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Inside, she finds a chain of blackened silver, intricate and old, so old the magic clings to it like forgotten smoke. And threaded onto it, a single rune stone—an anchor rune, one of the oldest, etched with protection, belonging, permanence.

Her breath catches, just for a second.

“This is…” She trails off, running her thumb over the rune, her gaze flicking to me like she’s trying to figure out how serious I am.

“It’s the second phase,” I tell her simply. “Of my courtship. If you’ll still have me.”

Luna’s lips part, and for the first time all morning, she forgets to scowl. She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t shy away. She looks at me like maybe—for a second—she wants me to catch her.

And I will. I already have.

She turns without hesitation, her fingers lifting her hair away from her nape, exposing the fragile line of her neck like she’s offering it to a blade. Or to me. And maybe it’s the same thing. The Hollow winds still at the edges of the clearing, whispering, but I only hear the soft cadence of her breath and the quiet demand in her posture.

“Help me put it on,” she says, her voice soft but sure, like this is nothing at all. Like she isn’t baring herself in the smallest, most devastating way.

I step in close enough to feel the residual heat of her, the tension she wears beneath her skin like armor. My fingers brush against the fine strands of her hair as I take the chain, and I swear her breath stutters when my knuckles graze her throat. She smells like salt and wild things and nightfall.

“You shouldn’t be so willing to accept pieces of me,” I murmur, fastening the clasp with deliberate care. “Not when you’re so determined to throw the rest of us away.”

Her shoulders stiffen at that, but she doesn’t move away.

The chain settles against her skin, the rune resting at the hollow of her throat—a mark she doesn’t understand yet but will. The magic in it hums faintly, older than this realm, older than all of us. A promise carved into something permanent.

When I’ve secured it, I don’t step back immediately. My fingers linger at her nape, the barest touch against her pulse, and I let myself be greedy for one moment longer.

“You’ll rage at Lucien until you’re hoarse,” I say quietly, “but you’ll let me put this on you like it’s nothing. You’ll let me court you, let me carve myself into you little by little, and never once stop to question why.”

Her chin tips slightly, defiant, but her voice is a rasp when she answers. “Because you’re not cruel to me.”

“No,” I murmur, dropping my hand finally. “I’ll never be cruel to you, Luna. But I will not let you lie to yourself either.”

The path stretches empty ahead, the cathedral spire faint in the distance. I motion toward it, my voice low, knowing better than to press further now. “Come. We have a pillar to wake.”

But when she steps past me, I glance once more at the rune against her skin, knowing this isn’t over. She might not want to see it yet, but she’s already mine in ways neither of us can undo.

The path winds narrow beneath our feet, the sky bruising overhead with the onset of dusk. She walks beside me, her mouth tight, her brow knit like she’s holding herself together with sheer will. I don’t speak at first. I let her simmer, let her fill the space between us with that fury and that ache she doesn’t know how to set down.

And then, quiet but deliberate, I ask, “May I hold your hand?”

Her steps falter, just barely—a hiccup in her usually measured stride. She blinks at me like I’ve offered her something more dangerous than a dagger to the throat. “You’re asking?”

I glance at her, the corner of my mouth twitching despite myself. “I’ve lived a long time, Luna. Long enough to know the difference between taking and being offered.”

She huffs, almost a laugh, almost something softer. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

I lift a brow. “Then it’s long overdue.”

Her fingers hover awkwardly at her side, and when she finally offers her hand to me, it’s tentative, as if she’s still expecting me to snatch it away or turn this into a weapon. I don’t. I curl my palm around hers, slow, deliberate, and interlock our fingers like I’m setting another piece of her back into place.

The Hollow thrums faintly beneath us, this realm always hungry, always listening. But when her hand slides into mine, the noise in my head dulls for the first time in months.

“You don’t have to be afraid to take,” she mutters, her gaze fixed on the horizon ahead. “You all do it so well.”

I shake my head, brushing my thumb across her knuckles. “You mistake me. I don’t want to take from you, little star. I want you to give.”

Her breath stumbles again—small but sharp. She says nothing, but she doesn’t let go. And I don’t release her, not as we continue down the narrow, winding path toward the cathedral ruins waiting like a corpse on the edge of the Hollow.

Her voice is quiet when it breaks the rhythm of our footsteps, the words slipping from her like something fragile and sharp all at once. “Orin…” she says, and there’s something about the way she says my name—like it’s the only safe place she has left to land.