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Lucien and Orin are walking to their doom.
It breathes between us like fog—damp, choking, inevitable. Branwen will take them because she can. Because her hooksalready live under their skin and all she needs is proximity. A breath. A word. A slip. And she’ll own them again fully.
And what will I get back?
If we find Ambrose and Caspian—what shape will they be in? Will they even want to come back? What parts of them will Branwen have scraped raw, carved out, replaced with her poison?
What will I lose chasing them?
What have I already lost?
The thought slithers into me like venom, soft at first, then burning—what if I don’t get Lucien and Orin back?Not the versions I’ve fought beside. Not the ones who’ve bled for me. Who’ve resisted the pull of her command, even as it tried to tear them apart from the inside out.
What if this is the fracture?
The moment the prophecy rewrites itself. The moment the story decides I’m not enough. Not strong enough. Notrightenough to hold them all. Seven deadly sins… bound to one human girl. One fragile, mortal girl who barely knows who she is on a good day and has no idea what she’s becoming.
Maybe the gods realized they made a mistake.
Maybe they sent Branwen to balance the scales. Another binder. Another center of gravity. Another mouth to whisper their names in the dark.
And I hate that I think it. That itmakes sense.
Because I don’t feel ready to hold them all. I never have. Every bond tightens something inside me—makes me stronger, but also less myself. I’m not breaking, but I’mchanging. And I don’t know where Luna ends and what I’m becoming begins.
But still.Still.
I want them.
Even the ones who resist. Even the ones who look at me like I’m the blade pressed to their throat. I want Riven in all his fury,Elias in all his sarcasm, Silas in all his chaotic devotion. I want Orin’s silence and wisdom, his steadiness and shadows. I want Caspian’s unspoken loyalty and Ambrose’s knowing smirk that sees too much. And Lucien…
Gods, Lucien.
I want the one who hates that he wants me. The one who would rather rip himself apart than admit he feels anything at all. The one who snarls my name like it’s poison and still positions himself between me and every possible threat.
Even now, as we walk this cursed path, I feel him—not close, but close enough. Guarding me without admitting it. Silas chatters beside me, Elias makes crude jokes under his breath, and Riven scans the trees like they’re all about to come alive and attack.
But Lucien is there.
He always is.
And it’s that unshakable, maddening truth that makes my chest ache.
Because I know I’ll lose him.
Maybe not his life. But him—Lucien Virelius,the man who has never bowed to anything, will bow. Branwen will make sure of it. And when she does, when she cracks open that bond and drinks everything he is…
What will be left for me?
What version of him will come back?
What if I’m not enough to call him back at all?
The path doesn’t end. It swallows. A cluster of trees forms where there wasn’t one seconds before—gnarled limbs twisting together like fingers breaking bone, their bark black-veined and pulsing. Not with light. Not with life. But something older. Hungrier. Something that remembers us.
We all stop.
Silas bumps into me from behind, muttering a quiet “shit—sorry,” like he forgot how to walk again, his hand landing on my shoulder like he needs to confirm I’m still real. Elias curses under his breath, the sharp edge of humor gone from his voice. Riven goes still beside me, and I can feel the change in him—like a fuse waiting to catch.