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And the problem—therealproblem—isn’t that we might lose her.

It’s that we might choose the wrong way out. Because these pillars? They aren’t doors. They’rekeys.And if we pick the wrong one, we don’t walk out of here. We get dropped somewhere else. Some other realm. Some other curse. Somewhere that rips her farther from us than death ever could.

And there’s no way to know.

I move to her side finally, because I can’t stay behind her anymore. I don’t say her name. I don’t have to. She feels me. Her shoulder brushes mine.

“You know,” I murmur, just under the pulse of magic, “we don’t talk about what happens if we guess wrong.”

Her eyes flick toward me. Sharp. Curious. Scared—but not for herself.

“What happens if we step through the wrong portal,” I continue, voice low, steady, too intimate for this kind of cathedral. “Do we just… keep walking? Get scattered into some other corner of the gods’ graveyard?”

“Or worse,” she answers. “Get separated.”

My throat tightens. I didn’t expect her to say it out loud.

“That’s what scares me,” she admits. “Not dying. Not staying.Leaving one of you behind.”

“You won’t,” I say. And I mean it. Even if she does. Even if she’s gone in one step, we’dburnour way through this realm to follow.

I tilt my head, letting the dark curl of amusement slip back into my voice, brushing against the part of her that still aches for distraction, for intimacy, for a reminder that she’s not just magic—she’s wanted.

“Still,” I say, leaning a little closer, my voice sinking behind her ear, “there’s something kind of hot about you standing there like that, lit up by the gods, drowning in possibility. If you asked me to kneel in front of one of these pillars, I’d probably do it just for the view.”

Her breath stutters. It’s small. Barely audible. But I feel it. She turns her head slightly toward me, and I catch the flicker in her eyes—the flush beneath her skin, not from magic this time, but fromme.

“You’re not helping,” she says, and her voice isn’t stern. It’s strained. Heated.

I smile, slow and dangerous.

“I’m not trying to help, Luna,” I murmur. “I’m trying to make you forget where we are for one second. Just long enough to remember what you do to me.”

Her gaze drops—just for a breath—to my mouth. And I know I’ve won. Not because she smiles. Not because she leans in. But because she doesn’t pull away.

Still, her voice is calm when it comes, even though it shakes under the surface.

“I’ll remember, Caspian. When we get out of here.”

I don’t tell her what I’m thinking. That if we don’t get out of here, I’ll still remember. Every time I touch the gold on my skin. Every time I think about the altar of her, the way her mouth opens on my name like it costs her something.

But she turns away before I can answer.

And the pillars keep glowing. All of them.

Like they haven’t made up their mind either.

There’s a kind of quiet that doesn’t calm you. It stares. It waits. This room has that kind of silence. We’re surrounded. Not by enemies, not by ghosts—but by a hundred glowing monoliths that hum with a frequency that lodges somewhere behind the teeth and deep in the chest. It’s not just magic. It’s memory. Possibility. Devotion. One wrong move, and I’m sure the walls will close, the pillars will fracture, and we’ll be swallowed by this place for good.

We don’t belong here. Not anymore.

But this room disagrees.

And it’s clear none of us know what the fuck to do next.

Luna stands at the center, shoulders square, gaze sweeping the space like she’s trying to make sense of the impossible. Her magic is pulled taut beneath her skin, visible in the way her fingers twitch, the way her breath comes slow and steady—but not deep. Like even her lungs are trying not to make the wrong sound.

I watch her from the side, and every instinct in me itches to take this burden off her. To choose for her. To shield her from the weight of all of it. But I don’t move. Because I know what she’s thinking.