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Ambrose doesn't look at me.

He just smiles. It’s a slow, unsettling thing that promises doom and maybe a little flirtation, and I hate that it works on people. I hate that it might even work on me if I didn’t have standards.

“I don’t have to try,” he says calmly. “Some of us don’t need glitter to get attention.”

“Glitter is alifestyle,” I yell, guiding my unicorn up beside his like we’re about to joust with words. “It’s a commitment. It’s personality. Meanwhile, you’re over there looking like a taxidermied villain prince who moisturizes with the blood of orphans.”

“Flattering,” he says.

“You wish,” I shoot back.

His gaze flicks to Luna for half a second, and she’s biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

Betrayal.

I point at her over my shoulder. “Don’t you fall for this. He’s got you thinking he’s all mysterious and restrained, but the moment you’re alone he’ll start monologuing about the stars and try to seduce you with existential dread.”

Ambrose smiles faintly. “She liked it.”

I choke.He did not just—

Luna’s dying behind me. She’s trying to muffle it, but it’s happening.

“I’m hexing his bedsheets,” I mutter.

“You already did,” Ambrose says smoothly. “I reversed it.”

Ambrose is the problem. Always has been. He rides like the Hollow itself made him a steed out of menace and sex appeal. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, that razor-cut profile catching every scrap of light like the universe personally appointed him its most attractive disappointment.

Meanwhile, I’m riding what I’m fairly certain is a bisexual glitter cannon with hooves. Its mane sparkles when it snorts. It keeps skipping over rocks like it’s performing for a fae parade. So obviously, I do what any emotionally healthy, well-balanced magical menace would do.

I hex him.

It starts as a simple thread of chaos magic, unspooling between my fingers like silk spun from mischief and pettiness. Harmless. Mostly. A little side-channeling of Hollow static, twisted into something that’ll stick to his aura and react to arrogance.

The goal? Low-level spell latch—innocent at first. But the moment Ambrose smirks? The spell was supposed to amplify it. Twist it into something theatrical andpublic. Like glowing green eyes and foghorn laughter every time he said something cryptic. Or temporary phantom horns when he made one of those maddeningly vague prophecies like,“You’ll see soon enough.”

Instead—

It turns on me.

I feel it the second the charm leaves my hand. The trajectory shifts mid-air, caught by some unseen current. Not natural wind, not magical resistance—a redirect. A bend. Like my spellwantsto go to Ambrose, but something old and sharp slams into it mid-flight and flings it back toward the idiot who cast it.

Me.

It punches into my sternum like a glitter-fisted betrayal. Magic erupts outward—bright, golden, effervescent. And I don’t mean that poetically. I meanliterally effervescent.My skin starts to shimmer. My nails glow. My boots sparkle. Luna lets out a choking sound behind me, half-laugh, half-murderous gasp.

“Silas,” she says warily, her voice all too amused, “why do you look like you’ve been body-dipped in starlight?”

I look down.

And everything is gold.

Not subtle. Not tasteful. No—I am radiant. I amdivine disco vengeance. My entire being hums with magical glitter, like someone weaponized the essence of a drag show finale and launched it at my face.

Then I hear the music.

A faint humming, at first. Sweet. Melodic.