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But she is.

Orin glances after her, too, gaze sharp and unreadable, but there’s something deliberate in the way his hand drops to his side, fingers flexing once. Like he’s preparing to follow her as well, to catch her when she falls.

It’s not lost on me—the way even Orin, who is made of patience and quiet calculation, is moving toward her now. Like there’s something inevitable pulling him forward.

Then there’s Elias.

The second Lucien starts after her, Elias lengthens his stride, muttering something under his breath, a half-laugh curling in his throat like he can’t believe we’re doing this.

He catches up too fast, glancing at Luna like he’s going to say something clever, something sharp—but it falls apart on his tongue, and instead, he blurts, “If you ride one first, I’m going to be jealous. And that’s not a good look on me.”

She doesn’t even glance back at him. Which, predictably, makes him grin harder, speeding up until he’s walking beside her, bumping his shoulder into hers like a schoolboy with no idea how to behave.

I hang back, for a moment, watching the line they make—the girl and her sins, strung behind her like a trail of knives.

It’s not subtle.

It never was.

It’s not about the unicorns. Not really. It’s about her. It’s always about her. That’s the part none of them seem to realize. We all keep following her. Like moths to flame. Like fools to the gallows.

I shake my head, slow and deliberate, letting the curve of a smile pull at the corner of my mouth.

It’s almost admirable, how quickly she undoes us.

One look. One decision. One step forward.

And like dominoes, we all fall in line.

Her. Always her.

Silas is practically vibrating ahead of me. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child who’s had too much sugar and too little sense, wide-eyed and breathless as we move closer to the clearing. The others follow behind, some slower, some reluctant, but it’s obvious now—we’re all moving the way we always do. After her.

The unicorns don’t scatter as we approach.

They should. Any real animal would. But these creatures—Branwen’s creatures—don’t move like animals. They don’t twitch or shy. They stand perfectly still, perfectly arranged, as if she built them for this exact moment and nothing else.

Up close, they’re even worse.

Their coats shimmer like frost and bone, too white, too flawless to be natural. Light doesn’t cling to them; it warps around them, bending slightly at the edges of their bodies, making it hard to look too long without something in your skull twisting.

Their eyes are black. Not soft, not gentle, but obsidian-dark and depthless. They look through you, like they’re already imagining what you’ll taste like if you bleed beneath them.

And those horns.

Each spiraled, smooth, polished so fine it catches the weak morning light and scatters it in fractured beams. If you looked too long, you’d forget they’re weapons. You’d think they were beautiful.

Which is exactly how they’ll kill you.

Silas stops a few feet ahead, breathless, grinning like he’s in love. “They’re magnificent.”

“They’ll gut you without blinking,” I mutter under my breath.

“That’s the dream,” he replies, almost giddy.

Orin approaches silently, his expression unreadable, but I catch the slight crease between his brows. He’s thinking—calculating—not about the danger, but about how Branwen built this, why she left these creatures here. He’s wondering what it means.

Lucien, as always, is focused on the practical.