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The fog parts just enough to show the gates have shifted open—barely. Just a crack. Just enough to saywelcomeoryou’re too late.

Orin steps forward, the hem of his coat brushing ash and frost.

“The Hollow’s reacting. Branwen left something in there. Something that’s still alive.”

I tighten my grip on Luna’s hand. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Her body is coiled and ready. Her magic, humming along the bond like it remembers what it means to go to war with me at her side.

I lean in, lips near her ear, and whisper—

After this… I want you on your knees again. One of me in your mouth. One in your cunt. Until you can’t tell which is which.

And then I smile like I didn’t just say something filthy enough to stain the air between us.

“Shall we?” I say out loud, already stepping toward the gate, dragging her with me like we’ve been doing this for lifetimes.

And maybe we have.

Ambrose

“Silas,” Lucien says, calm as polished glass, “make some clones.”

The effect is immediate. Silas stiffens like someone just offered him a dagger made of compliments and trauma.

Then he spins, eyes wild, grinning, palms already up like he’s warding off divine retribution.

“Clones?” he echoes, dragging the word out like it tastes filthy. “Oh, I don’t know. That’s a slippery slope, you know. Very... personal. Very intimate. Spiritually entangled. Almost sacred, really.”

Luna makes a sound like she’s swallowed her own breath.

I glance at her.

She’s blushing.

Interesting.

Lucien blinks slowly, like he’s regretting everything he’s ever said to anyone ever. “It’s not a request.”

Silas tilts his head. “But don’t you think sending in a bunch of magically perfect copies of my stunning self might be… provocative?”

Riven exhales through his nose, arms crossed, mouth a flat line. “Silas.”

“I’m just saying,” Silas mutters, half-defensive, half-aroused by the memory he’s clearly replaying behind his eyes, “some of us have... histories with clones. There are associations now.”

Elias chokes on a laugh beside me. “Please tell me you’re not talking about what I think you’re talking about.”

“I’m notnottalking about it,” Silas replies, deadpan.

Luna is actively not looking at anyone.

Her cheeks are still pink.

So that happened.

I file it away like I file everything—somewhere betweenuseful leverageandpersonal entertainment.

Lucien doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Just waits.

Silas groans. “Fine. Fine. Gods. You want ethically dubious, morally confusing illusions to get murdered in our place? You got it.”