Page 4

The hallway is quiet when the knock comes. Not the way it’s quiet when someone’s sneaking, but quiet like the house itself is holding its breath. Measured. Intentional. Like whoever’s on the other side is aware that this moment is supposed to mean something.

I’m halfway through lacing my boots when I hear it, glancing at the door like it’s started speaking in riddles. It’s not Silas—he wouldn’t bother knocking, he’d kick the door open and throw himself inside like a human tornado. Not Elias either; Elias pounds like he’s got no shame, demanding attention before he’s even said a word.

This knock is softer.

Precise.

I cross the room, fingers curling around the handle, half-expecting chaos on the other side.

But it’s Orin. He stands perfectly still in the hallway, like he’s been carved from stone and just now decided to start breathing. The candlelight from the wall sconce flickers over him, throwing faint shadows across his sharp cheekbones and the mess of curls falling across his forehead. His hair looks like he combed it once and then ran his hands through it, careless in that way only someone who knows exactly how pretty they look when they don’t care can pull off.

He looks young—stupidly, dangerously young, like every polished twenty-something you’d cross paths with at a university library and wonder what tragedy lived behind their eyes.

But then he looks at you. And you realize he’s not young at all. He’s old. Older than the Hollow. Older than everything. It’s in his gaze—the weary, glacier-blue stare that belongs to a man who’s outlived gods and graves alike. Like a young grandpa wearing a pretty boy’s face. The kind of man who could dissect you gently, politely, while asking if you’d like sugar in your tea.

In his hands, he’s holding two bouquets of roses. One bright, blood-red, petals so vivid they almost glow. The other gray, wilted, dry like ash. Dead.

My mouth parts without sound.

"May I enter?" he asks, voice low and formal, like we’re in the middle of a ballroom instead of a crumbling hallway in a cursed house.

I should’ve said no. Any sane person would.

But I find myself stepping back, clearing space for him because I’m too curious to do anything else. "Sure."

He crosses the threshold like he’s performing a ritual, careful with every movement. Like the space matters. Like I matter. And maybe it’s the weight of that attention, how careful he’s being with it, that makes something in my throat catch.

He stops in the middle of the room, holding the roses between us like an offering. "As is custom," he begins, voice clipped and polished, "I present dichotomy."

I stare at him.

At the roses.

"...Dichotomy."

He gestures to the bouquets like it should be obvious. "Duality of condition. One living, one not. To symbolize both your vitality and your ruin."

My lips part again. No words come out.

He crosses to the desk in the corner, setting the bouquets down with reverence, arranging them as if their placement has meaning I can’t see. Everything he does is precise—every motion smoothed from centuries of habit, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment longer than I’ve been alive.

When he turns back to me, there’s something different in his posture. Still formal, but tense at the edges. As if something in him is wound too tight and hasn’t realized it yet.

"I wish to clarify," he says carefully, voice softer but no less precise, "that I will not pursue this in the vulgar manner typical of modernity. Nor with any transactional expectation. Courting rituals, in their contemporary state, are devoid of integrity."

My brain short-circuits on one word.

"Courting."

He continues before I can respond. "As such, I will adhere to the established methodologies of the High Houses of Varesth—codified in the Obsidian Rite, fifth edition—beginning with formal observation, followed by ritual offerings, and culminating in pattern integration and conditional submission."

I blink at him. Absolutely, completely lost. He’s still talking like I should know what any of that means.

"Subsequent phases will include, but are not limited to, symbolic sacrifices, structured proximity, and the exchange of personal artifacts deemed of significant sentimental weight."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

But he’s looking at me like this is obvious. Like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like I should understand that a man who reads like an ancient god in the skin of a pretty, twenty-something academic is now announcing—with dead roses and big words—that he’s going to… court me.

Formally. In the most terrifying, structured, absolutely batshit way possible.

I clear my throat. "That’s… very thoughtful."

He inclines his head, clearly satisfied with my answer. "I will proceed to the second phase upon the next lunar passage, assuming no formal refusal has been lodged."

I nod, not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to. He gives me a slight bow—again, like he’s stepped out of another century—and without another word, turns and disappears back into the hall, footsteps soundless.

I stare at the door after he’s gone.

The roses sit heavy on my desk.

Alive and dead.

I scrub a hand down my face and mutter under my breath, "What the hell just happened."

Because I’m not sure if I’ve just been courted, cursed, or conscripted into a goddamned ritual marriage. And I am definitely too embarrassed to ask.

I don’t know how long I stand there after Orin leaves—just staring at the door like it might open again and offer me an explanation, something simple, something human. It doesn’t. Instead, there are two bouquets sitting on my desk like a spell half-finished. One living. One dead.

I drag a hand over my face, huff out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh, and then bolt for the hallway before anyone else can knock, or worse, decide they want to "formally observe" me next.

I don’t go downstairs. I don’t go to Elias or Silas, because I already know how that’ll go. Silas will turn it into some kind of romantic disaster. Elias will make it worse, in that dark, snarky way of his, like the mere idea of me being courted will make him self-destruct.

No.

There’s only one person I can go to for this. I close my eyes, slipping under the thrum of my own heartbeat, slipping into the place where the bond lives—silver-threaded, bruised at the edges but still warm, still alive.

Caspian.

It’s faint, like everything in him is these days. His presence curled in on itself, too quiet, tucked somewhere away from all of us.

I follow the pull. Find him exactly where I knew he’d be. The second-floor study, the door cracked open just enough to say he doesn’t want to be left alone, even if he’s pretending otherwise. I knock once, lightly, pushing the door open without waiting for permission.

Caspian doesn’t look up from where he’s seated in the corner chair, legs pulled beneath him, a book resting on his lap that he’s not really reading. The way his body folds in on itself makes something soft ache behind my ribs—because I remember when he used to take up all the space in a room without trying.

When he used to smile.

His head tips slightly when he feels me cross the threshold, eyes flicking up from beneath the sweep of dark lashes.

"You’re stomping," he murmurs, voice low and rough like it’s been pulled through sandpaper.

"I’m not stomping."

"You stomp when you’re overwhelmed."

I stop at the edge of the rug, folding my arms over my chest like it’ll keep me together.

"Orin was just in my room."

That gets his attention. Caspian’s gaze sharpens, the book forgotten, shoulders straightening slightly beneath the oversized cardigan he always ends up in these days.

"And?" he prompts, careful.

"He brought me flowers."

Caspian’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Almost.

"Two bouquets," I add. "One alive. One dead."

He hums low in his throat like that explains everything.

"It’s a courting ritual," he says simply, like this is obvious.

"It’s a what."

Caspian finally looks at me properly, gaze warm and tired but clear. "Orin’s ready to bond with you."

The words land like a fist between my ribs, sharp and unexpected.

I blink at him. "What?"

"It’s old magic," he continues quietly, voice smoothing into something softer, like he’s explaining something dangerous to a child who hasn’t learned to flinch yet. "From where he’s from. From what we used to be."

I sink onto the chair opposite him without realizing, mouth dry. "He said something about phases. Obsidian rites. Sacrifices. Personal artifacts. I—I didn’t understand half of it."

Caspian’s lips curl faintly at the corners, something dark and sweet and sad flickering through his eyes.

"He’s courting you the old way," Cas murmurs. "Properly."

I shake my head, swallowing. "Explain. Slowly."

Caspian nods, setting the book aside and folding his hands in his lap.

"There are three phases," he says. "The first is what he started tonight—Observation. Presence offerings. Which is why he brought the flowers. One alive, one dead. He’s telling you what you are to him. Both. Always."

My stomach flips.

He continues, voice quiet but steady. "Second phase is Recognition. You’ll get gifts. Small, specific. Things that mean something to you or him. He’ll start orbiting closer—showing up, standing too near, waiting for you to notice."

I frown, pulse thudding in my throat. "And the third?"

Caspian meets my gaze evenly. "Integration. He’ll ask for something from you. Something you wouldn’t give anyone else."

A beat.

"He’ll make you choose."

My mouth goes dry. "Choose what?"

He doesn’t answer immediately, gaze slipping past me like he’s staring down a memory.

"Your bond will settle," Caspian says finally. "But only after you give him something that matters more than the bond."

I stare at him, something hollow and sharp unraveling low in my stomach.

Caspian’s lips twitch, the barest hint of amusement softening his features. "You look terrified."

I huff out a breath. "That’s because I am."

He leans back, the shadows cutting softer across his face now. "Don’t be. He’s formal, sure. Terrifying, absolutely. But if Orin’s decided he wants you—"

Caspian’s gaze flicks over me, something almost fond behind it.

"—he’ll tear the Hollow down to make you understand it."

I don’t run from the room, but it’s a close thing.

My feet move on instinct, down the hall, down the stairs, out of the quiet of Caspian’s study and into the rest of the house where the walls breathe a little louder, where laughter echoes faint from the kitchen, where something mundane might shake this strange ache out of my chest.

I still don’t know what the hell just happened upstairs.

My fingers twitch at my sides, phantom impressions of the rose stems still imprinting my skin. The way Orin had looked at me—like I was an equation he’d already solved, like I was both the offering and the altar—still hasn’t left me.

It’s not that I don’t like Orin. Gods, that’s not it at all.

He’s... magnetic in the way only someone impossibly old and unknowable can be. He’s always been there, quiet and composed and terrifying in a way that doesn’t require volume. Like he’s been watching the world end again and again, and still chose to sit next to me at dinner without saying why.

But I never thought— I never assumed he wanted me. Not like that. He’s never flirted. Never made a pass. Never touched me longer than was necessary. Not like the others—Silas, Elias, Riven—they were fire and hunger from the start. Messy, reckless, unavoidable.

But Orin? He was safe. Cold. Brilliant. Beautiful, sure—absurdly so, with those perfect cheekbones and that eternal you-don’t-know-me stare—but still just... there. My friend. My advisor. My ghost.

And now? Now I’m swoony. And I hate that word. But I am. Floaty in a way I don’t trust, like I’ve been drugged on poetry and old gods. Like I’m walking on the edge of a spell I didn’t agree to cast. Because now I don’t know what to expect from him. And that scares me more than any prophecy ever has.

He didn’t ask for anything.

He didn’t even flirt.

He declared something. Quietly. Unshakably. And now I have no idea what comes next.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, the worn banister rough under my palm, the scent of something burnt floating from the kitchen like someone tried to cook and failed spectacularly.

A voice cuts through the air, too loud, too obnoxiously familiar.

"Luuuuna."

I groan before I even round the corner.

Silas.

And where he is—

"You look flushed." Elias’s voice slides in, sharp and smooth and trying way too hard to sound casual.

"Did you just wake up, sweetheart?" he continues, peering at me with mock concern and way too much interest. "Or were you—"

"Don’t," I warn, narrowing my eyes at him.

"—visited by a mysterious gentleman caller who speaks in ancient riddles and smells like stormclouds and betrayal?"

Silas pops up from behind the table, eyes gleaming. "Are we talking about Orin? Because I had him pegged as the hot-but-emotionally-inaccessible villain from the start. You can’t trust men who wear gloves indoors."

"He wasn’t wearing gloves," I mutter, brushing past them into the kitchen, grabbing a half-empty mug of something that used to be tea.

"Oh," Elias says, leaning against the counter with that lazy, crooked grin that means he’s about to make everything worse. "So he’s upgraded to formal courtship then?"

I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth.

They both erupt.

Elias nearly slides off the counter he’s perched on, laughing so hard his shoulders shake. Silas practically throws himself into a chair, hands over his heart like this is the greatest drama he’s ever witnessed.

"It’s phase one," Silas says solemnly. "Next come the riddles. Then the poetry. And finally, the blood oath and ritual braid exchange."

I give him a flat stare. "Are you making that up?"

He grins. "Probably."

But Elias sobers—just slightly—his smile dipping into something darker, more thoughtful.

"He’s serious, you know," he says, voice dropping. "Orin doesn’t do anything unless it matters."

The walk to the Fang takes longer than it should. It always does.

Maybe it’s the uneven path—the winding trail through trees that whisper too loudly, overgrown with things that shouldn’t grow in a place like this. Maybe it’s that none of us seem to move in straight lines anymore. Everything curves. Everything loops. And maybe it’s just easier to pretend we’re not heading into a den of whispers and watchful stares.

They surround me.

Not with intention, not in a formation they’ve planned. But I end up at the center anyway, their bodies falling into orbit around mine like it’s natural. Riven closest at my left, walking like he’s ready to maim someone for breathing wrong. Elias on my right, shoulder brushing mine every few steps, pretending it’s not on purpose. Ambrose is ahead of us, silent, unreadable. Silas hums behind me, kicking rocks into the trees and whispering spells into the dirt for reasons I don’t want to know.

And Orin walks behind me. Just behind. Close enough that I feel him without looking. Close enough that the back of my neck warms from proximity alone. I can still feel the echo of his voice in my head, the words he used. The way he never once asked.

There’s a weight to that kind of certainty. A danger, too. Because I haven’t decided what to do with it.

And my cheeks are still pink. Which doesn’t go unnoticed.

Elias leans in, smug smile curving against the corner of his mouth as he catches the flush high on my cheekbone.

“You’re awfully rosy tonight,” he murmurs, low and taunting, like he’s trying to dig under my skin just to make a home there. “Must be the cold.”

“It’s not cold,” I snap.

He grins wider. “No?”

Riven doesn’t look at me, but I feel his awareness shift. Sharp. Focused. Caspian’s gaze flicks over from where he’s walking near the front of the group, expression unreadable. And somewhere behind me, I swear I hear Silas whisper, “Phase one complete.”

I don’t turn around. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

The lights of the Fang flicker between the crooked buildings ahead, casting a faint violet glow that spills out across the dirt road. The tavern leans like it’s drunk off its own foundations, held up by prayer and rotwood, carved into the ribs of the Hollow’s first ruins.

It’s not a real tavern.

But it’s what we have. The moment we reach the worn wooden steps, something shifts. The group splinters like it always does—Riven moving to scan the room before I can, Ambrose heading straight for the darkest corner booth, Silas already charming a cluster of villagers who both fear and adore him.

Elias doesn’t go far. He sticks close, hand brushing the small of my back like he’s guiding me somewhere, like he has any right to do that. His touch burns through the thin fabric of my top and makes my jaw tighten, because I love that it still affects me.

Orin’s presence looms at the edge of the tavern, where the shadows live thicker and the light dares not press. He doesn’t join the others. He simply watches. Not possessive. Not territorial. Something colder. Smarter. Like he’s already placed all the pieces on the board and now he’s just waiting to see who moves first.

There’s something always brewing here—beneath the surface, in the mugs, in the glances traded too quickly. This place was built to hold secrets. And right now, I feel like one of them.

A secret no one’s ready to say aloud.

I take a seat at the table Elias drags me toward, let the noise swallow me, the flicker of magic laced in the lanterns overhead casting soft purple shadows across the wood. Riven joins us after a beat, slouching into the seat beside me, knee knocking mine without apology. Silas appears with drinks. Ambrose watches. Caspian stays close.

And Orin doesn’t sit.

He just stands there, at the edge of it all. Watching.