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Not from us.
I look at us—reallylook—and wonder if the others see it. The shape we’ve taken. The silent arrangement of our bodies, like a ritual we didn’t plan but all obey anyway. We’ve circled her. Not in fear. Not in reverence. But in something older than either.
A shield.
A perimeter.
A confession.
They don’t realize what it means, not yet. They think it’s instinct. Habit. Duty. But I see it for what it is—gravity.She’s not in the center because she fell. She’s there because we did.
When Luna first arrived at the academy—months ago, though it feels like lifetimes—I wouldn’t have stood within ten paces of her. None of us would. Lucien wouldn’t look at her for longer than a moment. Elias only poked her to get a reaction. Silas threw his charm like knives, hoping she’d flinch. Riven growled. Caspian watched from a distance, fascinated and distant like a man watching the spark before the fire.
And me?
I stayed far away. Because I knew better. Because Ialwaysknow better.
And now?
Now I can’t stand to be more than a few feet from her. None of us can. Even Lucien—godsdamned Lucien—hasn’t moved more than a few steps away since she collapsed, and he’s pretending it’s caution. Strategy. But I see the war in him. The way his gaze drags back to her like a man trying to forget a prayer he never meant to whisper.
We’re ruined.
Each of us in our own way. She’s still so convinced she’s surviving us. Still thinks the danger lives in our teeth, our curses, our pasts. But the real danger is in what she’s made us need. Not just her body, or her bond, or the way she bleeds magic into the air like it belongs to her.
It’s the way she makesusfeel like we belong.
And we don’t.
We never did.
Not to this world. Not to her. Not to anything that soft and human and good.
And still, we stay. Still, we stand here like shadows around a sleeping flame. Because even if it burns us—We’ve already decided she’s worth the ruin.
And here is the crux of it all—the thing none of them will say out loud.
We are not good. We never were. We are not misunderstood, or broken, or cursed into these forms. We are Sin—raw, ancient, elemental—and this skin we wear is a shell built to contain something far more deviant than blood and bone.
Humanity is the lie.
Sin is the truth.
Sin, bottled up and dressed in human shape, carved from the detritus of gods and men and left to rot in the shadow of both. They sealed us into these bodies not because we were dangerous—but because they couldn’t stand to look at the mirror we held to them.
Because Sin is what they deny.
What they repress. What theyarewhen no one’s watching.
Silas is envy.
It bleeds from him like rot from beneath a smile. Not the petty jealousy mortals whine about, but the deep, consuming ache that carves hollows into your ribs and poisons every good thing before you ever taste it. Silaswants.Not things. Not power.Everything.Every moment, every glance, every scrap of attention that isn’t his twists something inside him. And he turns it into humor, into chaos, because if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll devour the world just to prove it should’ve been his.
Lucien is pride.
Not confidence. Not arrogance. Pride, in its truest, ugliest form. The kind that builds kingdoms just to burn them down if he can’t rule over the ashes. He believes he was made to lead—and maybe he was—but the rot of pride is that he’ll never follow, never bend, neverneed.Except hedoes, and it kills him. Pride is the refusal to admit hunger, even as it devours you from within. And Lucien? He’s starving.
Riven is wrath.