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The tears sting, but I refuse to let them fall. He knows it. And he twists the knife.

His laugh is hollow, vicious. “They’re playing with you. Like we always do. You’re something to pass the time while we’re trapped in this fucking place.”

I shake my head, but he isn’t finished.

“And me?” His eyes darken, voice fracturing into something sharp and final. “You can stop hoping I’ll change. That I’ll come around. I’m done. I’m not going to touch you again. Not going to look at you the way you want.”

The next words gut me.

“If I had the choice, Luna—I’d let this place swallow you whole. I’d let you die before I ever let you ruin us.”

He looks at me like I’m already dead.

And then he turns his back.

I don’t say anything.

Not when Lucien’s words carve me open like a dull, jagged blade. Not when he looks at me like I am something less than nothing—like I was always destined to be the mistake that burned everything down. I don’t speak because there is nothing left in me but the echo of his cruelty, the acid weight of every word still bleeding beneath my skin. If I open my mouth now, it won’t be to argue. It will be to fall apart. And I refuse to give him that.

So I leave.

I turn without ceremony, without so much as a glance over my shoulder. My steps are quiet, measured, and I wonder if that makes it worse—that I can walk away from him like this, like he never mattered. Like his voice isn’t still embedded in my marrow.

When I reach my room, I don’t hesitate. I move with the kind of efficiency that feels dangerous, mechanical. My fingers close around the leather satchel tucked beneath my bed, the one I’ve kept there like a wound, untouched but never forgotten. I empty drawers without thought, stuffing clothes, a blade, a single vial of salve Caspian handed me weeks ago with a crooked smile and a muttered, "You’re trouble, Binder." A fragment of magic, woven and folded small, something Riven taught me to keep close.

It’s not enough. Nothing would be enough.

But I pack anyway, because I know if I stay another minute in this house, I’ll unravel.

The bonds pulse in the back of my mind, bright, unbearable threads that have always hummed beneath my skin like a song I could never silence. I feel them now—each of them. Silas, Elias, Riven, Caspian, Ambrose. One by one, I close the door on them.

I don’t ease it shut. I slam it.

It’s brutal, ugly, and it costs me more than I thought it would. When I force each bond closed, I feel it like something breaking in my chest, like I’m pulling my own ribs out one by one. I taste blood when I cut the last thread.

The window groans when I shove it open, the hinges screaming against the quiet night. The air outside is sharp enough to slice skin, scented like damp earth and ruin, like everything in this realm is rotting beautifully from the inside out. It wraps around me as I climb onto the sill, licking at my ankles like it’s been waiting for me all along.

I don’t look back.

If I do, I’ll fold. If I do, I’ll crawl back into that house, back to them, and let them tear me to pieces all over again. So I swing my legs over the ledge, steady myself on the frame, and drop down into the darkness.

The woods swallow me whole, the trees bending low like they recognize me, like they’ve been waiting for me to finally break free. I don’t stop to breathe. I don’t stop to think.

I run because I can't stay. Because every word Lucien spat at me still vibrates in my chest like shrapnel, cutting deeper with every step. Because he was right. Maybe he always has been. And it doesn’t matter how many times Silas tells me he loves me, or how Elias trips over his stupid, snarky comments just to make me smile, or how Ambrose watches me like he’s trying not to want me. None of it matters, because at the end of the day, I’m the outsider. The mistake. The mortal girl who thought she could hold gods in her hands and not get burned.

The trees blur past me, branches slapping at my arms and face, the forest floor uneven beneath my feet. I don’t slow down. I can’t. If I stop, I’ll shatter. I already feel the cracks spidering under my skin, the sting of unshed tears burning my throat, my ribs heaving around the weight of what he said.

You’re not good enough.

They could have anyone.

You should have died.

I press a hand to my chest as if I can hold myself together, but the hollow space where their bonds used to pulse—where I used to feel them, steady and warm and real—aches like a fresh wound. I closed them off. I slammed every door. I locked them out because I had to, because hearing them now, feeling them now, would destroy me.

The tears come hot and fast, streaking down my cheeks as I stumble through the trees. My breath is ragged, shallow. I wipe at my face with the back of my hand like it’ll make a difference, but the ache is lodged too deep. I run harder, faster, like I can outrun the way he looked at me. Like I can outrun the truth.

The Hollow shifts around me, the trees bending inward, the shadows curling tighter the deeper I go. It’s alive here. I can feel it watching, waiting, the way the ground almost breathes beneath my feet. This place has teeth, and it’s always hungry.