Page 22

I swear to every god that ever walked this broken world, this is the best day of my life.

I’m not even kidding.

I’m riding a literal unicorn. A unicorn. And not just any unicorn—a glittering, dangerous, pointy bastard with murder in its eyes and a mane that looks like someone dumped starlight and sin in equal parts all over it. And—and—I have Luna on the back of this glorious, sparkly death horse with me.

If yesterday could see me now, he’d die. He’d combust out of sheer joy. I lean back slightly, grinning so hard my face might fall off, and glance at her where she’s sitting behind me, her arms loosely looped around my waist like she’s trying not to hold on too hard but failing miserably.

I wiggle my shoulders a little, just to make her tighten her grip.

“So, Luna baby,” I say, pitching my voice loud enough to carry over the sound of hooves pounding across the uneven ground, “how manly do I look right now?”

She snorts. Actually snorts. I live for it.

She shifts a little, glancing around me at the unicorn we’re riding—the creature shimmering beneath us like it belongs in a godsdamn fairytale, its spiraled horn glinting in the weak Hollow light.

“Well,” she says, voice dry as bone, “it’s a very pretty unicorn.”

I gasp. Loud and dramatic.

“A pretty unicorn,” I repeat, hand pressed theatrically to my heart. “Baby, this unicorn is majestic. Masculine. Terrifying. This is war horse energy.”

She leans forward slightly, her chin brushing my shoulder as she adds sweetly, “It’s sparkly.”

I groan, dramatically, tipping my head back so she can see the full tragedy in my face. “You wound me.”

She laughs—soft, genuine, warm—and gods, I want to bottle that sound and hoard it like treasure.

I glance back at her again, catching the way her eyes soften when she looks at me, even when she’s pretending to tease, pretending not to adore me like I know she does.

“You know,” I say, grinning wider, “I picked this one on purpose. For you.”

She arches a brow, clearly skeptical. “Because it’s sparkly?”

“Because it’s sparkly,” I confirm proudly. “And because it could gut me without breaking a sweat, but instead it’s letting me parade you around like a prize.”

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head like she’s pretending I’m too much.

I lean in a little, dropping my voice low and conspiratorial. “Plus, it’s got glitter in its mane. You know how I feel about glitter.”

She groans, burying her face briefly in my shoulder. “You are chaos.”

I grin wider, my heart flipping stupidly in my chest, because she says it like she means mine.

“You love me,” I sing back at her, too loud, too smug.

“I do,” she mutters under her breath, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And I swear—if the Hollow swallowed us whole right now, I’d die happy.

And then I glance to my left.

And there’s Caspian.

Looking like he just stepped out of some tragic, beautifully dangerous painting—his hair whipping back from his face, his profile sharp enough to cut glass, his posture loose and easy like he was born to ride myth and legend.

It’s offensive, honestly.

I scowl dramatically, shifting in the saddle to glare at him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I shout over the sound of hooves and wind, pitching my voice loud enough to carry because subtlety has never been my thing. “Could you look a little less like a tragic, brooding god right now? You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

Caspian doesn’t even glance at me. Which makes it worse. He just sits there, effortless and devastating, like the world owes him something.

I lean toward Luna conspiratorially, lowering my voice but keeping it stage-whisper loud enough that he can hear every word.

“Look at him,” I say dramatically. “That hair. That jaw. I mean, I get it, he’s Lust—but leave some for the rest of us, Cas.”

Caspian finally glances sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, ,” he says lazily, voice all velvet and knives.

I slap a hand to my chest, gasping like he’s just stabbed me.

“Jealous?” I shout. “Baby, I’m the whole package. I’m the main event. The glitter and the chaos. The tragic backstory and the punchline.”

I glance over at Luna then, tilting my head back just enough to catch her eye.

“Isn’t that right, love? Tell him I’m the prettiest.”

She groans, burying her face in my shoulder like she can’t believe she’s stuck with me. I’m basking in my moment—Luna laughing behind me, Caspian pretending not to be offended by my glitter-fueled glory—when I feel a familiar chill prickle along my spine.

Which can only mean one thing.

Ambrose.

I glance over—and there he is. Coming up on my right like some sinister prophecy in motion. Effortless. Elegant. Barely even touching the unicorn beneath him, and the creature is somehow gliding like it was born for war and opera.

He looks like he belongs in some forbidden text no one should’ve opened, and the worst part? He knows it. His coat’s billowing. His sleeves are rolled. His hair’s catching just enough wind to make him look windswept and deadly. Meanwhile, I’ve got glitter in my mouth and half a leaf stuck in my hair from when my unicorn did a celebratory twirl after jumping a boulder.

And Ambrose?

Not even creased.

I hate him.

“Look at this smug bastard,” I mutter loud enough for Luna to hear, and she laughs softly against my back. Encouragement. Dangerous.

Ambrose spares me a single sideways glance. “You’re drooling,” he says mildly.

“I’m foaming with rage,” I shoot back.

His unicorn picks up pace, almost mockingly, and he doesn’t even react. Just shifts his weight a hair and the thing accelerates like he’s whispering sweet nothings into its ear in ancient hell-speak.

I narrow my eyes.

“This is war,” I announce.

Luna mutters something like, “You’ve already declared war on three people today.”

“Ambrose is all three of them,” I hiss.

Because he is. He’s the rival. The arch nemesis. The dramatic foil to my glitter-coated chaos. He’s been stealing my favorite mugs from the house and replacing them with enchanted ones that whisper terrible truths. Last week he spelled my boots to squeak like mice. And sure, I made all his shirts sing sea shanties for two days straight, but that was justice.

I nudge my unicorn forward.

“I see what you’re doing,” I call across to him. “Trying to out-seduce me on the murder horse. Trying to show off. Trying to impress her.”

Ambrose doesn't look at me.

He just smiles. It’s a slow, unsettling thing that promises doom and maybe a little flirtation, and I hate that it works on people. I hate that it might even work on me if I didn’t have standards.

“I don’t have to try,” he says calmly. “Some of us don’t need glitter to get attention.”

“Glitter is a lifestyle,” I yell, guiding my unicorn up beside his like we’re about to joust with words. “It’s a commitment. It’s personality. Meanwhile, you’re over there looking like a taxidermied villain prince who moisturizes with the blood of orphans.”

“Flattering,” he says.

“You wish,” I shoot back.

His gaze flicks to Luna for half a second, and she’s biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

Betrayal.

I point at her over my shoulder. “Don’t you fall for this. He’s got you thinking he’s all mysterious and restrained, but the moment you’re alone he’ll start monologuing about the stars and try to seduce you with existential dread.”

Ambrose smiles faintly. “She liked it.”

I choke. He did not just—

Luna’s dying behind me. She’s trying to muffle it, but it’s happening.

“I’m hexing his bedsheets,” I mutter.

“You already did,” Ambrose says smoothly. “I reversed it.”

Ambrose is the problem. Always has been. He rides like the Hollow itself made him a steed out of menace and sex appeal. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, that razor-cut profile catching every scrap of light like the universe personally appointed him its most attractive disappointment.

Meanwhile, I’m riding what I’m fairly certain is a bisexual glitter cannon with hooves. Its mane sparkles when it snorts. It keeps skipping over rocks like it’s performing for a fae parade. So obviously, I do what any emotionally healthy, well-balanced magical menace would do.

I hex him.

It starts as a simple thread of chaos magic, unspooling between my fingers like silk spun from mischief and pettiness. Harmless. Mostly. A little side-channeling of Hollow static, twisted into something that’ll stick to his aura and react to arrogance.

The goal? Low-level spell latch—innocent at first. But the moment Ambrose smirks? The spell was supposed to amplify it. Twist it into something theatrical and public. Like glowing green eyes and foghorn laughter every time he said something cryptic. Or temporary phantom horns when he made one of those maddeningly vague prophecies like, “You’ll see soon enough.”

Instead—

It turns on me.

I feel it the second the charm leaves my hand. The trajectory shifts mid-air, caught by some unseen current. Not natural wind, not magical resistance—a redirect. A bend. Like my spell wants to go to Ambrose, but something old and sharp slams into it mid-flight and flings it back toward the idiot who cast it.

Me.

It punches into my sternum like a glitter-fisted betrayal. Magic erupts outward—bright, golden, effervescent. And I don’t mean that poetically. I mean literally effervescent. My skin starts to shimmer. My nails glow. My boots sparkle. Luna lets out a choking sound behind me, half-laugh, half-murderous gasp.

“,” she says warily, her voice all too amused, “why do you look like you’ve been body-dipped in starlight?”

I look down.

And everything is gold.

Not subtle. Not tasteful. No—I am radiant. I am divine disco vengeance. My entire being hums with magical glitter, like someone weaponized the essence of a drag show finale and launched it at my face.

Then I hear the music.

A faint humming, at first. Sweet. Melodic.

And then, out of nowhere—floating above us like some unholy cherub of chaos—a tiny, winged version of me pops into existence, twirling in the air with a lyre and a halo that’s definitely crooked.

The mini- opens its mouth.

And sings.

“Ambrose, Ambrose, hair like night—

Eyes that shine with spiteful light—

You hex my dreams, you slay my peace—

You walk, and my shame does not cease—”

I spin to glare at Ambrose.

The bastard looks bored. He tilts his head lazily in my direction, arching a perfect eyebrow like he’s curious why I’m auditioning for the Hollow’s least sexy boyband. His unicorn doesn’t even twitch.

“You’ve got a lyrical streak,” he says, calm as ever. “Tragic, but touching.”

I’m glowing. Still glowing. The mini-me sings on, now with backup vocals.

“I will destroy you,” I hiss.

Ambrose offers me the faintest, most smug curve of a smile. The kind that says, You’ve already destroyed yourself.

And I have.

Because he’s Greed. My magic—trickster chaos born from whim and whimsy—clashed with his Sin. Spells near Ambrose mutate. Amplify. Redirect. Turn on their caster. The Hollow already makes everything volatile, but Ambrose? Ambrose just stood there and watched my power implode in on itself.

With a fucking choir.

“I hate this place,” I mutter. “I hate him.”

“,” Luna says sweetly, barely holding back her laughter, “your glitter is catching on my clothes.”

There is nothing noble about being coated in weaponized shimmer. I love glitter—obviously—but there’s a time and a place, and bouncing down a ragged trail on the back of a unicorn while trying to flirt with Luna and salvage my dignity is not that time. Especially not when I’m the one who cast the spell. Especially not when the glitter isn’t just lingering—it’s multiplying. Actively. Like it’s breeding on contact with my regret.

I try to brush some off her thigh first. Casual. Gentlemanly. Maybe even a little heroic. Except the moment my hand makes contact, the glitter blooms like a curse, dusting the fabric with a fresh, impossible sheen. I watch it happen in real-time, horrified and fascinated.

“Okay,” I mutter under my breath, dragging my sleeve along her leg in an attempt to buff it off. “Stay calm. I’ve got this. I am the problem, but I can also be the solution.”

She glances down at herself, then at me. Her expression is unreadable for exactly three seconds—then her mouth quirks, and I can feel the laughter vibrating through her chest against my back.

“This is your fault,” she says softly, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“I was aiming for Ambrose,” I mutter, trying to sound noble about it, like this was a tragic sacrifice made in the name of justice. “That spell should’ve given him phantom horns or at least pants made of bees. This—” I gesture helplessly at the glitter warzone now coating both of us, “—is magical treason.”

“And yet,” she says, voice dry, “I’m the one glowing.”

It’s true. She is.

Her scarf shimmers with gold dust, and her boots sparkle like they’ve been dipped in starlight. Her eyelashes catch the sun in a way that makes her look unreal. She’s luminous, radiant—absolutely stunning—and I am not okay about it. Especially when I realize some of that shimmer came from my fingers. Which are still on her.

I reach up instinctively, trying to help, my thumb brushing across her cheek to clear the streak of glitter running along her jawline. But instead of clearing it, I smudge it. The gold clings to her skin, glinting in the light, and the more I wipe, the worse it gets.

“,” she murmurs, the barest laugh in her voice. “You’re making it worse.”

“I’m making it art,” I say, completely serious. “You’re a masterpiece of poor planning.”

I try again anyway, using the edge of my sleeve now, more determined than effective. Glitter transfers onto my arm, my jacket, her shoulder. The unicorn’s mane catches some of it too, shimmering now like it’s joined my personal descent into absurdity.

“I am losing a war I started,” I whisper as I slump forward dramatically into her shoulder.

She hums, amused, and pats my head like I’m some wayward creature she’s half-decided to keep.

“You’re glowing,” she says, the amusement in her voice too warm, too knowing.

“Everything I love turns to glitter,” I groan. “It’s a metaphor.”

“For what?” she teases, fingers curling against my ribs as she shifts just enough to look at me again.

I lift my head slightly and meet her gaze. She’s smiling, but there’s something soft behind it too—something that stops me cold. Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for the truth under all the chaos. And gods help me, she might find it.

“You,” I say. “Obviously.”

Her breath catches, the moment thick with everything we never quite say aloud. Then she smirks again, quick and bright, and leans in like she’s about to kiss me—or kill me. It’s always a gamble with her.

“I think the glitter got into your brain,” she says.

“It’s in my bloodstream,” I whisper, grinning as I lean in closer. “You’ve infected me.”

But before I can press my mouth to hers, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye—Lucien, up ahead, lifting a hand. His posture is rigid, shoulders tense, his unicorn slowing beside Riven’s. Whatever he sees, it’s enough to make them both pause.

The shift is immediate. Luna feels it too—I can sense it in the way her laughter fades, the way her body straightens behind me, no longer leaning with ease. The air thickens, not with magic but with expectation. The Hollow hums faintly, something old waking up beneath the roots of this ruined copy of a world.

I lift a hand in return, signaling we’ve seen them.

The others begin to slow behind us, hooves echoing softer now as the trees thicken. The trail narrows. The Keep looms just beyond the next hill—weathered stone and shadows, a jagged silhouette carved into the spine of the Hollow.

I shift in the saddle, keeping Luna close.

And for once—I don’t say anything.

Because even I know when the joke is over.