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I try again anyway, using the edge of my sleeve now, more determined than effective. Glitter transfers onto my arm, myjacket, her shoulder. The unicorn’s mane catches some of it too, shimmering now like it’s joined my personal descent into absurdity.

“I am losing a war I started,” I whisper as I slump forward dramatically into her shoulder.

She hums, amused, and pats my head like I’m some wayward creature she’s half-decided to keep.

“You’re glowing,” she says, the amusement in her voice too warm, too knowing.

“Everything I love turns to glitter,” I groan. “It’s a metaphor.”

“For what?” she teases, fingers curling against my ribs as she shifts just enough to look at me again.

I lift my head slightly and meet her gaze. She’s smiling, but there’s something soft behind it too—something that stops me cold. Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for the truth under all the chaos. And gods help me, she might find it.

“You,” I say. “Obviously.”

Her breath catches, the moment thick with everything we never quite say aloud. Then she smirks again, quick and bright, and leans in like she’s about to kiss me—or kill me. It’s always a gamble with her.

“I think the glitter got into your brain,” she says.

“It’s in my bloodstream,” I whisper, grinning as I lean in closer. “You’ve infected me.”

But before I can press my mouth to hers, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye—Lucien, up ahead, lifting a hand. His posture is rigid, shoulders tense, his unicorn slowing beside Riven’s. Whatever he sees, it’s enough to make them both pause.

The shift is immediate. Luna feels it too—I can sense it in the way her laughter fades, the way her body straightens behind me, no longer leaning with ease. The air thickens, not with magic but withexpectation. The Hollow hums faintly, something old waking up beneath the roots of this ruined copy of a world.

I lift a hand in return, signaling we’ve seen them.

The others begin to slow behind us, hooves echoing softer now as the trees thicken. The trail narrows. The Keep looms just beyond the next hill—weathered stone and shadows, a jagged silhouette carved into the spine of the Hollow.

I shift in the saddle, keeping Luna close.

And for once—I don’t say anything.

Because even I know when the joke is over.

Orin

The rain comes soft at first, as if the Hollow is trying to mimic mercy. It never quite gets it right. One moment we’re wrapped in the hush of the Hollow’s edge, that soft metallic silence it wears like a veil. The next—we’re standing at the border of something older. Quieter.

It unfolds in the rain, delicate as breath. Thatched roofs, thick with moss. Pale stone walls weathered smooth by time, stitched together with ivy and bone. Smoke spirals up from crooked chimneys, thin and white, caught in the grey. There’s a bell tower in the center, leaning slightly to the left, like even it isn’t sure it still belongs to this world.

Riven stops beside me. Lucien keeps walking. Not fast. Not cautious. Just forward—like if he stops moving, something in him might snap.

The village is small. Maybe twenty buildings. A crooked row of houses at the base of the hill. A fountain choked with vines. A few thin flags torn by wind and rot still flutter above a shuttered door.

And then—movement. They appear slowly. From behind open doors. Beneath overhangs. Around corners.

Women.

Dozens of them.

Their faces are young. Familiar in ways that sit wrong in the chest. They don’t speak. Don’t stare. They just watch.

Lucien goes still. His eyes lock on one of them near the fountain. Pale skin, dark eyes. She tilts her head like she’s remembering something private. Then looks away.

Riven exhales, slow. Controlled. His hands drop to his sides, but I see the curl of his fingers. The way he doesn’t blink.

They recognize us.