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I glance at her again. And for a second—She looks back.Not long. Not directly. Just a flick of her gaze in my direction before it slides away like it meant nothing. But it did. It always does. And I hate how that one flicker lands like a mark on my chest. Like I belong to her already. Even if she never takes me.

I move deeper into the rows. Not away from the pillars. Fromher. It's not retreat. It's strategy. A reassessment of internal variables. That's what I tell myself. But the truth is simpler.

I need space. FromLuna. Because being this close to her is a slow destruction I can no longer name as anything other thandesire. And it isn't lust—that would be too easy. I've had lust. I've commanded it, manipulated it, used it like a weapon. What I feel when she's near is something else. Something worse.

It's want.

And it’s too fuckingreal.

The air between us has always been sharp—war-torn and simmering with unfinished things. But lately... it's gone quiet. Not empty, but thick with knowing. Withpossibility.With the silent consequence ofwhat if.

And maybe that’s what this really is. Not obsession. Not weakness.

It’sfear.

Not of her.

Of myself. Of what I might say if I let the words out. Of what she might do if I did. Because the truth is ugly. It’s not noble. Not worthy. It's needy. Raw.

I want to bond with her.

There. The thought carves through me with surgical clarity.

I want it. I want to feel her magic pressed against mine, wound into my skin like she belongs there. I want to feel the thrum of her pulse when she’s a mile away and know she’s safe. I want to touch her andnothave to restrain myself. I want to fuckingbelongto her in a way no command or Dominion has ever allowed.

And I can’t. Because if I offer it—if I lay that at her feet, stripped and vulnerable—she could turn me away. She could look at me the way she used to. With that blaze of contempt in her eyes. With the bitter twist of betrayal still bleeding in her voice.

And if she saysno, I can’t compel her.

Not with magic. Not with force. Not even with the truth.

Because she’d have every right.

I pass another pillar without registering the mark on it. My hands curl into fists. My chest feels too tight. My head’s buzzing with her voice, the memory of it soft in the dark, the way she said my name once when she didn’t mean to.

I need to get the fuck out of here. This cathedral of stone and lies and fractured memory—it'snothelping. And every second I'm here beside her, it eats at the careful cold I’ve spent years building. Every second, I want her more. And gods, I hate that it shows.

I catch her glance across the chamber again. Not a look. Just a flicker. But enough. Enough to make me lock down the pull before it can reach her. Enough to clamp down on every word screaming in my throat.

You could have me.

She could. With a glance. With a word. With a fucking smile.

And that’s why I need distance.

I turn, sharp and clean, like I’ve found something worth chasing deeper in the rows. I don’t care if they notice. I don’t care if she does. I just need the cold again. I need the space. I need tothink. Because if I don’t find a way to control this—It’s going to destroy me.

I mark another pillar. The sigil is wrong—an imitation of my crest, the curling loops of Dominion carved too sharp, too elegant. It's all flourish and none of the severity that defines me. The root rune is fractured, split clean through the center like someone tried to mimic command but didn’t understand what itmeantto wield power that carves obedience into bone. Branwen was clever, but not omnipotent. She built these for confusion, not perfection.

I drag the tip of my finger through the lower quadrant of the glyph and slash a diagonal line through it. My own way of saying:not this one.

And I move on.

The next is worse—an almost cartoonish rendering of my crest. The outer circle swollen, curling like a thorned crown, overly dramatic. As if the Hollow’s magic couldn’t help but exaggerate my nature, like it needed topunishme with it. I cut it too. Harsh. Final. I don’t hesitate. I could do this all day. Trace and destroy. Evaluate and discard. It gives my hands something to do. Something that isn’t reaching for her.

I press my palm against the next pillar and close my eyes, just for a second. The stone hums beneath my skin, a low pulse that mimics the throb behind my ribs. Not magic. Not memory. The next sigil’s a mockery. My crest reversed, mirrored like a spell meant to reflect my own nature back at me. I smile, cold and humorless, and draw a slash through it without pausing.

"You're on a warpath," Orin's voice comes behind me, unhurried, the weight of centuries in every syllable. He steps around a nearby pillar like he’s been watching me longer than I’d realized. He probably has.