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He leans in close, breath barely a whisper.

“You were right about her.”

I glance sideways. “No shit.”

He smiles, faint and strangely real.

“I mean it,” he says. “I fought it. You all saw that. But it’s real. The bond. Her. All of it. I didn’t want this, but—fuck—I’m glad for it now.”

That’s a lot for him. ForAmbroseto admit anything with sincerity, let alone gratitude. I stare at him, and for a moment, we’re not enemies circling the same flame.

We’re brothers.

Not by blood. By her.

“I knew she’d be different,” I murmur. “Didn’t know it’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like she’d undo every part of me I thought was permanent.”

Ambrose huffs a breath and tips his head back to the cavern ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

I settle deeper into the rock, arms folded across my chest, eyes back on Luna.

They think she’s asleep. That she can’t feel us watching. But I know better.

Even in dreams, she feels us.

Sheanchorsus. And when the storm comes again—and itwill—we’ll all be sharper for it. Because we’ve been reforged by her.

I wanted us farther from the village. Farther from the women with their soft voices and knowing eyes. From the stories written into their skin—scars that don’t fade, hands that have touched every part of us in other lives and still think they have a claim.

Luna didn’t argue. She never does.

But I saw it anyway. The way her steps slowed. The way her breath changed. She’s good at hiding it, but I know her body like it’s mine. When her spine stiffens, when her weight shifts to favor one side—I know.

She was tired.

So we stopped.

A cave with one entrance, backs to the stone, treeline ahead. Just enough coverage to shield the fire. Not enough to shake the feeling crawling up the back of my neck.

The others are asleep—or pretending to be. Silas muttered something about dreamwalking into one of his past hookups and passed out face-first on his cloak. Elias curled beside Caspianagain, both of them a tangle of limbs and exhaustion. Orin hasn’t moved since sunset. Still as carved obsidian. Watching Luna the way a scholar studies the last page of a prophecy.

I said nothing. But I saw how she tilted her head toward me, how her fingers brushed mine before she slipped under the fur. She knew I’d be on watch. Shewantedme here.

I keep my hand resting on the hilt at my hip. Not drawn. Not yet. But ready.

Because I don’t trust this place.

Not even with Maeve.

She smiled at me today, and it hurt in a way I didn’t expect. I loved her once. Reallylovedher. A hundred years ago, maybe longer—I don’t count the lifetimes anymore. I held her while she died, and I mourned her like it meant something permanent.

It didn’t.