Page 111

Even now, if it weren’t for the shit waiting for us today—the plan, the Warden’s Keep, the question of whether Branwen left us another way out—I wouldn’t have come home at all.

I’d still be in her bed, inside her, driving her to the edge again and again until she stopped thinking about leaving at all.

Instead, I’m here.

And the gods are laughing.

Because the second I step into the kitchen, they’re all there.

Elias is the first to look up, perched at the edge of the battered wooden table, a half-eaten piece of bread dangling from his fingers. He grins the moment he sees me, slow and sharp, his dark eyes dragging over me deliberately.

“Well, look who finally decided to crawl home,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “You look like shit.”

Riven doesn’t even look up from where he’s sharpening a dagger at the table, but his mouth twitches at the corner, and that’s enough to tell me he’s listening.

Caspian is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, gaze flicking lazily from me to Elias like he’s already bracing for whatever is about to be said. He’s better now, steadier since Branwen’s death, but he’s still dangerous in that way only Caspian Vale can be—half healed, half feral, watching everything too closely.

And at the head of the table, Orin sits with his hands folded, looking at me like he can already read every single thought I’m trying to hide.

I drag a hand down my face, jaw tightening, pulse pounding in my throat.

I don’t want to do this.

But Elias isn’t done.

He leans back in his chair, propping his boots on the table like he owns the place, and tilts his head toward me with a grin that’s all teeth. “Rough night, Luce? You look like you lost a fight with a—” His gaze flicks down my rumpled clothes, my unkempt hair. “—kitten.”

I keep my voice flat, clipped. “We have work to do.”

Elias hums, drawing the sound out like he’s savoring it. “Sure, but I just think it’s worth noting…” He gestures vaguely toward me, his grin widening. “You look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked.”

My jaw tightens until it aches. “Enough.”

Caspian’s gaze sharpens further, flicking toward Orin for half a second before returning to me.

Riven shakes his head once, low and quiet. “You didn’t come home last night.”

My hand tightens around the handle of the mug, but I don’t rise to it.

He doesn’t stop.

“Was it fun?” he continues, voice lilting, dark amusement curling under every word. “Should we all be taking a turn at the tavern, or is that an exclusive offer?”

Elias snorts from the counter. “Exclusive, unfortunately. Though, based on how long it took him to stumble back here, I’d say our dear leader isn’t exactly rationing.”

I glance up, fixing them both with a look sharp enough to cut. But Elias only grins wider, tapping his mug against the table like he’s already preparing his next snarky jab.

And Orin—wise, patient, deliberate—finally glances up from the hearth.

“Enough,” he says simply, voice quiet but cutting.

The others fall back, mostly because when Orin speaks like that, we all listen.

I sit down heavily at the table, the chair groaning under the weight of me, and let the mug burn against my palms. Because today isn’t about what I did last night. Today, we move toward the Warden’s Keep.

I’ve barely gotten halfway through the cup of tea before the door creaks open again. Ambrose steps inside like he’s already exhausted by the day, his hair damp, his coat half-buttoned, the dark circles under his eyes worse than usual. He doesn’t say anything at first—just walks straight to the cabinet, pulls down the chipped ceramic mug he always uses, and moves toward the hearth where Orin’s left a kettle already steaming.

Then his eyes cut to me.