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Andthat—that is my domain.

“Freedom for what?” I murmur, stepping into his line of sight again. “To walk among mortals and pretend we aren’t starving? To bury the Void beneath marble and politics?”

“Freedom to become something else,” Blackwell replies, and to his credit, his voice doesn’t shake.

But I see it now—the outline of the Council’s plan. They think if they can put us on a leash, wrap us in civility, force us back intotheir fractured world, that we’ll forget the taste of what we truly are.

They want to study us.

Tame us.

Use us.

The Council isn’t giving us a chance. They’re giving us a cage with prettier bars.

And they think Layla is the key to keeping us docile.

I grin, slow and dangerous, and reach out to brush Blackwell’s collar straight. His skin prickles under my touch.

“I’ll deliver your message,” I say. “But know this—if your council thinks we’ve forgotten the taste of ruin, they’re more lost than we are.”

I turn without another word. The parlor melts behind me, the Void humming low and greedy. My fingers are already twitching with the next illusion I’ll need to spin—because when I tell the others what the Council is offering, I’ll have to dress it carefully.

They hate being played as much as I do.

But there's one thing none of them can resist.

Not Vaelrik. Not Soren. Not even cold-blooded Malachi.

The scent of war dressed as freedom.

And they’ve given us thirty-one days to make the world remember who we are.

Let’s see what we can do with that.

The west wing always smells like something spoiled. Theron’s rooms spill over with strange sweet rot—candied ash, fermented fruit, and whatever foul concoction he’s bottled for fun and forgotten to cap. Dorian adds sourness, sharp and alchemical, the stench of burned coin and arcane ink. It wafts into the corridor like a warning, but I step through it anyway. Of course I do.

They’re not quiet about it.

I hear them before I see them—voices raised, clashing like a cracked orchestra: Theron’s manic, high with amusement; Dorian’s sharper, clipped and derisive.

“I told you not to touch it,” Dorian snarls, something crashing against the far wall.

“Oh,youtold me? Gods forbid anyone else with taste rearranges your tragic little shrine of self-pity.” Theron’s voice is sing-song now, teasing like a lover, cruel like a knife. “You hoard corpses and secrets and still think anyone wants to steal from you?”

I step through the arched threshold without announcement. Let them see me. Let themfeelme.

The room is cluttered as expected—part workshop, part sanctum, all disaster. Arcane tomes cracked open on the floor. Old blades hanging crooked above a fireplace that hasn’t been lit in years. A decapitated statue of some forgotten deity lies at the foot of an overturned chaise. Dorian stands over it, a tangle of black and rust-red silk, his coat discarded and shirt half-unbuttoned like he forgot how clothing works halfway through an argument. Theron lounges upside down in a ruined armchair, long legs hooked over one armrest, a bowl of something neon and steaming balanced on his chest.

I sweep into the room with all the practiced poise of a man used to being obeyed, admired, or envied—preferably all three.

“Do you two wake up each morning andplanhow best to rot my nerves, or is it just your natural state?”

Dorian doesn’t flinch, though his hands clench at his sides. “He touched my things.”

Theron snorts. “I moved one mirror. The room wept in gratitude.”

“It was a scrying glass tuned to the Binder’s bloodline. Do you evenknowwhat that means?”