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He clears his throat again. “As I said, Lord Severin—”

“Don’t call me that,” I cut in smoothly, voice a blade wrapped in velvet. “You’re not in a court. You’re in a tomb. Speak plainly, or I’ll bury your lungs before you finish the sentence.”

A twitch of his jaw. A flicker of fear, though he swallows it well.

“You know what the world was, Severin. You remember the balance.”

Ah. So this is to be a sermon. How dull.

“You speak of balance as though it was ever real.” I lean forward slightly, watching the illusion of comfort dissolve from his features. “The Council served the powerful. The powerful feared us. And so we were locked away. They didn’t want balance. They wanted containment.”

“They wanted safety,” he replies, almost too quickly.

“Safety is a myth the weak tell themselves to sleep at night.” I smile, slow and without warmth. “But do go on. You’ve piqued my interest. For now.”

He reaches into his coat, slowly, the way mortals do when they know how close they are to losing their arms. I let him. He withdraws a scroll bound in sigil-waxed silver—real magic, not cheap illusion. Old wards. Council script. My fingers twitch, not for the scroll, but for the memory that hums beneath its seal.

He offers it to me.

I don’t move.

“I’m not your messenger boy,” I say. “Read it.”

There’s a pause—hesitation. Then he does. Voice low, practiced, as if afraid the Void will chew the words before they leave his tongue.

“To the seven scions of deviation—sons of sin, architects of the Void—we extend our invitation. The prison thins. The Balance tilts. The Council offers freedom, conditional and finite. We seek reintroduction. Observation. Reintegration. You will be granted presence among the mortal dominions for no longer than—”

“How long?” I interrupt, bored already.

Blackwell glances up, reluctant. “Thirty days. Supervised.”

Laughter slips from my mouth, sharp and echoing. “You think you can collar a wolf for a moon and expect it not to bite?”

He doesn’t answer. Smart. But I can see it in his eyes—the way he thinks this could work. That if he feeds us enough scraps, we'll beg for more.

“And who,” I murmur, rising at last, silk and menace moving as one, “will be our shepherd?”

Blackwell's voice is quieter now. “The Binder.”

Ah.

The word is a hook behind my ribs. Sharp. Too deliberate.

“She’s not yours to offer.” I stalk toward him, slowly, every footstep precise, deliberate. “You parade in here with parchment and promises, and you think to buy our chains with her?”

He doesn’t back down. Foolish, again.

“She volunteered. She offered herself to the Void.”

My smile turns cruel. “They always offer something. But they never understand the price.”

He flinches, just a ripple, but I see it. There. The crack.

“And what do you know of the price, Blackwell?” I circle him now. “Did you study us through stained glass and prophecy? Did you write lectures about our monstrosity while sucking your lover’s soul through your teeth to keep yourself young? Don’t look so shocked. That mark on your throat—it’s been taken, not given.”

Silence. Then, stiffly: “The Council wants peace.”

“No,” I say softly, voice pressed to his spine like a blade. “They want the illusion of it.”