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And then, out of nowhere—floating above us like some unholy cherub of chaos—a tiny, winged version ofmepops into existence, twirling in the air with a lyre and a halo that’s definitely crooked.

The mini-Silas opens its mouth.

And sings.

“Ambrose, Ambrose, hair like night—

Eyes that shine with spiteful light—

You hex my dreams, you slay my peace—

You walk, and my shame does not cease—”

I spin to glare at Ambrose.

The bastard looks bored. He tilts his head lazily in my direction, arching a perfect eyebrow like he’s curious why I’m auditioning for the Hollow’s least sexy boyband. His unicorn doesn’t even twitch.

“You’ve got a lyrical streak,” he says, calm as ever. “Tragic, but touching.”

I’m glowing.Still glowing.The mini-me sings on, now with backup vocals.

“I will destroy you,” I hiss.

Ambrose offers me the faintest, most smug curve of a smile. The kind that says,You’ve already destroyed yourself.

And I have.

Because he’s Greed. My magic—trickster chaos born from whim and whimsy—clashed with his Sin. Spells near Ambrose mutate.Amplify. Redirect. Turn on their caster.The Hollow already makes everything volatile, but Ambrose? Ambrose just stood there and watched my power implode in on itself.

Witha fucking choir.

“I hate this place,” I mutter. “I hate him.”

“Silas,” Luna says sweetly, barely holding back her laughter, “your glitter is catching on my clothes.”

There is nothing noble about being coated in weaponized shimmer. I love glitter—obviously—but there’s atimeand aplace, and bouncing down a ragged trail on the back of a unicorn while trying to flirt with Luna and salvage my dignity isnotthat time. Especially not when I’m the one who cast the spell. Especially not when the glitter isn’t just lingering—it’s multiplying. Actively. Like it’s breeding on contact with my regret.

I try to brush some off her thigh first. Casual. Gentlemanly. Maybe even a little heroic. Except the moment my hand makes contact, the glitter blooms like a curse, dusting the fabric with a fresh, impossible sheen. I watch it happen in real-time, horrified and fascinated.

“Okay,” I mutter under my breath, dragging my sleeve along her leg in an attempt to buff it off. “Stay calm. I’ve got this. I am the problem, but I can also be the solution.”

She glances down at herself, then at me. Her expression is unreadable for exactly three seconds—then her mouth quirks, and I can feel the laughter vibrating through her chest against my back.

“This is your fault,” she says softly, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“I was aiming for Ambrose,” I mutter, trying to sound noble about it, like this was a tragic sacrifice made in the name of justice. “That spell should’ve given him phantom horns or at least pants made of bees. This—” I gesture helplessly at the glitter warzone now coating both of us, “—is magical treason.”

“And yet,” she says, voice dry, “I’m the one glowing.”

It’s true. She is.

Her scarf shimmers with gold dust, and her boots sparkle like they’ve been dipped in starlight. Her eyelashes catch the sun in a way that makes her look unreal. She’s luminous, radiant—absolutely stunning—and I am not okay about it. Especially when I realize some of that shimmer came from my fingers. Which are still on her.

I reach up instinctively, trying to help, my thumb brushing across her cheek to clear the streak of glitter running along her jawline. But instead of clearing it, I smudge it. The gold clings to her skin, glinting in the light, and the more I wipe, the worse it gets.

“Silas,” she murmurs, the barest laugh in her voice. “You’re making it worse.”

“I’m making it art,” I say, completely serious. “You’re a masterpiece of poor planning.”