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She follows—but she leads. Always.

And I think—Iknow—none of us would make it out of this without her. Not one. Not even me.

Especially not me.

I should be thinking ahead, planning for what’s next, calculating the safest path through this damn place. But all I can see is the gentle way she just pulled Elias into a smile without saying a word. The way her touch steadied Orin’s hand without apology. The way she glanced atme, like I wasn’t some monster she should be wary of. She looks at me like I’m worth something. And that’s a power I don’t know how to counter. She could command my soul with a whisper.

Luna

The water is almost too warm. The shallow bend of the river curls like a secret kept for too long, cradled between jagged rocks and moss-slick roots that reach out like fingers. It’s not peaceful—nothing here ever is—but there’s a lull in the chaos, a pocket of stillness stolen between storms. The pond is dark, murky in places, glowing faintly in others where magic has bled into the current, ancient and alive. It smells of wet earth, of copper and moss and something faintly floral I can’t name.

I peel off the torn remnants of my clothes and step into the water without ceremony, letting the heat sting my skin as I lower myself down, inch by inch. My muscles scream, but I welcome the ache. It’s proof I’m still here. Still human. Or whatever approximation of human I’ve become.

The first breath I take once I’m submerged is ragged. Ugly. It hitches in my throat and stays there, lodged like a splinter. I don’t cry. I don’t sob. That’s not what this is. This is something quieter. More violent.

The silence lets things in.

Like the image of Lucien throwing himself over me, the arrow hitting his shoulder instead of my throat. Like the sound of Ambrose whispering something soft to Riven when they thought I was asleep. Like the look Orin gave me—steady, unfaltering, like he knew something I hadn’t caught up to yet.

I dunk my head beneath the water. Let it surround me. The warmth slips over my scalp, clings to my hair, loosening someof the blood and dirt caked there. My fingers find the knots and start to pull, slow, deliberate, uncaring if it hurts.

Pain is manageable. It gives me something to do.

The pond shifts around me, steam curling off the surface in lazy spirals. Silas must’ve woven the heat into the earth itself, into the stones buried beneath the water, like he knew I’d need this more than I’d admit. And they’re not far—none of them ever are. I know Elias is probably pretending not to peek, I know Riven’s watching the perimeter like it might bite back, and Orin… gods, Orin is likely waiting just out of sight, knowing I’d hate it less if I thought he was near.

They give me space, but they don’t let me go. I don't know what to make of that. My hands tremble when I reach for the cut across my ribs. The skin is raw. The wound shallow. It’s not the worst thing I’ve endured in the last forty-eight hours, not even close. But it’s the one that makes me pause. Because it’s the one I gave myself.

I stare at it, and for a moment I forget how to breathe.

The Hollow is warping us. Twisting us all into versions of ourselves I’m not sure we’ll recognize when this is over. I’ve been angry. Cold. Detached. I’ve let go of things I should’ve held tighter and clung to things that are burning me alive. I keep wondering if this place will eventually swallow who I am—and whether anyone will even notice the difference.

I lean back into the water and let it take me again, deeper this time, until even the sound of my breath is gone. No Sins. No ancient magic. No Luna. Just quiet. Just heat. Just water that feels like it remembers things I haven’t lived yet.

When I surface, my skin is flushed. My eyes burn. But the weight pressing down on me is a little lighter. Not gone. Never gone. But less suffocating. I trace my fingers over the bruises blooming across my thighs, the constellation of pain left behindby the last battle. I don’t mind them. They’re reminders. Proof that I stood my ground, even when I wanted to run.

The river keeps moving around me, gentle now. Patient. Like it knows I’ll leave it soon. And I will. But not yet. Not until I’m ready to put the blood back on and face the world that demands too much from me. Not until I remember who the hell I am.

Not until I remember that I’m not just theirs.

I’mme. Even here. Even now. Even if this world tries to take it from me.

I drag myself out of the water with slow, reluctant limbs, steam coiling from my skin like I’ve just clawed my way free of the underworld. The heat has worked its way deep into my muscles, but it hasn’t loosened the knot in my chest. That’s a kind of ache the river can’t touch.

The clothes are waiting for me on a smooth, flat rock. Black shirt. Black pants. Barely folded, but definitely deliberate. The shirt glints in the sunlight that slips through the tree canopy above—silver dust laced across the fabric like some unspoken Silas signature. No one else would’ve had the audacity to add shimmer to survival gear. It's so him it almost makes me smile.

I step toward them, water sloshing at my thighs, then knees, then ankles, until I’m barefoot on the mossy bank. My hair drips steadily onto my collarbone, my back, trailing moisture like a breadcrumb trail to whatever finds me next. I don’t care. I’m too tired to care. And I’m too aware of the hours we still have ahead—hours of trudging through forest and ruin and whatever hell waits at the Keep.

The Keep.

We don’t know what Branwen left behind. The possibility of a portal—our possible escape—is the only reason Lucien hasn’t already started barking orders, pacing the perimeter, pushing us harder. Last night we ran blind. Veered off the mapped path anddeeper into Hollow-rot. It’s not just the terrain that shifts here, it’s the very rules of movement. Of direction. Of time.

Still. He’ll expect us to move. Soon. And he’ll be right to.

I pick up the pants first, soft and dry and just thick enough to hold shape. Not conjured, I realize. Transmuted. Real fabric, pulled from something else, some matter Silas toyed with until it resembled what I needed. Or maybe just what hewantedto see me in. I try not to think about that.

Pulling them on, the cloth clings at first, catching at my hips and thighs where dampness still lingers. The shirt goes on last, the shimmer catching again at my shoulder. A little glamour spell maybe. A Silas flourish. Or a joke I haven’t uncovered yet.

I wring out my hair with both hands, watching the dark spiral of it soak into the moss. I don’t feel cleaner. I don’t feel reborn. But I feel ready.