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Kieran

It didn’t feel real until I held the passport in my hand.

Killian Marsh.

It was absurd. And yet, here it was. Official. Laminated. My face next to a name that wasn’t mine, wrapped in government-approved lies.

"Killian," I muttered, flipping the passport shut. "I sound like a failed poet who teaches kayaking to retirees."

Thea didn’t look up from where she was oiling a dagger. "Could be worse. The other option was James."

I stared at her.

"James," she repeated, unbothered. "Screamed midlife crisis. You lucked out."

Dahlia snorted softly from where she was rolling socks into tight little bundles. "You do have the brooding vibe. Killian works."

I held the passport like it might bite me. "How did you even manage this?"

Thea didn’t answer right away—just gave Dahlia a slow look, the kind that said everything without needing words.

Dahlia sighed, already resigned. "Right. Don’t ask about Thea’s job."

I arched a brow. “She’s terrifying.”

“Unclear if she works for the government or against it,” Dahlia muttered, rolling another pair of socks. “But she always delivers.”

Thea smirked faintly and went back to oiling her dagger.

There were worse things to be called than a bad poet.

Still, I wasn’t used to being anyone but myself. For all my years of hiding, I’d never had to forge an identity. Never needed to. Now, every part of this felt off. The clothes. The flight plan. The idea of sitting in a metal bird with strangers and trusting it not to fall from the sky.

Silas strolled in, far too relaxed for a man who’d just been threatened by a flaming torch of magical malice. "Well, we’re booked. First-class, Athens direct. We leave at dawn."

"You booked under your real name?" I asked.

He smirked. "Of course not. I have a dozen aliases across a dozen more countries and currencies. Besides, my art collection in Zurich just sold. We’re traveling like cursed royalty."

Thea rolled her eyes. "Remind me to pickpocket you before you leave."

"Don’t bother. I tip well."

I looked between them, then at Dahlia. She caught my gaze and gave me a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She was nervous.

So was I.

But beneath it, something more simmered. Determination. A thread pulled tight.

Later, after the others had filtered out to check gear and finalize last details, I found myself standing beside her at the edge of the room. Her fingers grazed the corner of her suitcase.

I reached into my coat and pulled out the passport again, flipping it open to that ridiculous name.

Killian Marsh.

Her laughter was soft. Warm. "You’ll be fine. Just remember to look haunted and mysterious. That’s kind of your thing."

I stepped closer, voice low. "I've never flown before."

"I’ll hold your hand," she offered.

My throat went tight. Gods, how did she always know?

"And if I panic halfway over the Atlantic?"

"Then I’ll somehow summon a small hurricane and crash us into the ocean."

I blinked.

She grinned. "Joking. Mostly."

I brushed my knuckles down her arm. "You’re terrifying."

"You like that about me."

"Too much."

She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed me once, brief but anchoring.

And just like that, I could breathe again.

Maybe I wasn’t Killian Marsh. But for her, I could pretend. For her, I’d board a plane. Face an ancient curse. Fight whatever waited in the ruins of our past.

When it was time to leave, the cottage was quiet, the air too still. Outside, the sky was dark, just a shade lighter than night, like the world hadn’t quite made up its mind to go to sleep.

Our bags were by the door. The car Silas had “borrowed” was idling in the driveway. There was nothing left to check, no excuse to stall—just the inevitable weight of goodbye pressing down on the threshold.

Thea stood with arms crossed, her ever-present knife tucked into her boot.

Henry leaned on the doorframe beside her, cradling a steaming mug with Sunny curled like a scarf around his neck.

Oleander sat in the middle of the walkway like some kind of judgmental little sentinel, eyeing our bags like he knew exactly what they meant.

Dahlia hesitated. “You’ll make sure they’re okay?” she asked, nodding toward the animals. “Sunny needs the soft food at night, and Oleander’s got that weird twitch in his—”

Henry waved a hand, smiling. “Go save the world, sweetheart. We’ve got it handled.”

Thea gave a slow nod, but her gaze lingered on us—on Dahlia in particular. “Don’t get killed. I’d hate to have to raise the dead just to yell at you.”

“Noted,” Dahlia said softly, and I could hear the crack in her voice even if no one else could.

There were no long hugs. No speeches. Just a final glance back as we stepped off the porch—Dahlia’s fingers brushing mine, Silas already unlocking the car with a jaunty whistle like we weren’t on the edge of something terrible.

The door closed behind us. The cottage disappeared into the trees.

And just like that, we were on our way.