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There’s a pause, then her voice again—closer now, more curious than angry. "Even Orin?"

The courtyard stills. Slowly, all our gazes pivot to the ancient, sage-like bastard who has somehow managed to look entirely unbothered, despite standing there like some brooding philosopher in battle-worn leathers.

Orin exhales, low and resigned. "Apparently," he rumbles dryly, "my abs are now bait."

"Confirmed," Silas chimes in with zero shame. "You like his the best. I know things."

"You don’t know shit," Orin mutters, but his voice softens, something fond beneath all that gravel.

I can’t help myself—I lean back, shouting up into the darkened eaves. "You hear that, Luna? We’re freezing and flashing skin like it’s a damn burlesque show. So you better come out and see the view."

Silas elbows me and adds, "You should see how shiny Orin’s abs are in the moonlight. I’d lick them myself if you don’t come out."

Riven groans like he’s dying, Caspian mutters under his breath, and Lucien looks like he wants to murder us all—but there’s a flicker of something soft in his jaw, in the way his eyes lift toward where her voice came from.

I don’t care if we look ridiculous. I’ll stand here shirtless until the gods themselves fall from the sky if it means she’ll step out from wherever she’s hiding and look at us again.

And we’re all waiting now—not breathing, not moving—because she hasn’t answered yet.

Riven

The Fang Tavern always smells like smoke and old magic, like the breath of something half-dead and half-divine. The kind of place that doesn’t belong in one world or the next. It’s tucked in the crooked bend of the Hollow’s market street, half-eaten by ivy and shadow, the windows always sweating condensation from too much heat, too much want, too many sins pressed between its walls.

It suits her.

It suits her too damn well.

I step through the warped door, the one that always catches on its hinges, the hum of spellwork vibrating faintly beneath my feet. The Hollow knows she’s here—it softens when she is, watches her like it’s waiting to swallow her whole. And I get why. I’d do the same if she’d let me.

Luna’s at the corner table by the window, the one she always picks so she can see the door but pretend she doesn’t care who walks through it. Hood up, hands wrapped around a chipped mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to this place. She doesn’t even look up when I cross the floor toward her, but I feel the snap of her awareness when I get close. The bond might be shut down on her end, but mine hums like a goddamn live wire every time I’m within breathing distance of her.

I slide into the chair across from her, deliberate and slow, like she’s a wild animal I’m trying not to spook.

“You gonna glare at me all day, little star?” I ask, voice low, careful.

Her gaze flicks up, cutting and sharp, but it lands on me softer than she probably means it to. “Depends. You here to lecture me too?”

The tavern’s half-empty this time of day, but it doesn’t matter. The weight of her voice hits harder than anything else in this room.

“No,” I murmur, dragging my hand through my hair, leaning back like I’m not wound so tight I might snap. “I’m not Lucien.”

Her jaw tics at his name. She looks away, back to the window, like she can outrun what he said to her days ago, like she hasn’t been carrying it around like a loaded weapon ever since.

“I didn’t come here to drag you home,” I say after a breath. “I came because I hate this. Hate you hiding in here like we lost you.”

Her laugh is bitter, brittle at the edges. “Maybe you did.”

That cuts. More than I want to admit. I lean forward, planting my elbows on the worn table between us, forcing her to look at me.

“We didn’t,” I bite out, careful but firm. “You’re pissed. You’re hurt. I get it. You should be. But you don’t get to rewrite history, Luna. You don’t get to act like we wouldn’t burn this whole fucking realm down to get you back.”

Her fingers tighten around the mug, knuckles pale, but she doesn’t look away.

“I’m not coming back to that house,” she says finally, voice quieter but no less sharp. “Not while he’s there.”

I breathe through the urge to snap something back. To remind her that she and Lucien are the same breed of self-righteous, impossible. Instead, I drag my thumb along the scar on my knuckle and say, “Then don’t. Stay here if that’s what you want.But don’t shut the rest of us out because he can’t pull his head out of his ass.”

Her lips part, her breath catching faintly, and I know I’ve hit something true.