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“Void garden,” Dorian replies, flicking another coin up into the air. “Meditating. Or staring into the abyss. Same difference.”

Of course. The one whofeelsnothing is the one she trusts. The only one she’s let in.

I adjust my cuffs, smooth the glamour around my shoulders until it sits like command again.

“Tell him I want an update,” I say. “What she eats. What she reads. What she burns. I want everything.”

Theron snorts. “You want everything and you’re gettingnothing. Gods, Severin, she’s not eventryingto seduce you. Isn’t that delicious?”

It is.

And it isn’t.

Because the more she resists, the more the Void bends for her. The more we do.

She’s notsurrendering.

She’sconquering.

I turn sharply and stalk toward the eastern stair, where the house has begun growing windows again—windows that look out onnothing, framed in bone and dust. The halls twist slower here, but the pulse of something ancient—something volatile—builds beneath the stones.

A storm is coming.

And she’s not hiding from it.

Sheisit.

The war room is a skeleton of purpose. Once, it held maps soaked in blood and bone-dust, scrawled with divine languages meant to last through centuries. Now it’s a fractured cathedral of strategy, everything carved from obsidian and cracked memory. The hearth glows with greenish flame that eats warmth instead of offering it. High ceilings. Tall windows that show nothing but static black. It smells like metal and old ambition.

Malachi stands at the central table, his silhouette rigid, a knife of precision. His fingers trace across one of the Voidbound renderings etched into the surface—charcoal lines twisting with symbols no mortal hand could write. His coat, dark as regret, gleams faintly under the dull witchlight. Strategist. Silent observer. The weight behind our sharper edges.

Vaelrik is leaning against a broken pillar, half-shadowed, arms crossed, his storm-gray gaze flicking with that ever-present predator flicker. He speaks low and fast, voice like thunder sheathed in fur.

“They’re getting smarter,” he’s saying. “The wyrms have started circling the northern rim. Not burrowing.Hovering.”

“Hovering?” I echo, stepping in, voice smooth as ever. “They don’t have wings.”

Vaelrik doesn’t look surprised to see me, but he doesn’t hide his distaste either. He’s never bothered with illusions, not evenfor me. “They shouldn’t. But the Void’s shifting. Something’s making them… evolve.”

“More like mutate,” Malachi murmurs without looking up. “They’re not meant to hold structure that long. If they’re resisting entropy, that suggests something’s stabilizing them.”

The silence that follows hangs onhername, though no one says it. Not yet.

“I assume you’ve both heard,” I say casually, letting my words curl like smoke. “The Council wants to reintroduce us. Temporary release. Layla is their offering.”

Vaelrik growls, low and humorless. “What the fuck do they think we are, leashed pets waiting for our turn in the sun?”

“They’re baiting us,” Malachi replies evenly. “Let us into their world, let the mortals see if we’ve changed. A show of mercy. A stage for execution.”

“And yet,” I say, circling the table, trailing fingers along the etched grooves, “we’re considering it.”

Vaelrik turns to me fully, jaw tight. “You are.”

“I speak for all of us.”

“Only when it servesyou,” he snaps.

A pause.