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And then he ruins it.

His grin returns.

“But for accuracy’s sake,” he says, voice low and sultry, “you might want to let me double-check the ones on your thighs, too.”

Riven grabs him by the collar.

Lucien starts unsheathing his sword.

Elias sighs. “Gods, I hope the exes get here soon. I need a reason to throw something sharp.”

But Luna?

She just lets her shirt fall, smooth and slow, the movement more commanding than anything Silas could’ve begged for.

“Find your crest,” she tells him. “Or I’ll find it for you.”

And fuck, I love her.

Riven

The light here doesn’t feel like light. It presses instead of shines, slipping beneath skin like smoke that never burns off. It isn’t warmth or cold. Just wrong. The magic doesn’t thrum—itwaits, and that’s worse. Everything in this place is suspended in a kind of too-perfect balance, like the second Luna breathes too deep or someone says the wrong name aloud, the whole chamber will collapse into some mythic sinkhole Branwen made just to be petty from beyond the grave.

We’ve all split off, studying the pillars, hunting down our own crests like dogs trying to sniff out the scent of ourselves. I haven’t found mine yet. I don’t want to. Not really. If this place can replicate our worst, it sure as fuck knows how to weaponize it.

But Silas?

Silas is standing three rows ahead of me, back to a pillar carved in copper-veined stone that flickers like heat lightning. His body language screams casual—one hip cocked, mouth curled in that permanent not-quite-smile, shoulders loose in a way that always means he’s hiding something.

And he’s rolling something across his fingers.

I pause mid-step.

It’s small. Circular. Familiar in a way that grabs me by the back of the neck and yanks.

A coin.

Not justanycoin. Gold. Real. Etched in symbols I remember from the dragon’s hoard. The kind of gold that isn’t just currency—it’s memory. Magic-laced. Cursed, probably. Anddefinitelynot something we walked in here with.

My voice cuts the space between us, flat and loud enough to make Luna glance over her shoulder.

“You fucking stole from the dragon.”

Silas doesn't flinch. Doesn’t stop flipping the coin over his knuckles like it’s some soothing tick he’s always had. Like it means nothing. That’s what gets me. Heknowswe all saw what that thing was. A hoard guardian. A beast older than the gods themselves. You don’tstealfrom something like that unless you’ve got a death wish or a very compelling kink.

“I didn’tsteal,” he says after a beat, drawling the word like it’s beneath him. “Irescuedher. Found her trembling under a pile of blood-soaked rubies. Whispered my name in the dust.”

“She whispered your name,” Elias mutters behind me. “Must’ve been traumatic for her.”

Silas turns toward me slowly, tossing the coin once into the air and catching it with a flick of his fingers. The softclinkechoes across the chamber like a threat.

“It’s just a coin,” he says, holding it up between two fingers. “Something totouch.The ones I make don’t weigh the same. They vanish. This one… this onestays.”

I move toward him, closing the space until we’re toe-to-toe. He doesn’t step back.

“You know what kind of magic was woven into that hoard,” I say, low and sharp. “Everything in that room had weight because itwasn’t meant to leave.You brought a curse with you, Silas.”

His smile shifts, just slightly.