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“Sorry. Mostly.”
“Tell us what happened.” I look up at him slowly, dragging my gaze from Luna’s face—still half-curled in that self-satisfied way that makes it impossible to read her—to Riven’s. The fucker’s always been too direct, too volatile, tooRiven. And yet, here he is again, demanding answers like I owe him anything more than my survival. I roll my neck once, the tension—no,the pressure—coiling in my spine, deliberate and slow.
“You want the story?” I say, voice low, just loud enough to draw every eye in the ruined common room. “Fine. I’ll give you the bones.”
Silas, who has now hung himself upside-down over the back of a battered loveseat like he’s preparing to audition for some demon circus, perks up with exaggerated interest. Elias doesn’t move, but I feel his stare like static against my skin.
“She kept me in a room,” I begin, dragging the words out like smoke. “No windows. No clock. No sound but hers. That voice? She doesn’task, Riven. Sherewrites.”
“What’d she do to you?” Elias interrupts, but his voice lacks the usual bite. It’s quieter. A little too careful.
My smile isn’t kind. “She tried to convince me to turn. Said I was wasting potential. That all of you were pawns in her war and I was meant for more.”
Silas mimes gagging behind Luna. I don’t laugh.
“She made Caspian fight me.” The room stills.
Riven’s brows snap down, fists clenching at his sides. Elias mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously likefucking hell. Luna… Luna moves half a step forward before stopping herself.
“She used him like a toy soldier,” I continue. “Threw him at me, bloodied and glamoured, doped up on some cursed Hollow shit that made his eyes bleed shadow. And when I didn’t fight back—when I tried to reach him—she punishedmefor his hesitation. He screamed like his skin was on fire, and I couldn’t get to him.”
“And now he’s gone,” Luna says softly.
I meet her eyes. “NowI’mgone.”
Riven stares at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying. I’m not. That’s the worst part. There’s no tactic here, no manipulation. Just truth. Raw and acidic in my mouth.
“She’s stronger than you think,” I say finally. “Stronger than any of us were ready for. And she’s not after us anymore. She wantsyou,Luna. Not just your magic. Not just your blood. She wants whatyou’re becoming.”
Elias shifts uncomfortably. “That’s supposed to sound ominous, right?”
“It’s not ominous, it’s prophecy,” I say, gaze slicing through the room. “We’re past the point of saving. The question is who gets burned first.”
Silas drops to the floor with a thud and groans. “You’re such abuzzkill.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, voice dry.
But even as they fall into their rhythms again—Silas joking, Elias muttering, Riven glaring—I keep my eyes on her. Because beneath all of it—the returned banter, the tattered remains of camaraderie—I can feel it. The shift. The inevitability.
Elias
Being stuck in the body of a twenty-five-year-old has its challenges. Existential dread, immortal ennui, having to explain TikTok to Orin. But it also has its perks.
Namely: I’m hot.
I catch my reflection in the cracked mirror above the bathroom sink. The lighting’s terrible, flickering like the gods are playing with the wiring again, but it still hits just right over my chest. I flex—because of course I do—and tilt my chin, taking in the sharp line of my jaw, the ink sprawling across my torso in jagged black script, runes from a language no one living speaks. Six abs. Well defined. Centerfold worthy. Maybe eight, depending on the light and how I stand.
Gods, I’m beautiful. It's honestly unfair.
I turn a little, studying the angle. “Still got it,” I mutter to myself, running a hand through my silver hair. It falls just right. Of course it does.
The door creaks open without a knock, because boundaries died a long time ago in this house, and Silas pokes his head in. His green eyes gleam with chaotic delight the moment he sees me.
“Oh,” he says, grinning wide. “Are we flexing now? Is this a scheduled ego boost or a spontaneous stroke of narcissism?”
I don’t even flinch. “Daily check-in. It’s self-care, Silas. Look it up.”
He steps in, kicks the door closed with his heel, and strips his shirt off in one smooth motion. His tattoos are less runic and more chaotic—dripping ink, curling vines, a constellation that’s definitely not from this world inked over his shoulder. He stands next to me in front of the mirror like it’s perfectly normal. Like we’re not two immortal disasters having a pose-off while the house slowly rebuilds around us.