn the corner.

“I don’t understand what taxes are.”

Itrip. Not on anything. Justtrip. Overreality. I slap a hand over my mouth like I’m trying to muzzle a feral dog.

“I thought 'Renaissance' was a type of pasta until Orin told me it wasn’t,” my voice says.

Riven stops walking.

Dead stop.

Slowly turns his head and looks at me. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’ve been possessed by something stupid.

Which, honestly, maybe I have.

Because now my voice is whispering again. “I once had a crush on a sentient shadow because it told me I was pretty.”

“THAT ONE WAS A JOKE!” I snap, hands up. “I was doing abit. I’m a comedian. You know this. That wasn’t eventrue—well, not emotionally true.”

Riven lifts a brow.

I spin around, checking the empty hallway like I’m going to find a microphone or a speaker or one of the other me’s trying to mess with me. The walls don’t answer. The shadows stay put. There’s no spell sigil I can see. Just me. Me and my mouth and the internal chaos leaking out like a cracked egg of shame.

And then it happens again.

“Sometimes, when Elias falls asleep near me, I draw a mustache on him and blame Caspian.”

I freeze. Horror washes over me like cold soup.

“Wait,” I say. “WAIT—how the hell woulditknow that?”

Riven just stares at me.

And then the voice whispers: “I don’t actually know how to swim. I just float dramatically and hope I look hot.”

My soul detaches. My dignity dies in real time.

I press my forehead to the wall and groan. “Okay. Okay. I’m cursed. This is a curse. Some ancient, petty, truth-revealing curse that pickedmeof all people to ruin.”

Riven crosses his arms, not even pretending to hide the amusement anymore. “Sounds like karma.”