Page 28 of The Sin Binder's (The Seven Sins Academy #4)

The portal spits us out like a bad joke, the world reassembling itself in fractured light and curling shadows until my boots hit solid ground. This time, we're not dumped in the middle of the wasteland or at the edge of Branwen’s labyrinth. No, the Hollow's magic has a sense of humor—it plants us right at the crest of the hill, overlooking the village below.

And the second I recognize it, my mouth twists into something halfway between a wince and a smile. The village. Of that night.

The roofs of the little crooked houses glitter faintly in the distance like teeth waiting to bite us, and I can already feel the ghost of cheap wine and too-loud laughter curling at the edges of my memory. The last time we were here, we got drunk on something foul enough to strip paint, danced with the villagers like we weren't sins in mortal skin—and Luna burned a girl's dress clean off her because I'd smiled at the wrong person.

She’d smiled back. That was the mistake.

Silas is already at my side, practically vibrating, his arms moving wildly as he spins to face Ambrose and Caspian, who trail behind us, their steps heavier, less loose. "Right," Silas starts, his voice pitched low but still too sharp to be subtle. "We need to lay down some ground rules. Since you two weren’t with us the last time we graced this charming little dump."

Ambrose cocks a brow, like he’s already bored. Caspian just slants a look at Silas, the corner of his mouth ticking up.

Silas ignores them both, too deep in his performance. "Rule number one—don’t. I mean it. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t even glance at one of the sweet little village girls with their shy smiles and butter-warm eyes." He points dramatically at Ambrose. "Especially you, moneybags. You’ve got the kind of face that makes people want to be ruined. And Caspian—" He shifts, finger jabbing in Caspian’s direction like a sword. "Your entire existence is a problem."

Caspian gives a lazy, disinterested smile that’s so razor-sharp it could slice skin. "I don't usually need warnings, darling. But keep talking. It’s doing something for me."

Silas barrels on. "I’m serious. Last time, smiled at a girl. Just smiled." He flicks his fingers toward me without looking. "That smile—you know the one—the lazy, exhausted, sarcastic one that’s basically just his face."

I shrug like I don’t know exactly what he’s talking about.

"And Luna," Silas drags the word out like a melody, voice rich with drama, "lost her damn mind. That sweet thing burned the girl’s dress right off her body without even blinking. Whole village lit up like a bonfire after that."

Ambrose glances at me sidelong, all cool calculation wrapped in that perfectly unreadable stare. "You’re telling me she started a riot because you smiled?"

I lift a brow. "It was a good smile."

Silas snorts. "It wasn’t even your best smile, and she still went full psycho. So." He stops walking, plants his hands on his hips like he’s leading a war council. "No smiling. No flirting. No Caspian-ing. And definitely no ‘Ambrose Dalmar Brood Stare,’ because one look from you and some poor villager will combust."

Caspian stretches his arms over his head, loose and lazy, like he’s already bored of the lecture. "Maybe I want to see her set the whole place on fire."

I glance at him, shaking my head. "That’s because you’re a masochist."

Silas points at me, grinning. "Exactly. We already know we’re disasters. I’m just saying—don’t give her a reason. Not tonight."

He starts walking again without waiting, and we fall in behind him like soldiers following their own chaos incarnate.

Below us, the village waits, quiet and glittering and unsuspecting. And in the space between one breath and the next, I already know—we’re not going to make it out of here without burning something down.

The prickle starts at the back of my neck—a shiver not of cold, but something heavier, the kind of weight that coils down your spine like a hand you can’t shake off. I don’t need to look to know who it is. That hum at the edge of my skin, that pulse tethered too tightly to my own heartbeat—it’s her.

Still, I glance over my shoulder like a man casually checking the weather, and there she is. Arms crossed over her chest, hip cocked like she’s standing in judgment of the entire fucking universe—but her eyes, those dangerous, brilliant things, they’re locked on me like she’s remembering exactly what I did last time we were here. And I know her well enough now to catch it—that spark in her gaze, a possessive flash that’s got nothing to do with fear or anger, and everything to do with how hard she falls when one of us is stupid enough to make her burn.

And yeah, it’s hot. Because it’s hers. And it’s aimed at me.

I purse my lips, let a slow, lazy whistle curl past them like I haven’t just been caught red-handed. A devil’s tune, something sweet and sharp that slides beneath the edges of her glare like a knife.

Silas, without missing a damn beat, picks it up. He spins on his heel, elbowing Caspian in the ribs like he’s the drum to his chaos orchestra, then matching the whistle note for note. The sound snakes around us, light and teasing, like we’re boys again with nothing but mischief in our pockets.

I don’t break my stare with Luna, and she doesn’t blink, the corner of her mouth twitching even as she keeps pretending she’s pissed.

I lean closer to Silas without looking away from her. “You know,”

I murmur, voice pitched low and full of sin, “if she sets something on fire again tonight, it’s your fault.”

Silas laughs under his breath. “It’s always my fault.”

Caspian groans behind us like he’s tired already, and Ambrose, well—he hasn’t even tried to hide his eye roll, the bastard. But I catch it, the small lift of his lips when he thinks no one’s watching. Even he’s not immune to this spiral.

Luna’s still watching me like she’s plotting where to bury my body and how many witnesses she’ll leave alive. I tip two fingers to my brow in a mock salute, my smirk sharp enough to slice, and keep whistling. Because I haven’t done anything wrong.

Yet.

But the night’s young. And she’s looking at me like she wants to devour me whole or start a war. Maybe both.

And either way, I’m going to let her.

Ambrose’s voice cuts clean through the easy rhythm we’d fallen into, the sharp line of his arm pointing across the horizon like he’s presenting us with something sacred or doomed—maybe both. "There," he says, the word brittle, carved sharp with something heavier beneath. "That’s where she is."

The cathedral stands like a shadow at the edge of the world. Black stone, veined in something older, something that hums even from here. I can feel it at the backs of my teeth, a warning and a promise. The land curls around it, trees stripped bare, the ground unsettled like it remembers the weight of what she did to us.

Branwen.

We all go quiet for a beat, the name unspoken but slithering between us like it belongs in the marrow of our bones.

It’s Riven who breaks it, his voice low, gruff. "We’ll stop in the village tonight." He doesn’t look at any of us when he says it, gaze fixed on the cathedral like he’s already walking into hell. "It’s a half day’s walk past. We’ll need the rest."

And then, like the responsible, self-righteous bastard he is, he adds, "No one’s drinking tonight."

Silas snorts immediately, elbow grazing mine, and it’s all I can do not to laugh because we both know that’s a fucking joke. Riven says it like it means something, like he doesn’t know us at all. Like we aren’t about to end the night shit-faced and half-naked in some cursed inn, because that’s how we’ve always done this—leaning into the chaos right before everything burns.

I don’t say anything, but I catch Silas’s eye, and it’s clear. We’re drinking. Tomorrow we walk into the lion’s den, and we’ll do it with whiskey in our veins, because that’s how you survive when you know you’re not coming out clean.

Caspian’s the only one who hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t looked at any of us since Ambrose pointed out the cathedral, his jaw tight, his eyes hollow in a way that carves at something in me I don’t like looking at too long.

And then he moves. He drifts toward her like gravity doesn’t apply anymore, like Luna is the only thing tethering him to this world. She’s been quiet too, her gaze on the cathedral, her fingers curled loosely at her sides like she’s holding herself back from tearing the damn thing down with her bare hands.

But when Caspian reaches her, her entire posture shifts. She softens—not visibly, not like anyone else would notice, but I do. We all do. The way she angles her body slightly toward him, like she’s been waiting.

We give them space. No one says it, but we step back, all of us, because whatever conversation they’re about to have isn’t meant for the rest of us. It’s carved from something delicate, something cracked.

I drag my gaze from them, letting out a long breath and rubbing the back of my neck.

Silas leans in close to me, voice pitched low. "Do you think Riven’ll actually kill us if we drink tonight?"

I smirk, watching Caspian tilt his head toward Luna like she’s the only thing that makes sense in this cursed place. "Only if we don’t invite him."

And the thing is—when we leave the village tomorrow, when we march toward that cathedral, we’ll either come back with Orin and Lucien… or not at all.

But tonight?

Tonight, we drink.

My legs ache, which is a cosmic joke considering I can literally slow time itself. I could stop the whole damn world spinning if I wanted—but can I stop us from walking for what feels like the thousandth hour straight? No. Of course not. Because apparently, the universe hates me and thinks cardio is character building.

I mutter under my breath, low enough so Riven doesn’t bite my head off for complaining again. “You’d think being one of the Seven Deadly Sins would come with a personal chariot. Or at least a cursed horse.”

Silas catches it, of course he does. He’s always listening when he shouldn’t be, grinning like he’s waiting for me to snap. He slows his pace until he’s next to me, then dramatically huffs like I’ve burdened him with the weight of the world. "You poor delicate thing," he drawls, all fake sympathy, then without warning, drops into a crouch and slaps his hands over his thighs. "C’mon, princess. Up you go."

I blink at him, then glance around to make sure no one else is watching. Luna’s ahead with Caspian, her focus entirely elsewhere, but Riven’s sharp gaze catches everything, and Ambrose is probably cataloging my every move like I’m another pawn on his board.

I shouldn’t.

But my legs really do hurt, and I haven’t been able to breathe without thinking about how close we’re getting to Branwen and how it’s all going to come apart.

So I sigh—long, theatrical—and hook my arms over Silas’s shoulders, letting him haul me onto his back like some ridiculous prince being carried through hell.

Silas hoots loud enough to startle a bird from a branch. "See?" he says, hands gripping beneath my thighs. "This is how we bond, . Physical affection. Sibling-level chaos. You should be thanking me."

I bury my face in his shoulder, groaning. "I should be putting you out of your misery."

"Too late. I thrive in it."

Luna glances back at us then, her brow arched, mouth twitching, and I know that look. She’s trying not to laugh at us—at me. Because I’m slumped over Silas like some damsel who’s decided life is just too hard.

And damn it, I want to make her laugh.

"Hey, sweetheart," I call out, raising my head, my voice pitched teasing. "You picked the wrong brother. Clearly, Silas is the one carrying the weight of this relationship."

That earns me a sharp glare and a snort from her, but I swear her cheeks pinken before she turns away again, shaking her head.

Silas leans back into me as we continue walking. "You’re welcome."

"Shut up."

But I don’t let go.

And ahead of us, the road curves downward toward the village, the air heavier now, charged with something that feels like the calm before the kind of storm that destroys everything in its wake.

Silas hitches me higher on his back like I’m light as breath, and I let my chin drop over his shoulder, lazy and crooked, my gaze slipping past him to where Luna and Caspian walk a few paces ahead. They're close, heads tipped together, the weight of whatever they're saying pressed between them like something sharp and private.

I hum low, because the ache in my chest is heavier than my limbs right now, heavier than the damn war we’re marching toward. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

I mutter under my breath, not expecting an answer.

Silas doesn’t miss a beat. “I can read lips, you know.”

I snort. “You can’t read shit.”

He glances back at me, all teeth, wicked like he’s about to unleash hell. “No, really. Caspian just told her he wants to braid her hair and feed her grapes while she tells him he’s pretty.”

I laugh, sharp and unexpected, because it’s so stupid and because I can picture Caspian’s face if I said that to him. “Oh yeah? And what did she say?”

Silas doesn’t even hesitate. “She said only if he paints her toenails too. Blood red.”

“Hot.”

Silas winks over his shoulder. “Always knew Caspian was a foot guy.”

I bark a laugh that draws Luna’s head around, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the two of us like she knows exactly who’s stirring shit from the back of the line. I offer her a slow, lazy grin, raising my brows like I’m innocent when we both know I’m not.

Silas leans back into me conspiratorially, voice dropping. “She’s glaring, Dain. Bet you a bottle she’s imagining creative ways to murder you.”

“Good,”

I mutter. “Means she’s thinking about me.”

He laughs, but it’s quieter this time, almost soft. Like he knows this isn’t just about jokes—that it never is with her.

Ahead of us, the path curves down into the village, lights flickering like dying stars in the fading daylight. Tomorrow we face hell. Tonight, we play pretend, because that’s the only way any of us knows how to survive.

Silas keeps up his ridiculous commentary, feeding me made-up lines of what Caspian and Luna are supposedly whispering. I don’t correct him. I let him talk, let him fill the quiet with something easy, because tonight is the last time it’ll ever be like this—before everything burns.

Silas keeps rambling nonsense under his breath, weaving an entire, ridiculous soap opera between Luna and Caspian just for my entertainment as I lounge like a sloth on his back. I barely have to hold on—Silas is steady, even when he’s being a menace.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch it. The flick of movement. Quiet. Calculated.

Ambrose.

Moving like he doesn’t want anyone to notice, but I always notice. He’s angling toward Silas, the way a predator stalks something stupid enough to underestimate it. Except he’s not looking at Silas the way he used to—like he’s annoyed, above it all, too cold to engage in the chaos. No, there’s something looser in the set of his mouth, the barest ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. Almost human.

I don’t even hesitate. I whistle low under my breath, leaning forward over Silas’s shoulder, pointing past him lazily. “Hey, Veyd. Think that’s a tavern over there.”

Silas, idiot that he is, whips his head around, his body shifting to follow my line of sight.

That’s all Ambrose needs.

He hooks a foot beneath Silas’s ankle, smooth and lethal, and the next second we’re airborne. I catch the briefest flash of Ambrose’s grin—sharp, mean, victorious—and then we’re falling, Silas cursing, me clinging like a goddamn barnacle as we both slam into the dirt.

It should piss me off, but all I can do is laugh. Because Ambrose—the cold, calculating bastard—is laughing too. Not the measured, cruel laugh he usually gives when everything’s a negotiation, but real, almost boyish, like he’s letting himself have this moment.

“Payback’s a bitch,”

he says, brushing dirt from his coat like he didn’t just throw himself headfirst into one of Silas’s signature disasters.

Silas groans, rolling onto his back beside me. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one,”

he wheezes.

Ambrose only shrugs, voice quiet but smug. “Not tonight.”

And maybe that’s the thing—the bond is starting to get to him. Not in the way it hit the rest of us, not obvious and messy and desperate. No, Ambrose is still composed, still polished on the outside. But he’s here, tripping Silas like a schoolboy, playing our games like he wants to belong.

Maybe he does.

I push up onto my elbows, shooting him a lazy grin. “You’re gonna regret loosening up, Dalmar. We corrupt everything we touch.”

Ambrose’s eyes flick to Luna, still talking quietly with Caspian, her glow unavoidable even here in the dirt and dust.

“I know,” he says.

And the way he says it—it sounds like he already has.

Ambrose

The Fang is a pit. The kind of place where shadows cling to the walls like old sins and no one looks you in the eye unless they’re trying to start a fight—or end one. The air tastes like spilled ale and something worse, something feral beneath the woodsmoke. And it’s alive tonight, heaving and pulsing around us like the heartbeat of something dangerous.

Silas is perched on a battered table in the middle of it, one boot planted, the other swinging over the edge, hollering orders like he owns the place. "Another round! For the whole fucking tavern!" His grin is a dare, reckless and unapologetic, and the bar roars back at him like they're ready to bleed for him.

I should hate this. I should be leaning against the back wall, above it all, calculating how this chaos can be used, how it can be turned.

But instead, I’m at the table too. Ale sloshing over the rim of my mug, elbow braced lazily as I watch them all drown in it. slumped half over the table, cheeks flushed, trading barbs with a group of villagers who are too drunk to realize he’s tearing them to shreds. Caspian silent in the corner, but sipping like he wants to forget. Riven glaring, arms crossed, as if sheer rage can stop the tide of sin pouring through these walls.

Her hair wild, cheeks flushed, grinning over her shoulder like she knows every single man in this room would crawl for her—and she only wants the monsters she walked in with.

That should piss me off.

It doesn’t.

It twists something low in my gut, something sharp and dangerous and almost sweet.

"You're drinking tonight." slurs beside me, pointing his mug at me like he’s just uncovered a secret. "Dalmar, you’re actually drinking."

I lift the mug, let the foam kiss my lips, and arch a brow. "Miracles do happen."

"Riven's going to kill us." Silas announces like it’s gospel, tipping his head back to shout for more ale, slurring half a song in between.

I smirk, glancing toward Riven, who looks two seconds away from dragging us all back to the Academy by our collars. "If he doesn’t, I might."

Luna's laugh cuts through the room then, sharp and bright, and my gaze snaps to her without thinking. Her finger trailing circles in the condensation of her glass, eyes glittering when they catch mine across the crowd.

I don’t look away.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I let the ale loosen something in me. I let the way she smiles at me, like she knows what I am and wants me anyway, feel like it might split me open. I lift my glass, mouth curling, and for the first time in centuries, I don’t feel like I’m holding the line.

The door slams open like the start of a bad joke—the kind where someone leaves bloody. A gust of cold air chases the three of them inside, swagger carved into their steps like they think they own the place. Village boys, but the kind who know they're good-looking and tall enough to make trouble. One in particular—the biggest of them, broad-shouldered, smug, eyes like chipped glass—zeroes in on her.

She’s at the bar, leaning against the scarred wood, chin tucked, smiling faintly at whatever the barkeep just said. Her hair a tangle of gold and shadow down her back, her glass near empty. Alone.

My stomach knots.

He doesn’t hesitate. Like he was hunting, and she’s already caught.

He leans into her space, too close, too casual, his voice a murmur that cuts across the tavern when the music dips. "How much for the night, sweetheart?"

The entire fucking room stills.

The words slice through the ale-haze like a blade, and my eyes narrow so fast the pressure behind them throbs. Across the table, Riven’s head snaps up. Caspian goes rigid, knuckles white around his mug. Silas stops mid-laugh, the sound dying sharp in his throat. And — already looks like he’s calculating how many ribs he’s going to crack.

I don’t think.

I move.

The chair groans as I stand, calm, controlled, because that’s what I do—but I can already feel the way my power coils in me, wild and razor-edged, because how fucking dare he.

Riven’s chair scrapes back behind me, deliberate and deadly. Caspian doesn’t bother with subtlety—he’s already stalking toward the bar like he’s going to eat the bastard alive. Silas grins, mean, elbows , who groans but gets up anyway, already rolling his sleeves like we’re back in the Pit.

But me—I cross the space like I’m strolling, cutting through the crowd that’s realized something’s about to blow.

The village boy’s still talking when I reach him, leaning one hand on the bar, trying to cage her in. “Could’ve sworn someone like you had a price.”

Luna’s staring at him with a look that could end worlds. She doesn’t flinch. But her hand is flexed against the bar, magic humming beneath her skin like a loaded trigger.

I tap the guy’s shoulder once. Just once. He turns, annoyed—and I punch him straight in the mouth. He goes down like a sack of bricks, and everything after that is chaos.

Silas is a blur at my side, throwing himself gleefully into the fray as the other two friends surge forward. Caspian’s already got one by the collar, slamming him against the wall, smile sharp and lethal. Riven’s tearing through the crowd like he’s cutting wheat, efficient and brutal. grabs a bottle and cracks it over someone’s head when they try to swing at Silas.

And me?

I drag the one who dared speak to her like that up by the front of his shirt, voice quiet, cold enough to cut bone. “Next time you open your mouth about her,”

I murmur, knuckles bleeding, “you won’t be walking away.”

Then I slam his head into the bar.

The tavern erupts around us—chairs crashing, glass shattering, bodies hitting the floor—and when I glance over my shoulder, Luna’s smiling like this is the best fucking thing she’s seen all week.

Because it is.

Because she’s ours.

And we burn everything for her.

The bar descends into ruin like a match dropped in dry brush. The second the bastard’s skull hits the bar, the whole room snaps. Tables overturn, ale splashes like blood across the wood, fists flying without rhyme or reason. A brawl, sure—but this isn’t just fists and ale-fueled rage. It’s something uglier, heavier, something that's been boiling under all of us for months.

And I'm right in the fucking center of it.

I don’t lose her.

Even with bodies flying past me, even with Caspian dragging some poor fool into the corner and slamming his head into a wall, even with Riven tearing through the crowd like a storm of bone and fire—my eyes never leave her.

She’s moving like a spark in a hurricane, weaving between chairs and flailing limbs. Someone tries to grab her—stupid, so fucking stupid—and I knock the man’s hand away before she even sees him, my knuckles splitting again. Blood doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the way her smile curves sharp, feral, electric. Like she loves this chaos. Like she loves that it’s all for her.

The man who spat the words at her is still crawling on the floor, bleeding from his mouth, scrambling like he can outrun what he lit. He can’t.

Glass shatters somewhere to the left. A bottle whizzes past her head. She ducks, laughing—like this is a dance.

I catch her wrist as she straightens, dragging her close enough to hear me over the riot. “Stay with me,”

I murmur, low, rough, and the smile she gives me is wicked enough to split the earth.

“You’re the one who keeps wandering off, Dalmar,”

she breathes, breathless and bright.

Some idiot barrels toward us, swinging wildly, and I move on instinct—twisting Luna behind me as I plant my fist in the man’s throat. He goes down gasping, and I don’t look back.

The thing that crawls under my skin—the thing that makes my teeth grind—is that he’d called her a whore like it was truth. Like she wasn’t the closest thing to divinity any of us had ever touched.

That’s why I don’t stop.

The entire bar's in it now. Even the barkeep’s beating someone with a stool leg. It’s anarchy, beautifully stupid anarchy, and Silas is in the middle of it like he was born here—grinning through a split lip, shouting something obscene at Caspian, who’s trying to drag a man twice his size out the door.

And I—I keep Luna in my sight, always, pulling her close every time someone stumbles too near, cutting down anything that tries to touch her.

Because she’s not a whore.

She’s the thing we’ll bleed for, every fucking night if we have to.

She ducks against me as another chair crashes somewhere behind us, her breath warm against my throat. “You’re bleeding,”

she says, too calm for the madness around us.

I grin, teeth stained red. “So is everyone else.”

The bodies thin out like smoke as the last of the idiots get tossed, bloody and staggering, out the door. Splinters crunch underfoot, the bar smelling like stale ale and sweat and adrenaline. And Silas—chaotic, shameless Silas—leans across the busted bar, pulling gold from nowhere like it’s water from a spring.

“Here,”

he says, dropping coin after coin onto the warped surface, each one singing sharp as it hits. “For the mess. And for the entertainment. And because I’m pretty, and you’re welcome.”

The barkeep just nods, not questioning how the mountain of gold multiplies under Silas’s fingers. Nobody ever questions how Silas can make people crave what he touches. They don’t know that Envy has teeth.

I drag a chair backward until it scrapes against the floor, the legs uneven from the fight. Caspian’s on the other side, a split lip and bruised cheek, but the way he’s looking at Luna like she’s the only light left in the room hasn’t changed. Riven’s crouched near the door, knuckles raw and ready to go again at the first spark.

And Luna—she’s back at the bar, perched like nothing happened, like she isn’t the reason this entire village’s drinking hole is barely still standing.

Silas plops down next to her, sliding a fresh mug toward her like he’s offering absolution. Then, because he has no goddamn filter, he leans in and says too loud, “Also, for the record, anyone who calls you a whore again gets their tongue ripped out. Politely, of course.”

Luna snorts around her drink, but her eyes flick to me, sharp, curious. I stay slouched in my chair, playing with the gold coin Silas tossed my way, flipping it over my knuckles like I’m not paying attention—but I am. I always am.

“You make it sound like you’re the authority on whoring, Silas,”

I murmur, lazy smile cutting across my lips. “Which, to be fair, you might be.”

Silas beams like I handed him a crown. “And yet, I’ve never been paid. Tragedy.”

The tavern is an inferno of sound—shouted laughter, mugs clashing against wood, boots stomping along to a song none of us remember the words to but are determined to sing anyway. The ale flows like a river, spilling over the edges of dented tankards, sloshing across the scarred tables and worn floorboards. Heat presses in, the kind that softens muscles and dulls edges, makes even a man like me lean back and smile like he’s got nothing left to lose.

Silas is leading the madness, one foot on the bar, mug raised like a weapon. He’s already halfway slurring, shouting something about us being “the prettiest bastards this side of damnation,”

and the whole bar howls in agreement.

is draped over Riven’s shoulder, arm around his neck, dragging the poor bastard into the chorus whether he wants to be there or not. Riven’s grimacing like he’d rather punch us all, but his mouth twitches like he’s fighting not to laugh.

Caspian’s quiet, tucked next to Luna, but even he’s got a faint smile edging his lips as she leans into his side, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed from the ale and chaos. She’s singing too—off-key, soft—but every time she glances at me, there’s something sharp in it, something alive, like she’s daring me to join in.

And gods help me, I do.

I don’t sing. I don’t play. I don’t let myself indulge in idiocy like this.

But tonight? Tonight, I let it bleed out of me, low at first, until Silas hears me and shouts, “Dalmar’s singing! Hell’s frozen over!”

and the whole tavern roars.

It’s messy, ugly, loud. It’s the kind of noise that scrapes something raw inside my chest and leaves it aching. Because I never had this. Not once. I was raised on cold commands and quieter, sharper things.

But now I’m here—shouting lyrics I don’t know, with her voice slipping like a promise through the din—and for once, I don’t care about the outcome.

Luna’s eyes find me across the chaos, and when I hold her gaze, she grins, wicked and wild and soft all at once, like she knows I’m slipping.

Like she knows I’ll never get it back.

The tavern empties in a haze of slurred goodbyes and the scrape of overturned chairs. The fire’s burning low, the shadows longer now, drunk laughter fading into the streets beyond. The scent of ale and sweat clings to us like a second skin, the sweet burn of it still curling at the back of my throat.

Riven, voice rough and clipped, negotiates for a room. It’s the last one, of course. The woman at the counter doesn’t bother hiding her look—like she knows exactly who we are, what kind of chaos we drag in behind us. She gives us the key anyway, like it’s a warning.

The room isn’t much. A slanting ceiling. A single bed shoved against the far wall. A warped window with the latch broken. It smells like dust and old wood and too many bodies who've passed through without leaving anything behind.

We pile in, a mess of staggered steps and muttered curses. No one says anything when Luna collapses onto the bed like she belongs there—because she does. All of this, the blood, the bond, the exhaustion gnawing at our edges, it’s been orbiting around her from the start.

The rest of us hit the floor without ceremony.

groans, flopping back dramatically, one arm slung over his face. “This floor’s fucking sticky,”

he grumbles, voice muffled and petulant, as if the entire universe personally offended him by putting him here.

There’s a rough snort from the corner, a low curse, someone’s boot hitting the wall.

I sit against the frame, spine pressed hard into the unforgiving wood, gaze locked on her silhouette in the moonlight cutting through the cracked curtains. She’s breathing steady now, like she’s not the reason we nearly burned down the tavern, like she’s not the reason we’re all bruised and limping, singing ourselves hoarse hours ago.

The others drift into a loose rhythm of sleep or near-sleep, bodies heavy around me. But I stay awake.

Because she’s there.

And for one stupid, reckless second, I wish I’d fought harder for the bed—not for comfort. For proximity. For the war I want to lose.