Page 61 of The Sin-Binder’s Fate (The Seven Sins Academy #1)

The troll lunges, its hulking frame a moving wall of muscle and jagged stone, reinforced by something darker, fouler, wraith magic, undoubtedly. The Sub-Sins weren’t just calling on old horrors; they were making them worse.

Fine.

Let them throw their biggest, their strongest. It wouldn’t make a difference.

I pivot sharply, the ground fracturing beneath my boots as I channel raw force into my legs. The moment the troll’s fist crashes down, I’m already moving, slipping beneath its tree-trunk arm before it can crush me.

And then I explode. Not in fire, not in sound, in motion.

The sword in my grip is a weapon of fury, a jagged, vicious thing made not to strike, but to tear. I swing up, slicing deep into the troll’s side, where its grotesque, blackened veins pulse beneath thick, unnatural hide.

It roars, a sound that shakes the sky, that rattles stone and bone alike.

Good. I want it louder. I want it to rage.

Because I’m not just fighting this thing.

I’m dismantling it. It twists, trying to backhand me, but I’m already gone, sliding around its massive legs, slicing at tendons, muscle, whatever will make it drop first. Wrath isn't about waiting, it’s about breaking.

A boulder hurtles toward me from the side. I don’t dodge, I turn, catch it midair with a pulse of pure kinetic force, and slam it back into the troll’s face.

The sound is wet, cracking. Its skull caves inward, just enough to send black sludge oozing from its jagged mouth.

Still standing? Fine. I’ll keep going.

The sword glows red, feeding off the rage curling through my bloodstream.

The more I burn, the more it hungers, until it’s no longer just a blade, but an extension of my will.

I leap, vaulting up the troll’s torso, stabbing deep into the rock-hard skin of its shoulder.

Its roar turns into a scream, more than just pain, fear.

Even it knows what’s coming. My fingers press against the wound, and I push. Not with muscle, not with steel. With wrath. The wound ruptures outward, an explosion of red-hot force, shattering stone, splitting flesh, boiling marrow.

The troll collapses to its knees, one hand clawing at the air like it can undo what’s already happening. I land on its chest, yanking my sword free from its crumbling body. One final look at it, this massive, powerful thing, reduced to nothing but ruin.

And then I drive the blade down. The troll’s head splits like rotted fruit.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders back as the body convulses, then goes still .

I don’t check for Luna. I don’t need to. She’s there, just at my periphery, and the bond thrums between us, something furious, electric, and wholly alive.

Orin is next to her, eyes wide, appraising.

Like he wasn’t sure if I’d win that fight.

I smirk.

“Next.”

She’s feeding off me. I feel it, raw, unchecked, violent. She moves through the battlefield like something untamed, her blade a streak of silver, her body a blur of ferocity and instinct. The wraith in front of her is fast, but not faster than rage. And right now, she is rage incarnate.

I pause, just for a second, because fuck, it’s something to watch.

The way she fights, not graceful, not calculated, but hungry, a creature learning the taste of blood and survival all at once.

She doesn’t hold back, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch when the wraith’s clawed fingers graze her cheek, leaving behind a thin streak of blackened blood.

She only snarls, twisting away, spinning low, then driving her sword up, a strike meant to gut, to end.

And it does. The wraith shrieks, a sound that should be inhuman, but isn’t. It’s too familiar, too reminiscent of every soul that’s ever screamed as I’ve torn them apart. Then it crumples, dissolving into an oily mist, and she exhales sharply, standing over the place where it died.

Breathless. Wild-eyed. Alive. Longer than Maeve lasted. The thought punches through me like a fist to the ribs, cold and unwelcome. Because Luna isn’t dying. She’s not fragile. She’s not breaking apart in front of me, leaving behind nothing but a body cooling in the snow.

Maybe, maybe, it was the right choice. Binding to her first. Maybe it gave her a fighting chance.

She’s covered in wraith blood, streaked in it, the black liquid smeared across her cheekbones, her throat, her hands.

And fuck, she shouldn’t look like that. Shouldn’t look like she belongs here.

Shouldn’t look hot like that. But she does.

She meets my gaze, her chest heaving, eyes sharp and electric with something I recognize all too well.

Bloodlust.

Survival.

Wrath.

And it should concern me, how easy it is for her to fall into it, how easily she feeds off me. But it doesn’t. Because I need her to. Because the war isn’t over.

I step forward, yanking my sword from the corpse of the troll and shaking off the blood. She watches the movement, brimming with energy, still crackling with fury that isn’t entirely hers. I should tell her to pull back, to reign it in.

But instead, I tilt my head, nod once toward the next wave of wraiths crawling from the mist, their hungry black eyes locking onto us.

“You up for another round, Sin-Binder?”

Her lips curl, baring teeth. And then she lunges .

I move, and she moves with me. Not behind, not ahead, beside. It shouldn’t be possible, this seamless, instinctive coordination. She’s never trained with me, never had time to learn the weight of my steps, the rhythm of my attacks. But she doesn’t have to. Because they’re her steps now, too.

A wraith lunges, black claws, soulless eyes, jagged teeth gnashing for her throat. Her blade arcs through the air like an extension of my own, steel humming as it meets flesh. The wraith jerks, a garbled shriek escaping as she drives the sword deeper, twists, just like I would.

And when she rips it free, her stance mirrors mine exactly.

Fuck.

We are in sync, not just fighting together, but fighting as one. The bond is still new, still volatile, but this? This is flawless.

I pivot to the side before she does, anticipating her next step before she even makes it. A wraith on my right lunges, but before I can drive my sword through its ribcage, Luna’s blade is already there, slicing up with a cruel, practiced precision that should take years to master.

A gift from me.

The wraith chokes, gurgles, then collapses into a writhing heap of blackened mist.

She exhales, turning toward the next threat, just as I do. I shouldn’t be impressed. Shouldn’t find the way she moves like me, kills like me, thinks like me so fucking intoxicating .

But I do.

The next wave comes, more wraiths, their shadowed bodies twisting, shifting, becoming more monstrous the closer they get. Their limbs elongate, their fingers sharpen into curved talons, their spines contort into something unnatural.

I step forward, blade at the ready. Luna steps with me.

I duck low, she swings high, the first wraith loses its head in one fluid strike as I gut the second, ribs cracking under my blade. A third lunges at her, she shifts her weight, grabs its arm mid-strike, and uses its momentum to hurl it toward me.

I catch it on my blade.

Her lips curl.

I don’t smile back, but my grip tightens around my weapon.

Wraith corpses litter the ground, their smoke-like bodies still dissolving into nothing, leaving behind only the wreckage of the fight. My grip tightens around my blade, still slick with the remnants of whatever the fuck these things are made of.

And then, clapping. Slow. Mocking. The sound grates down my spine like a serrated blade.

My brother steps out from the chaos, unhurried, his pale eyes gleaming with something cruel. He doesn’t belong in battle, not like me, not like Luna. He doesn’t revel in the blood, doesn’t crave the violence.

He enjoys watching.

Luna is still at my side, breath heavy, blood splattered down her arms and throat. She radiates fury, a sharp, reckless kind of energy that makes my pulse quicken. And Vaelrik? He looks too entertained.

“You know,” he muses, voice smooth, almost lazy, “I almost didn’t recognize you, brother.” His gaze flicks down to where my blade still drips. “You usually make more of a mess.”

He tilts his head, a deliberate, slinking kind of movement, eyes finally settling on Luna. And something inside me snaps.

I step forward before I realize it, a warning, one he ignores entirely.

Vaelrik has always been like this. Where I’m violence and destruction, he’s calculated, surgical. He likes breaking things slowly, unraveling them piece by piece. And right now, I can see it in his face. He wants to pull her apart.

“She’s the new Binder, then?” Vaelrik asks, like she’s not standing right here, like she’s some fucking curiosity. His gaze sweeps over her, slow and lingering, before settling on her mouth.

Luna stiffens, jaw tight, blade still in her grip.

I take another step toward him, but his grin widens, all teeth and cruelty.

“Oh, Riven,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you’re getting attached.” His eyes flick to Luna again. “Or maybe it’s not just you. She’s quite… something.”

And I swear to the gods, if he keeps looking at her like that, I will tear his fucking throat out.

The battlefield should be chaos. Blades clashing, bones breaking, the wet, visceral sound of something ancient and monstrous dying beneath my hands. But right now? Nothing moves.

Nothing except Vaelrik .

The wraiths, the creatures, the war surging through the academy halts, like they know better than to interrupt this. Like even Severin’s forces aren’t stupid enough to step into this particular fight.

Vaelrik stands before me, unruffled, unbothered, his stance relaxed in a way that only someone truly fucking sadistic can manage in the middle of a massacre. He rolls his shoulders, tilting his head, looking at me like I’m some old, rusted weapon he once used and abandoned.

“You’ve changed,” he murmurs, voice mocking. “Last time I saw you, you were a little more… unhinged. More bloodthirsty.” His pale eyes flick to Luna. “Guess you’ve been distracted.”

That’s it. I move before I think. One second, I’m standing there, blade still slick with wraith blood. The next, I’m in his face, close enough to feel his exhale as I grab a fistful of his collar.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

I could snap his fucking neck. I should. I should have done it centuries ago, should have ended him before he ever became this.

“Careful, brother,” he drawls, smirking as he glances down at my grip. “People might think you actually care.”

My jaw locks. “You think I won’t kill you?”

His laugh is slow, cruel, something that snakes into the air like smoke. “Oh, I have no doubt you’ll try.”

I tighten my hold, just enough to make his breath hitch. Just enough to remind him that I’m not the same as before.

“You look at her like that again,” I say, voice dark and low, “and I will rip your fucking eyes out.”

Vaelrik grins, wide and wrong. “Jealousy looks good on you. ”

I slam him back, just once, enough to crack the stone behind him, then let go. He straightens his collar, unconcerned, eyes still glinting with something unreadable.

“Must be exhausting,” he muses, stretching lazily. “All this… restraint. You weren’t made for it, you know. You were made for war. For death.”

He gestures to the field around us.

“This?” He smirks. “This is where you belong.”

I do belong here. But I don’t belong with him.

“You don’t get to tell me what I am.”

Vaelrik’s smile fades, something sharper sliding into its place. Something older. “You don’t even know what you are.”

Something slithers in the air between us. An old, festering wound that never healed, never closed.

I shake the weight of him off. “If you came here just to hear yourself talk, get in line. I’ve got better things to kill.”

He watches me for a long moment, then smirks again, stepping back, vanishing into the shifting fog of the battlefield.

“You’ll see it soon enough,” he calls over his shoulder. “What they’ve turned you into.”

And just like that, the war resumes .