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Theron blinks, then shrugs, unconcerned. “No, but I liked the way it reflected my thighs.”

Gods save me.

I cross to the stone table in the center of the room, brush aside a cracked vial with two fingers, and plant the Council’s scroll down with quiet finality. The wax gleams under the warped lantern light.

That shuts them up.

Dorian’s eyes narrow. Theron rights himself slowly, curiosity rippling over him like a cat scenting something interesting.

“What is it?” Theron asks, feigning boredom poorly. His gaze tracks every movement like he might eat it whole if I don’t speak fast enough.

“A gift,” I say, letting the word drip in sarcasm. “Wrapped in centuries of cowardice and tied with a bow of desperation.”

Dorian steps closer, eyeing the silvered seal. “Council?”

I nod once. “They want us to play nice. Return to the mortal realm. Thirty-one days, supervised. Observed. Assessed.”

Dorian scoffs. “They want a parade.”

“No,” I correct smoothly. “They want a show trial. They’re sending Layla.”

Theron lets out a slow, lilting whistle, low and obscene. “The Binder and the Void. How poetic. Will she wear a collar? Can I pick it?”

“Youwill not touch her,” I snap.

Too fast.

Both of them catch it.

Dorian’s lips twitch like he wants to say something clever. He doesn’t. Not yet. He studies me instead, gaze sharp, thoughtful, like he’s weighing the cost of loyalty against the thrill of mischief.

“I thought she was a sacrifice,” he murmurs. “A trade for Luna.”

“Shewas,” I say. “Now she’s bait.”

Theron is already halfway to the liquor shelf, uncorking something that shouldn’t exist anymore. “Do we get to leave the Void or justpretendwe’re free inside the cage?”

“Thirty-one days,” I repeat. “We leave. We return. We perform.”

Dorian sneers. “You think they’ll ever really let us out? After what we did? After what weare?”

“No.” I smile thin and mean. “But we’ll letthemthink we believe it. That’s the game.”

Theron cackles. “You’re going to lie to the Council?Again? Gods, I love when you get reckless.”

“It’s not reckless,” I say. “It’s calculated.”

Dorian crosses his arms. “What happens when she realizes we’re lying?”

“She already knows.”

That stills them both.

And there it is—thatshift. That slow, seeping gravity she brings with her even when she’s not in the room. The Binder, the girl with the storm-glass eyes and the mouth made for defiance. She’s not even here and she tilts the world on its axis.

Dorian moves first, stepping back toward his ruined scrying glass. He mutters something about recalibrating it. He’s lying. He just doesn’t want to ask me the question aloud.

Theron stays exactly where he is, nursing his drink and watching me with a grin that’s a little too wide, a little too sharp.