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And my cheeks are still pink. Which doesn’t go unnoticed.

Elias leans in, smug smile curving against the corner of his mouth as he catches the flush high on my cheekbone.

“You’re awfully rosy tonight,” he murmurs, low and taunting, like he’s trying to dig under my skin just to make a home there. “Must be the cold.”

“It’s not cold,” I snap.

He grins wider. “No?”

Riven doesn’t look at me, but I feel his awareness shift. Sharp. Focused. Caspian’s gaze flicks over from where he’s walking nearthe front of the group, expression unreadable. And somewhere behind me, I swear I hear Silas whisper, “Phase one complete.”

I don’t turn around. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

The lights of the Fang flicker between the crooked buildings ahead, casting a faint violet glow that spills out across the dirt road. The tavern leans like it’s drunk off its own foundations, held up by prayer and rotwood, carved into the ribs of the Hollow’s first ruins.

It’s not a real tavern.

But it’s what we have. The moment we reach the worn wooden steps, something shifts. The group splinters like it always does—Riven moving to scan the room before I can, Ambrose heading straight for the darkest corner booth, Silas already charming a cluster of villagers who both fear and adore him.

Elias doesn’t go far. He sticks close, hand brushing the small of my back like he’s guiding me somewhere, like he has any right to do that. His touch burns through the thin fabric of my top and makes my jaw tighten, because I love that it still affects me.

Orin’s presence looms at the edge of the tavern, where the shadows live thicker and the light dares not press. He doesn’t join the others. He simply watches. Not possessive. Not territorial. Something colder. Smarter. Like he’s already placed all the pieces on the board and now he’s just waiting to see who moves first.

There’s something always brewing here—beneath the surface, in the mugs, in the glances traded too quickly. This place was built to hold secrets. And right now, I feel like one of them.

A secret no one’s ready to say aloud.

I take a seat at the table Elias drags me toward, let the noise swallow me, the flicker of magic laced in the lanterns overhead casting soft purple shadows across the wood. Riven joins us after a beat, slouching into the seat beside me, knee knocking minewithout apology. Silas appears with drinks. Ambrose watches. Caspian stays close.

And Orin doesn’t sit.

He just stands there, at the edge of it all. Watching.

Orin

Lucien is already seated when I reach the far end of the tavern. He’s claimed a booth beneath the cracked stained-glass window, the one that bleeds violet light over the table in fractured patterns. He’s nursing a cup of something that smells sharp and herbal, untouched despite the rising steam.

He doesn’t look up as I approach. That alone tells me everything.

I fold into the opposite bench, my movements deliberate. Unhurried. I set my hands on the table, one over the other, and allow the noise of the tavern to wash past us—laughter from Silas, the scrape of Elias’s voice trying too hard to sound effortless, the low thrum of Riven’s presence coiled near Luna’s side like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Lucien finally speaks, voice quiet, clipped. “You’re serious.”

I don’t pretend not to know what he means.

“I’ve never been otherwise,” I answer.

He lifts his gaze slowly. His eyes are tired—eternally so. We’ve seen too many endings, and not enough beginnings.

“Courting her?” he asks, voice flat. “Now?”

My fingers trace the rim of the mug in front of me. I don’t drink from it. I rarely do.

“She is no longer unformed,” I say. “The Hollow tried to break her. Instead, she’s become something more. She’s ready.”

Lucien’s mouth tightens. “You’re speaking like she’s a rite. A sequence.”

“No,” I murmur. “I’m speaking like she’s a truth.”