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Then, wordless, he slips his hand into the inner pocket of his coat and retrieves a folded parchment—smooth, thick, the kind of paper that doesn’t exist in the modern world unless someonewantsit to feel old. He holds it out to me like an offering. Like bait.

Our fingers touch as I take it. Brief. Intentional. Hot enough to feel like warning.

I unfold the parchment, scanning the flourished handwriting. It’s lined with instructions—how to pass through the gates, which spells will keep the mortal realm from fracturing at our return, what enchantments are bound to the Sins themselves in case of... rebellion. But my eyes drag to the bottom, and then everything else disappears.

Willow’s Rest. Beauclair County, South Carolina.

I read the address again.

Not just the state.Mystate.

Beauclair is real. Too real. I know those back roads. I’ve tasted their red clay. I remember the low hum of insects rising out of cypress-soaked dusk, the thrum of swamp water alive with things best left unnamed. I know the gas stations that never had working lights, the late-night drives Luna and I took just to escape the weight of our parents’ house. I know the smoke. I know the way memory stings when you’re too close to it.

And this... this place they’ve chosen—it’s thirty minutes from the house I was raised in. Thirty minutes from the front porch my mother used to sit on with a glass of bourbon and a grudge she never got tired of wielding. Thirty minutes from the kitchen I bled in. From the ruins of everything I tried to escape.

They’re putting us in my backyard.

I fold the parchment slowly, keeping my face still, jaw loose, expression empty. I hand it back to Severin like it means nothing. Like it doesn’t feel like a noose slipping around my throat.

His fingers brush mine again when he takes it. Slower this time. I don’t flinch, but something flickers across his face—curiosity, maybe. Or triumph. Either way, I don’t give him what he’s looking for.

He slips the parchment away with a smooth flick of his wrist and turns to the others, his voice switching instantly into command—sharp, clean, practiced.

“I’ll inform the Council. We’ve accepted their terms.”

The shift in the room is palpable. It moves like a creature rousing from sleep—subtle, visceral. Vaelrik mutters something under his breath, likely a threat with no real target. Dorian yawns like boredom is a weapon and he’s sharpening it for later. Malachi’s already retreating toward a warded cabinet across the chamber, his fingers flicking through spells and sigils as if preparing for a war he’s always expected.

Severin doesn’t look back at me as he speaks again.

“We leave at dawn.”

The others begin to scatter. The atmosphere fractures into murmurs and silent glances, tension lines crackling through the air like a prelude. But I stay where I am, still at the edge of the pit where they first saw me as a piece on their board.

Thirty minutes.

That’s all.

When we leave this place, when we step back into the mortal world and they think I’m theirs, I’ll run. I’ll run so far and so fast they won’t know I’m gone until I’malready free.

They think they’re bringing me back into the world as their observer. Their escort. The girl wrapped in Void silk, whispering secrets into Council ears. They have no idea I’m walking them into the world so I can leave them behind.

Forever.

I glance at Severin.

He’s still watching me.

Like he already sees the blood on the road I plan to run.

Theron

I may or may not have watched her. Not in a creepy way. Okay,maybea little creepy. But not, like, serial killer creepy—more like… curious-void-entity-with-too-much-time-and-an-infinite-capacity-for-obsession creepy. Totally normal. Totally justified.

Besides, she leaves her curtains open like she wants to be seen. Not that she looks atme. Not yet. But I’ve seen her—barefoot at the window, wrapped in Voidlight like she doesn’t even notice it swallowing her skin. The way her hair falls down her back like spilled ink, thick and a little wild. She’s got that stubborn set to her jaw even when she’s doingnothing. Like she’s planning an escape even in sleep.

Dark chocolate hair. Blue eyes like ice sharpened into something mean. Hm.

I tap my chin, squinting from where I’m half-hanging off the chair. She’s still down there with the rest of them, saying nothing, but the electricity in her bones screams loud enough. Something about her isso familiar, but I can’t quite pin it. Not in the lived-it sense. In the I’ve-definitely-seen-you-on-a-forbidden-internet-thread sense.