Page 49 of The Sin-Binder’s Fate (The Seven Sins Academy #1)

The bond hums in my bones, a static charge beneath my skin, a pull that isn’t just physical, isn’t just magic. It’s him, moving toward me, cutting through the space between us with the same sharp-edged intent that coils through his very existence.

I keep my eyes on Orin, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending I can’t feel the way my pulse kicks up, the way my body registers him before my mind even has the chance to decide how to react.

Lucien enters first, stepping into the common room with the same effortless authority he always carries, his coat dusted with snow, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like he’s measuring everything in it.

Riven follows .

And I, I don’t know what I expect. Anger, maybe. Annoyance. Anything. But he doesn’t even look at me. He just moves to the side, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall, his entire body radiating something coiled and unreadable.

It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway.

Lucien exhales, rolling his shoulders. “Updates.” His voice is smooth, precise, cutting through the room with the ease of someone who expects to be answered immediately. “What have you done?”

Silas, miraculously, does not start with something insufferable. He just grins, flicking his fingers, letting a faint shimmer of dark, iridescent energy ripple through the air around him.

“I set the outer illusions,” he says, casual but pleased with himself.

“Wraiths don’t think. They react. So, I made sure they’ll react to the wrong things.

” His grin sharpens. “Made the woods hungry. The trees are watching now. If something gets too close, they’ll think they see movement, something bigger, worse. And if they don’t turn back?”

He shrugs, tilting his head. “Let’s just say they’ll wish they had.”

Lucien’s expression doesn’t change. “Good.”

Silas beams. “I know.”

Lucien ignores him, turning to Elias, who’s still sprawled lazily on the couch, arms folded behind his head.

Elias doesn’t sit up, doesn’t even lift his head. He just lets his fingers flick in the air, a small pulse of magic vibrating outward before sinking into the stone beneath us.

“Pressure wards are in place,” he says, voice bored, like he’s already done with this conversation. “Subtle, but effective. If anything crosses the outer boundary, they’ll feel wrong.” A slow, amused exhale. “Like something’s waiting. Hunting. Just out of sight.”

Lucien nods once, looking to Orin.

Orin shifts beside me, exhaling quietly before he speaks.

“I reinforced the earth beneath the main grounds,” he says, voice steady, practical. “The roots are moving now, stretching farther, curling deeper. If anything gets past the gates, they won’t get far before they’re swallowed whole.”

Lucien hums, his gaze flicking to Ambrose. Ambrose doesn’t move, doesn’t rush to speak, just lifts a hand, palm facing up.

“Resources,” Ambrose murmurs. “Everything we have, everything we own, it’s woven into the estate now. Fortified. Locked down.” He lifts his gaze, calm but absolute. “They won’t take anything from us. Not power, not ground, not a single fucking thing.”

Lucien holds his gaze for a long moment.

Then he nods.

“Good.”

He turns to Caspian, lifting a brow.

Cas leans back, stretching, his lazy grin curling at the edges.

“I figured since the rest of them were so busy playing with dirt and shadows, I’d focus on actual combat.

” He twirls a dagger between his fingers, effortless, fluid.

“Set up a few pressure points in the east wing. The second anything that isn’t us crosses them, ” He snaps his fingers.

“Instant heat spike. Fire. Light. Confusion. Enough to blind and burn before we cut them down.”

Lucien’s lips twitch, almost amused. “Efficient.”

Cas smirks. “What can I say? I like my work.”

Lucien finally exhales, rolling his shoulders before his gaze flicks ,

To Riven. My stomach knots. Riven shifts against the wall, his jaw tight, his arms still crossed. He doesn’t look at Lucien. Doesn’t look at me.

His voice, when he speaks, is low, sharp, unwavering. “I reinforced the fucking perimeter.”

Lucien lifts a brow. “Meaning?”

Riven’s fingers flex. “Meaning it’ll take a lot more than a Sub-Sin to get through it now.”

The words shouldn’t do anything to me. They shouldn’t sink into my skin, shouldn’t curl hot and electric in my chest, shouldn’t feel like something deliberate, Like something meant for me.

But they do. Because the bond is there, humming between us, unrelenting, undeniable, something neither of us asked for but can’t escape.

But he still fortified the perimeter.

He still ensured nothing can get through.

He still did it anyway.

And maybe it’s just for them. Maybe it’s just for the fight, for the estate, for everything except me.

Lucien exhales, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across his sharp features. He drags a gloved hand over the armrest of the chair he’s settled into, posture relaxed, but eyes sharp, cutting across the room as he measures all of us.

"We got word from Blackwell,” he finally says. “The troops are still gathering. More than we expected.”

The room shifts. The easy energy from before vanishes, replaced by something colder.

"Where?" Ambrose asks, voice steady, unreadable.

Lucien leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They’re spread across three primary locations,” he says, his tone smooth but weighted with calculation. “The Scorren Marsh, the Ironwood Ridges, and the Veil Scar.”

Something heavy curls in my stomach.

I don’t recognize all the names, but the way the others react, the way Orin’s brows pull together, the way Silas stops fidgeting, the way Riven’s jaw tightens, tells me enough.

“These aren’t just gathering points,” Lucien continues. “They’re staging grounds.” His blue eyes flick over us. “This isn’t an army waiting for an opportunity. It’s an army preparing to march.”

A long silence stretches between us before Caspian exhales, rolling his shoulders. “Go on, then.” His voice is casual, but I can feel the edge beneath it. “What are we dealing with?”

Lucien’s fingers tap against the arm of his chair, slow and deliberate.

"Scorren Marsh," he starts. "Southwest, near the Black Hollow Pass. The terrain is a death trap, bogs deep enough to drown entire battalions, mist thick enough to swallow sound, ground that shifts underfoot without warning. It's always been difficult to cross, which is exactly why they’re using it. They’re pulling in creatures, wraiths, specters, things that don’t need solid ground to kill you. The marsh doesn’t slow them down. It slows us down.”

A flicker of movement, Elias, running a lazy hand through his hair, eyes still half-lidded with boredom. "Specters,” he murmurs. “You think they’re coming with a Herald?"

Lucien tilts his head. "If they are, we’ll know soon enough."

No one responds.

I don’t know what a Herald is, but whatever it is, the others don’t like it .

Lucien doesn’t stop.

“Next,” he says, voice smooth but weighted, “the Ironwood Ridges.” His gaze flicks to Orin, then Ambrose.

“They’re using the ruins as cover. Old fortifications from before the first war.

The ridge itself is sheer rock, nothing grows there, nothing survives there for long.

The wind alone can cut flesh to the bone.

But they’ve brought forces anyway.” He exhales, voice quieter now, but just as dangerous. “Dorian is there.”

Ambrose goes still. Not just physically. The air around him changes, shifting, coiling, pressing inward, as if something inside him is pulling too tightly, too fast.

His brother. Hoarding. Greed’s exile. He nods once, slow and deliberate, like he’s already carving his next move into stone.

Lucien watches him for a second, then continues.

"And last," he says, “the Veil Scar."

A slow, thick silence follows. It stretches. Tightens. And I know, I know, whatever he’s about to say next is worse than anything that came before.

Riven exhales, the sound sharp. “They wouldn’t.”

Lucien’s golden eyes flick to him. “They already have.”

"What is the Veil Scar?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Lucien turns his head, gaze settling on mine.

“It’s the wound between worlds.”

A shiver licks down my spine.

Silas leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, for once not smirking. “It was the first rift,” he says, voice quieter than normal. “The first tear in the boundary between this world and the one beyond it. It opened during the last war. And it’s never closed.”

Lucien nods. “It’s not a battlefield.” His voice is smooth, but weighted. “It’s a graveyard.”

I don’t ask what he means. Because I already know. I can feel it in the way they sit, the way they watch each other, the way the conversation has gone from strategy to something closer to dread.

They’ve fought there before. And they lost someone.

I swallow. "And that's where they're gathering?"

Lucien nods once. "It makes sense. It's the weakest place in the boundary. If they’re pulling in more forces, that’s where they'll do it. They won’t need an army to breach the academy if they can tear open the Veil and drag something through.”

I go cold. Because I don’t know what that means, not completely. But I know enough. They aren’t just preparing for war. They’re preparing for something worse .