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“She’s going to find out, Riven,” he whispers. “Whether it’s from me or from Elias or from the way you look at her like you’d rather burn the world down than see her walk away.”
I stare at him. At the way he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
“Stay out of it,” I growl.
He leans in, voice low, mock-serious. “We’re alreadyin it, big guy. Welcome to the emotional apocalypse.”
I shove off him, disgusted with him, with me, with everything. I turn and storm away, not sure where I’m going but knowing if I don’t move now, I’ll do something I can’t walk back from.
I catch movement at the edge of my vision—too fluid for a threat, too erratic to ignore. I turn.
And there she is.
Luna.
Barefoot in the courtyard, sweat clinging to her skin like stardust, the Wrath blade in her hand a gleaming, venomous thing. But it’s not just Wrath—it pulses with the slow, creeping weight of Sloth, the acidic bite of Envy. She’s drenched it in all of us, bleeding the bond into the steel like sheknowshow to hurt the world with what we are.
She's trying to train. Trying tolearn.
And fuck if it doesn’t wreck me.
I step behind a half-cracked pillar and lean there, silent, watching. I should move, should make a sound, should doanythingbut stare. But I can’t. Not with the way she moves.
It’s messy, unrefined—she still drops her shoulder on the twist, her grip too tight on the spin. But she’strying.And there’s something almost holy about it. Like she’s not just wielding a weapon—sheisone. A conduit for all the chaos we’ve poured into her, made flesh and blood and fury.
I taught her that form. The tight arc, the pivot of her back foot, the breath she holds in the silence before the blade strikes. She’s not there yet. But she will be. Because she doesn’t stop.
The bond hums in my chest, pulling taut like it senses her too. Like it’s trying to drag me closer to her, to the wild way she’s bending all of us into something new.
She doesn't know I'm here. Her focus is narrowed, sharp as the blade itself. Her brow furrows when she falters, lips pressinginto a line of determination that makes my chest ache in a way Ihate.
Because I shouldn’t feel this.
Not for her.
Not when it’sLuna, and everything about her pulls me off center, makes me something softer, somethingweaker. She doesn’t even mean to do it. She justexists, and the world shifts.
She spins again—too wide. The blade slices a branch clean off the nearby tree, and she stumbles, catches herself, huffs a breath and curses.
I almost laugh.
Instead, I let the bond thrum low between us. I let myselffeelher for a second. That quiet frustration. That burning determination. That undercurrent of something brighter she’ll never admit to—but it’s there. Always has been.
She resets. Tries again.
And this time… it’s better.
I exhale, slow. Almost proud. I should go back to the wall. Pretend I didn’t see this. Pretend I didn’t feel it. But I stay. Because maybe, just this once, watching her become something untouchable is worth unraveling for.
She doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look over her shoulder. Just keeps moving through the form—imprecise, determined,infuriating—then speaks without breaking rhythm.
“You gonna keep watching like a creep or actually help me?”
I freeze.
Her back’s still to me, but I swear she’s smirking. I can feel it in the bond, that flicker of smug heat under her skin, beneath the frustration she’s trying not to show. I grind my molars together and step out from behind the pillar, slow and deliberate, like I hadn’t been standing there watching her for a full ten minutes like an absolute fucking idiot.
“I wasn’t—watching.” I roll my shoulder, feign a stretch like I’ve justhappenedto wander into her personal training session. “I was making sure you didn’t cut your own damn arm off.”