Page 1 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

The ground shudders beneath my boots—not from my magic, not from the Hollow’s natural malice—but from Riven.

His fury pours off him in waves, a quiet, unrelenting earthquake that pulses beneath the dirt, cracking stone and unseating roots.

The earth answers him because it remembers his touch, remembers the rage that once shaped mountains and split valleys.

It bends beneath him now, reverberating like a drumbeat to a war he never wanted to fight.

He’s not angry at Lucien.

Or Orin.

Or Caspian.

He’s angry at Branwen.

Furious that she’s reached this far, sunk her hooks so deep into his brothers that they’ve become extensions of her will.

Not warriors.

Not men.

Puppets, reanimated by the most sophisticated kind of cruelty—a bond that demands obedience, even when it corrodes everything they once were.

Lucien is the first to strike.

Not with ceremony.

Not with warning.

Just movement—a blur of precision and force as he crashes into Riven like their bodies were made to clash.

His blade catches Riven’s shoulder, and sparks fly when steel meets stone-laced skin.

Riven doesn’t retaliate, not at first.

He absorbs the blow like it belongs to him, jaw clenched, gaze locked on Lucien’s—not with hatred, but with something heavier.

Grief.

Recognition.

He knocks Lucien back with a spire of rock, not sharp enough to kill, just enough to create distance.

His magic is defensive.

Desperate. Every step he takes is a plea: wake up, brother. Fight her.

But Lucien’s eyes are hollow.

Not empty—just misdirected.

Like he sees Riven, knows who he is, but can’t quite remember why he shouldn’t be trying to gut him.

To the right, Orin has closed the gap between himself and Elias, their blades clashing in a rhythm that looks too practiced to be coincidence.

I forget, sometimes, that they trained together once—before the world fractured, before the power struggles, before I existed in the orbit of their destruction.

Elias parries with a flash of deflection magic and a sharp grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re still too slow, old man,”

he huffs, breathless, blood trailing from his lip like punctuation.

Orin doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t taunt.

Doesn’t hesitate.

His movements are mechanical, brutal in their efficiency.

He’s not trying to win.

He’s trying to end.

Elias laughs again—too loudly, too suddenly—and lets the next hit land across his ribs like he wants to bleed for it.

Like pain might be the only thing real enough to remind him Orin is still in there somewhere.

Silas is chaos, as always.

But not in the joyful way I’m used to.

There’s no grin.

No breathless dare.

Just motion—five of him materializing at once, circling Caspian like wolves trying to overwhelm a lion.

But Caspian doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t even blink.

He lifts one hand, fingers curling like a conductor calling for silence, and every illusion vanishes in a blink.

No struggle.

No spectacle. Just eradicated, like they never mattered.

Silas barely ducks in time to avoid Caspian’s blade.

He scrambles, curses, rolls to the side, but it’s clear: he wasn’t expecting that kind of clarity.

That kind of cold.

Caspian’s magic is precise, deadly, and dispassionate—the same way he looked at me the first time we met.

The same way he looks at Silas now.

Through it all, Ambrose doesn’t move.

He stays beside me, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

His blade remains sheathed at his side, fingers twitching like he might draw it but doesn’t trust himself to commit.

He watches the chaos unfold like it’s happening behind glass, like the battle is already lost and he’s still trying to decide which side deserves to win.

The battlefield is spiraling.

Lucien’s sword finds Riven again—this time slicing deep into his shoulder, the sound of it sickening.

Riven stumbles, curses, his power flaring with the heat of a volcano, but he still doesn’t strike back with full force.

He could.

Gods, he could end this with a thought.

The Hollow would rise for him if he let it.

But he doesn’t.

Because somewhere beneath all that fury, he still believes they can come back from this.

And that belief—it’s killing him.

The Hollow itself groans beneath us.

Not from the magic.

Not from the blades.

But from the grief.

The kind that seeps into the cracks of ancient stone and remembers.

This place was already broken, but now it watches us like it’s bearing witness to a second shattering.

This isn’t a war. It’s a tragedy in motion. That none of them asked for it. They’re not villains. They’re not willing.

They’re just bound.

I only have the ache of watching them tear into the people they once would’ve died to protect.

And knowing—Branwen is smiling. Watching it unfold. Because this is her theater. And we’re all bleeding for her curtain call.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

There’s no snap of magic, no visible fracture in the air—just a slow crawl of dissonance that starts behind my eyes and ripples out like an echo from a forgotten spell.

I feel it before I see it, the unnatural lull of everything around me—movement slowing, sound stretching thin like it’s being pulled through syrup.

Even the Hollow seems to recoil, confused, caught in the breath between moments.

A leaf frozen mid-fall. Dust suspended like ash in water. Time, diluted.

Only one person moves freely.

Elias.

Not easily.

Not effortlessly.

But with the deliberate grace of someone trying not to collapse under his own weight.

Each step is sluggish, dragged from a body already nearing its limit.

I watch him exhale as though it hurts, his chest rising slow, trembling with the strain of pulling this power from the marrow of his bones.

It’s not just time that slows around him—it’s life.

The rhythm of the Hollow, the chaos of the fight, the flicker of magic—it all bends inward, suffocated by his ability to warp the world into submission for just a few precious breaths.

Across from him, Orin doesn’t rush to meet the moment. He doesn’t unsheathe his weapon. Doesn’t brace himself for an attack.

He simply turns his head, ancient eyes locking on Elias with a gaze that is not cruel, not eager—but devastating in its patience.

There’s no triumph in his expression, no pleasure in what’s about to unfold. Only inevitability.

He takes one step forward.

And the world reacts.

Where his foot touches the earth, it withers. Not violently, not in some dramatic burst of decay, but quietly. Purposefully. The way age creeps in. The way rot settles. It isn’t a display of power—it’s a reminder that Orin is a creature of consumption, that even the ground beneath him must pay a price for his movement.

Elias doesn't flinch, but I see his body lock up—just slightly. His fingers twitch at his side like he’s restraining the urge to lift his blade, even though they both know this fight isn’t about violence. It’s about endurance. About who can hold on longer to what’s left of themselves without giving in to what’s pulling them apart.

They don’t speak right away. The silence between them isn’t tense—it’s heavy. Worn. It carries history. Regret. The ache of too many things left unsaid.

Orin’s voice, when it finally breaks through the stillness, is a low hum threaded with something like sadness. “You should’ve let someone else do this.”

Elias smiles, but there’s no strength behind it. Only defiance. “You think I’d let anyone else touch you?”

His voice cracks at the end, rasping like it’s been scraped raw from the inside. “Nah. I had to be the lucky bastard.”

Orin steps closer. Another inch of earth dies beneath him. His hands are bare, fingers flexing once like he’s shaking off guilt he’s already decided he’ll carry later. “I’m not your enemy, Elias.”

“Doesn’t matter,”

Elias breathes, and the effort of holding the spell begins to show. His knees buckle slightly. He steadies himself with one hand on the ground, veins raised beneath his skin like vines pulled taut. “We’re on opposite sides today. That’s enough.”

His magic pulses, visible now in the shimmer of air that bends around him. The time field fractures for a second, a ripple of too-fast motion flickering across Orin’s shoulder before it settles again. Elias is unraveling. The strain is unbearable—and he’s still smiling. Still cracking jokes at the edge of collapse like the world can’t touch him if he pretends he doesn’t feel it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,”

Orin says quietly.

“I know,”

Elias whispers, lifting his head. His smile softens into something wrecked. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Then Elias moves—not to attack, not to strike, but to close the distance. One reckless, staggering step forward. His fingers reach—not for a weapon, but for Orin’s chest, like he might touch him and make this stop. Like he might remind him. Of who they are. Of what this isn't supposed to be.

Orin reacts instinctively. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t defend. He absorbs. It’s what he was made for. Elias’s magic, raw and chaotic and spiked with emotion, bleeds into him on contact. And for a moment, the two of them are locked together—not in combat, but in communion.

Time stutters again.

The ground beneath them blackens.

And Elias folds.

Not because he’s defeated.

Because he’s empty.

He collapses to one knee, breath rasping shallow, skin slick with sweat and magic and whatever fragile part of his soul he offered up to slow the world down. His body trembles with exhaustion. His power flickers. The spell dissolves around him like fog peeled away by sunlight—and suddenly, the battlefield jolts back to life.

Lucien’s sword collides with Riven’s shield in a burst of sparks.

Silas’s laughter echoes from somewhere far too close to danger.

The Hollow screams in forgotten tongues.

And still, Elias kneels.

Orin doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He stares down at the boy who once tried to prank him with an enchanted eel and spent a week vomiting frogs as punishment. The boy who calls him “Dad”

when he wants to piss him off, who jokes through pain and flirts through heartbreak. The boy who just tried to stop time itself because he couldn’t bear to fight someone he loved.

Orin crouches beside him, hand hovering just above Elias’s shoulder—afraid to touch. Afraid he’ll take more by accident.

“You always did pick the worst moments to play hero,”

he murmurs.

Elias coughs a laugh. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta balance out your drama.”

“I’m not the one who slowed the universe down and almost passed out trying to impress a girl.”

Elias tilts his head back toward me, eyes glazed but sharp with mischief. “You think it worked?”

“Absolutely not,”

I call out, but my voice cracks, and the lie doesn’t land.

Orin’s mouth twitches. He should finish what Branwen demanded. But instead, he lifts Elias’s arm carefully, letting it drape over his shoulders. He doesn’t help him stand. Doesn’t carry him. He just waits. Quiet. Immovable. Present.

Not as an opponent.

But as someone who remembers.

And maybe—for just this heartbeat—as someone who still loves him.

Elias's breath is shallow. Shallow and ragged, like every inhale is a betrayal. He kneels beside Orin, drained and wrecked, his lashes fluttering like he can’t decide whether to pass out or fake being fine long enough to make a joke.

I see the lines of his body, the way his shoulders slump like the weight of the moment is finally allowed to rest on him. The time spell took more than he meant to give, and he was already flirting with collapse before he tried to shoulder Orin’s hunger.

But Orin hasn’t moved.

His hand still rests on Elias’s shoulder, steady and deliberate, fingers curled just slightly—as if he’s trying not to hold on, just hover close enough that Elias can feel it. There’s nothing violent in the gesture. No posturing. No challenge. Just Orin, calm and ancient, giving back what Elias spent.

And Elias… he feels it. I see it in the twitch of his fingers, the subtle rise of his chest. His mouth parts, and the start of a thank-you dies behind his teeth.

Because Orin isn’t supposed to be kind.

But he is.

Quietly. Carefully. Just enough.

Elias’s cheeks go pink, the color creeping up his throat like he’s embarrassed to be seen receiving something real. He shifts under the weight of Orin’s hand, blinking fast, as if trying to disguise it with sarcasm. “You uh… you trying to cop a feel? Because, full disclosure, I’m into that, but I usually prefer dinner first.”

Orin doesn’t dignify it with a response. Not with words. Just a look—a single, slanted glance that flicks over Elias’s face with the tired kind of fondness only the very old can afford. And then he does something subtle, something so easy to miss if you weren’t watching him as closely as I always do.

He casts a glance sideways.

Toward Branwen.

She’s distracted. Her gaze is pinned to Lucien and Riven, watching the blood-slick dance unfolding in front of her with the hungry focus of a god craving a finale. Her lips are curled in the faintest smile, her fingers relaxed at her sides. She’s not paying attention to Orin.

And Orin uses it.

He lets his palm flatten against Elias’s chest, just over his heart.

And gives.

I feel it.

The shift.

The warmth that bleeds from Orin into Elias—not energy, not magic.

Life.

It moves like breath, slow and careful and ancient.

The kind of magic that was once used to bless temples, not win wars.

Orin’s eyes don’t change.

He doesn’t glow.

Doesn’t announce what he’s doing.

But Elias jerks like someone dropped a charge down his spine, like the weight in his limbs has been lifted, peeled away by the same hands that could’ve ruined him moments ago.

It’s sweet.

Unspeakably so.

The kind of softness Orin buries deep beneath cold logic and grim prophecy.

But here, in the heartbeat Branwen isn’t watching, he gives a piece of himself away.

And I see what it costs him.

Orin’s back goes rigid.

Not in fear. In effort.

His spine straightens like a blade being forced upright.

His hand wavers, just a fraction, and a thin line of blood slips from his nose, stark against the hollow of his skin.

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t acknowledge it.

Just keeps his palm steady, pressing Elias upright with invisible strength, pouring more of himself into the boy at his feet than I’ve ever seen him give anyone.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s intimate.

A moment Elias doesn’t know how to deserve.

But Orin doesn’t do it for gratitude.

He does it because he can. Because he wants to. Because somewhere beneath the endless layers of knowledge and age and sorrow, Orin Vale loves Elias Dain.

And then she notices.

Branwen’s head turns—not fast, not sharp, but with that slow precision that makes my stomach twist. Her eyes catch the thread of energy between them. The blood at Orin’s lip. The way Elias is no longer wilting, no longer fragile.

Her lips part.

A whisper. A pull.

And Orin’s body jerks.

He’s ripped back like a marionette yanked by an unseen string, his hand torn from Elias’s chest so fast it leaves a mark. He stumbles once, just once, then straightens as if he was never anything but obedient. His eyes flash toward me—toward Elias—before he turns.

He doesn’t fight the call.

He wouldn’t.

Not with Branwen’s hand wrapped around his will like a noose.

He walks to her side with the silence of a man who has already decided what parts of himself he’s willing to sacrifice.

And Elias watches him go, one hand pressed to the spot where Orin touched him, expression unreadable.

I shift my gaze across the battlefield, my vision drawn to the center where Riven and Lucien have locked into something far beyond combat. What unfolds between them isn’t a fight—it’s something older. A reckoning carved in flesh and fury, in pride and pain, between two beings built to conquer and doomed to collide.

Riven is all raw force and fractured restraint. His body glistens with sweat and blood, muscles straining under the weight of power he was never meant to hold for long. The runes etched into his skin pulse like they’re alive, like they’re trying to warn him he’s gone too far—but Riven’s past caring. Each movement is fueled by pain, by betrayal, by rage so thick it vibrates in the marrow of my bones. He’s lost in it now, slipping further with every breath he draws. Not because he wants to—but because he has no choice. His wrath doesn’t obey him. It devours him.

Lucien, in contrast, is stillness wrapped in command. He moves like he doesn’t need to—like the world bends to him before he has to lift a hand. Even with blood blooming across his jaw and one sleeve torn, he looks untouched by the chaos. Pristine. Precise. His magic isn’t loud. It doesn’t burn or scream. It presses. A gravitational force that coils outward from his core, subtle and suffocating. His words, when he speaks, aren’t barked orders—they’re verdicts. Smooth. Final.

“On your knees,”

Lucien says, voice low and deceptively calm. But the moment the command leaves his lips, the world shifts. The air tightens, not with tension but authority, something ancient and absolute. Not just magic—but dominion. And I feel it, thick and cold and suffocating as it slides over my skin.

Riven doesn’t collapse—but he wavers. His boot drags an inch in the dirt, not by choice but by instinct, his body caught between resistance and submission. His pride fights it, claws at it—but Lucien’s power doesn’t care. It consumes resistance. It thrives on pride. The more Riven pushes back, the more it turns against him.

Lucien steps forward, head high, voice a blade honed on cruelty. “Kneel, Riven. That’s what you’ve always done best, isn’t it? Pretending to be fury when really, you’re just another soldier waiting for orders.”

Riven growls, but the sound is wrong—hoarse, unhinged. His hands tremble. Blood drips from split knuckles, his breath coming too fast, too ragged. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. He’s about to snap.

And then he does.

The shift is instant. One heartbeat he’s resisting, the next he erupts. Power explodes off him in a burst that makes the Hollow flinch, the ground beneath him cracking in jagged lines. The runes on his body ignite, casting violent gold light across his skin as if his veins are alight. His scream tears through the space between them—not human, not even Sin anymore. Just rage made flesh.

He lunges, fists like sledgehammers. Lucien barely avoids the first hit, sidestepping with a flicker of grace—but the second catches him hard across the ribs. He stumbles. For the first time, he looks rattled.

Riven doesn’t stop. He can’t. The pain is fuel now, and he’s burning fast. Every strike lands harder than the last. Lucien tries to retaliate—flicks of command laced in whispers—but they bounce. Riven is too far gone for language, too deep in the berserker’s pull to be shaped by words.

Lucien’s Aura flares, hitting me like a lash. Guilt. Doubt. That creeping rot of inadequacy he weaves into every opponent—but Riven doesn’t even notice. His pride isn’t shaken. It’s consumed by wrath, and that makes him dangerous in a way Lucien can’t outwit.

Lucien’s control slips. His footing goes. And for one second, just one, he’s beneath Riven—his body slammed into the dirt, Riven’s knee on his chest, his fist drawn back.

But Riven doesn’t strike.

He’s breathing too hard, too fast, and his eyes… they’re not entirely his anymore. He’s lost in the flood. Friend. Foe. Meaning. It all blurs. He stares down at Lucien like he doesn’t recognize him—and I realize, he doesn’t. Riven’s fury is so deep, so blinding, he can’t see Lucien as anything other than the threat in front of him.

Lucien, for his part, doesn’t look afraid.

He looks furious.

Not because he’s losing—but because he’s beneath Riven. Because someone dared to pin Pride to the ground. I see the flicker of magic building behind his eyes, the subtle gather of power to his tongue—another command, no doubt. Another attempt to reduce Riven to less.

But he won’t get the chance.

Riven’s fist slams down.

And the world fractures.