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Frogs.

A flood of them spilling out of the house in chaotic, slapping little waves, tumbling down the crooked steps like they’ve been waiting for this prison break their whole slimy lives. Silas barrels after them barefoot, grinning like a madman, mud streaked up his calves and a frog perched smugly on his shoulder.

Silas skids to a stop at the edge of the porch, arms spread wide like he’s preaching. "Run, my children! Taste freedom! Your oppressor sleeps no more!"

One of the frogs hops straight toward my boot, pauses, and blinks up at me like it knows exactly how close it is to being thrown across the yard.

I lean down, pick the thing up gently, and deadpan at Silas. "Your oppressor is going to roast them for breakfast."

Silas gasps, clutching his chest. "You wouldn’t dare."

Elias wheezes beside Luna. "Please do. I want to watch."

Luna rolls onto her stomach, chin in her hands, looking at me like I’m the last sane person in the room.

"You gonna build me a frog sanctuary next?" she asks, voice lazy, soft.

I glance at her, and something slow and dangerous settles behind my ribs.

"For you," I say quietly, "I’d build you a fucking empire."

Her breath catches—just for a second—but she covers it with a smirk, rolling her eyes like she doesn’t believe me.

The wheelbarrow creaks under the weight of rocks behind me, forgotten, the half-dug garden left half-dug.

My eyes keep coming back to her. To the way her eyes flick to each of us without trying, how her laugh pulls everything in tighter, how we’re circling her like moths we don’t want to admit are already burning.

And then the door clicks open again.

Ambrose steps out, barefoot, mug cradled in one hand like it’s some ceremonial chalice. His silver hair’s a mess, falling across his forehead, shirt rumpled like he slept in it—and judging by how he’s still here and not locked away in some study like usual, he probably did.

He’s blowing softly on the tea, long fingers wrapped around the chipped porcelain. His gaze sweeps over the yard—frogs, mud, scattered laughter—and settles on her. His mouth curves just slightly at the edges, the closest thing to soft anyone’s ever gotten from him.

And I realize—we’re collecting again. We do this a lot lately. All of us orbiting her without meaning to. Gathering like wolves around something sharp and wild and impossible.

Because she’s fun. Because she’s soft in ways none of us know how to hold. Because even Ambrose, cold bastard that he is, isn’t immune to her. He catches me watching him and lifts his brow, the mug halfway to his mouth like he’s daring me to comment.

I don’t.

Because I know what this is. It’s not about tea. It’s not about frogs or gardens or whatever stupid thing Silas will think of next. It’s about how we can’t help pulling closer. How even when the Hollow is swallowing us whole, we find our way back to her.

Always.

Ambrose walks past me, steps quiet, calculated, and stops beside Luna like he’s not doing it on purpose. Like we’re not all doing this on purpose.

Elias glances up, snorts, and mutters under his breath, “Look at this. Full house.”

Silas throws his arms wide, spinning on the porch. "It’s a party now! Someone get Orin. He loves my frog liberation movement."

Orin appears first, moving like the world doesn’t dare shift without him. He’s dressed in black again, long sleeves rolled to the elbow, book tucked under one arm, the other hand clasped loosely behind his back. Calm. Measured. Always carrying too much knowledge in his quiet, watchful gaze.

Lucien trails behind him, half-scowling, half-trying to keep up. His coat’s slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’s just come in from the Hollow’s relentless rain.

And right on cue—A frog hops straight onto Lucien’s boot. Dead center.

Lucien stops walking immediately, looks down like he’s just stepped in a curse.

"Why," he mutters flatly, voice devoid of any emotion, "is there a frog on my boot."