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I straighten just slightly, giving her space, but not too much.

“And the third,” I add softly, “is that you’ve already figured it out.”

She exhales, a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost something heavier.

“That’s unfair,” she mutters, voice shaking a little. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

I tip my head toward her. “I told you, Luna. I’m not interested in pretending.”

Her fingers tighten in mine.

Silas

The thing about this cursed village is that they love a festival. It doesn’t matter that the Hollow looms outside their crooked fences like a storm that never quite passes. Doesn’t matter that half the people in this town mutter old prayers under their breath every time they see me and my lot walking past. When the moons shift and the markets overflow with whatever scraps they’ve scrounged from the woods, these people throw a party like the world isn’t crumbling at the edges.

And me? I never say no to public drinking and badly tuned instruments. Especially when I’ve somehow become their patron saint of chaos.

I stroll through the cobbled streets like I own them, the cool morning already choked with banners and cheap wine, villagers shouting greetings in broken shouts. My head’s still pounding a little from last night—probably from watching Orin and Luna eye-fuck each other over a goddamn dance floor while pretending they weren’t—but I’m determined to start the day right. Which is to say: shamelessly.

A squat woman selling fried dough sees me first. She waves wildly, half the powdered sugar coating her apron.

"Good morning, Frog King!" she hollers.

I flash her my best grin and point two fingers at her like a weapon. "My queen of grease and sugar! Save me two of those—you know I can’t resist your culinary crimes."

I don’t remember her name.

I never do.

Everyone here has become a little caricature in my head—a defense mechanism, probably, because if I start actually knowing these people, it’ll get harder to leave them behind when the Hollow decides to swallow them whole.

I move on, ducking around children darting through the street, one of them shrieking when I ruffle his hair.

"Oi, Tiny Warlord!" I call after him. "Don’t let Old Man Knobbles catch you stealing pastries again."

I made up the name Old Man Knobbles last month. It stuck.

Another villager—big man, too many teeth, missing two more—claps me on the back hard enough to rattle my spine. "Silas! You joining the drinking contest tonight?"

I grin up at him, mock-serious. "Only if you promise not to cry this time when I beat you."

He laughs, slaps my shoulder again, and ambles off, probably to lose more teeth.

It’s absurd, how easily they’ve made me theirs. Half of them don’t understand what we are, what kind of monsters share their streets. But they like me, because I make them laugh. Because I drink with them, dance with them, let their kids braid cursed flowers into my hair without blinking.

Because I make it look easy.

Like none of this is killing me slowly.

A woman selling carved trinkets waves me over next, thrusting something into my hand without ceremony—a frog, carved from Hollowbone wood, painted bright green.

"For your collection," she says, smiling sharp.

I blink at her. "You’re enabling me, Frog Mother. Dangerous precedent."

She winks. "You keep saving my son from tree demons. I’ll keep making frogs."

I tuck it into my coat pocket without argument.