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But that doesn’t make sense.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. Something heavy slides off my chest—Silas’s leg. Disgusting. Sticky with gods-know-what. Probably wine. Or his own sweat. I shove it aside with a grunt and sit up, wincing as vertigo hits like a drunk fist.
This isn’t the Hollow. And it sure as hell isn’t Branwen’s sanctum.
The air is too still. Too knowing.
I blink against the dim haze as my vision adjusts, and my stomach curls as recognition slithers in. The courtyard. What’s left of it, anyway. Shattered arches above. Burned ivy veins crawling up blackened pillars. The sky overhead looks stretched—wrong. Like time itself got caught mid-breath.
I’m home.
Except… I shouldn’t be.
We shouldn’t be.
Because when I twist my neck and spot them sprawled out like a painting of aftermath, my pulse goes cold.
Elias. Flat on his back, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a poorly trained actor mid-tragedy. Silas—still snoring beside me, sticky, twitching. Riven, crouched at the edge of the courtyard like a wolf scenting a trap. And Luna.
Fuck.
She’s half-curled beside Riven, one hand still glowing faintly with residual power. Her breathing shallow. Her face... peaceful. As if none of them had just been ripped through godsdamned time.
I stand—too fast. The world lurches. I steady myself on a crumbled column, flexing my fingers like I’m counting how many bones still belong to me.
A month.
That’s how long it’s been.
Thirty days of absence. Of being yanked into Branwen’s orbit and held there like a prize she hadn’t decided what to do with yet. And now—I’m back. Just like that. Like someone flipped a coin and the Hollow decided to spit us out.
But the grounds shouldn’t look like this.
Daemon doesn’t look like this.
It’s rebuilding itself. Not from memory—but from grief.
A groan from behind me. Silas.
“Ugh. Are we dead?” he mutters, blinking up at the sky. “Because if this is the afterlife, it sucks. Smells like regret and man feet.”
“Get up,” I snap. My voice sounds like gravel soaked in acid.
He blinks. “Ambrose?”
I don’t answer. I’m already walking toward Luna.
Riven tenses when I approach—predictable. Protective rage coiled just under his skin. He hasn’t changed. If anything, he looks worse. Like the time without me has been carved from his bones.
Luna stirs as I crouch. Her lashes flutter. She senses me before her eyes open, and when they do—gods, those eyes.
They burn.
“Ambrose,” she whispers, breathless. And not in the pretty way.
I nod once, briskly. “Well. I see you’ve all been busy.”
She frowns, eyes scanning me like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing. “We thought—”