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I meet her gaze now, because fuck her, she’s talking about Luna like she’s a wildfire and not a miracle. And maybe sheiswildfire. So what?
I’ve seen enough cold power to last ten lifetimes.
Give me the girl who burns.
“You never gave a damn about containment,” I say, stepping forward. My voice is calm. Controlled. And it costs me. “You only care about losing what you can’t own.”
Keira’s eyes flash. It’s a wound I know too well. And she hates me for knowing it.
I don’t care.
The girl behind Riven—the one they’re all trying to control, to cage, toclaim—is the only one in this room who’s never asked for anything but choice. That’s the real threat.
Lorian doesn’t like being dismissed. It shows in the twitch of his jaw, the way his eyes narrow not in anger—but calculation. That’s the thing about the Council. They don’t scream. They don’t threaten. Theyrestructurepower in the spaces between words. It's less war and more quiet execution. A smile that turns into a guillotine.
"This isn’t about the Sin Binder," Riven says again, slower this time, deliberate. "So let’s stop pretending it is. We’re a little busy right now. And until you’re summoned, we have no need for you.”
Andfuck, if it doesn’t hang in the room like a death knell. The Council—reduced to inconvenience. And from Riven of all people.
Lorian doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But it’s the cloaked one beside him who steps forward, and I don’t know which of them I’d prefer. He doesn’t pull back his hood. Doesn’t need to. His voice is a blade honed on centuries of power and silence.
“If word gets out,” he says quietly, “that you are no longer bound here, Riven—without the Council’s sanction—what will that do to the morale of our people?”
Our people.
Like we’re still theirs. Like the blood in our veins hasn’t long since stopped answering to thrones made of forgotten promises and self-interest.
“Why the fuck,” Riven says, voice sharp and low and ready to slice, “would I care what you look like toanyone?”
I almost smile. Almost.
Because there it is. The fracture line. The one they’ve been afraid of since Luna took her first breath in our world.
Not that she would burn it down.
But that we’d let her.
The third Council member finally speaks. Still cloaked. Still unreadable. But the voice is softer. Less edge. More… strategy and an accent.
“We request a night for rest,” he says simply. “Nothing more.”
Lorian’s mouth twitches again, displeased. He didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want toneed.
But that’s the thing about old power—it crumbles when it’s forced to beg.
Riven doesn’t nod. Doesn’t agree. He just steps aside slightly, leaving the foyer open behind him like a silent threat.
And that’s when I speak.
“Enjoy your night,” I say to the Council, watching Keira’s hands clench at her sides. “But if you’re looking for relevance, I suggest you sleep light. The world’s already moved on without you.”
She turns to me, finally. Her mouth softens, but it’s not affection. It’spity.And that’s worse.
“You look tired, Ambrose,” she murmurs.
“You look like a mistake I never made,” I say. “Let’s keep it that way.”
She flinches. Just a flicker.