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Luna tilts her head at him, smile still curling at the corners of her mouth. “It was special to her.”

And because Alistair has no chill and never has, he blurts, “What’d she say about me?”

I choke on my laugh, covering it badly with a cough as Luna’s brows lift. She looks over at me like she can’t believe he actually asked, like I’m the translator for Dain family dysfunction. Which, fair.

Alistair’s face flushes faintly, the closest thing to color I’ve seen on him in a century, and he immediately looks away, pretending to be deeply interested in the floorboards.

“She said,” Luna starts, dragging it out, “that you pretend not to care, but you listen more than anyone.”

Alistair’s mouth twitches like he wants to deny it but knows he can’t.

“And that sometimes,” she continues, her gaze softening, “the quiet ones hurt the loudest.”

That floors him. I see it in the way his spine straightens, the way his fingers tighten around the letter like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Luna, sweetly, doesn’t linger. She just pats his arm once—light, brief—and then glances at me, that crooked smile aimed like a dagger.

“I’m going back to bed,” she says, and I know she means it. She’s exhausted, and after what just happened tonight… yeah, I’d want to curl away too.

The moment she disappears, the weight slams back into the room, heavy and awkward.

Alistair clears his throat, shoving the letter into his coat like it burned him.

“Don’t say a word,” he mutters, already turning toward the door.

But I can’t help myself.

“Oh, I’m gonna say a lot of words.”

Alistair's halfway to the door when Silas barrels out of the hallway like he’s late for a party he wasn’t invited to, hoodie still slung over his lean frame like a curse he refuses to shed. He’s grinning, but it’s that kind of grin—a little cracked at the edges, a little too bright. The kind that says he’s riding the chaos high, because if he stops, he might have to think about things too long and too hard.

The hoodie—stitched with subtle wards in the seams, a low hum of magic clinging to the fabric—doesn’t hesitate. The second Silas steps into the room, his voice, his own damn voice, spills secrets like a wound that won’t close.

“I once spent three weeks convinced I was allergic to moonlight.”

Alistair freezes, then glances at me like I’m responsible for this circus. Which, to be fair, I usually am. But this one? Pure Silas self-sabotage.

I cross my arms, leaning lazily against the doorframe. “He’s a special breed,” I tell Alistair. “You get used to it.”

Silas shoots me a wink, then rolls his shoulders like he’s a walking, talking confessional booth.

“I don’t know how babies are made.”

Alistair snorts before he can stop himself. I drag a hand down my face, biting back my own laugh. That one never gets old.

“And one time,” Silas’s voice continues, unrelenting, “I tried to impress Luna by telling her I could lick my own elbow. I dislocated my shoulder.”

Alistair blinks. “That tracks.”

Silas throws his arms up, hoodie and all. “It’s endearing! I’m endearing.”

“You’re something,” I mutter.

The hoodie keeps going, like a storm you can’t shut off. “I cried when I saw a baby goat once. Like, ugly cried.”

Luna’s laugh echoes faintly from wherever she’s disappeared to. Caspian’s voice follows, choked and breathless, clearly dying in the other room.

Alistair looks back at me like he can’t quite believe what he’s witnessing. “You live like this?”