Page 192 of The Sin Binder's Chains

“She took them,” I say, throat tightening. “She didn’t just want to send a message. She wanted me.”

“She wanted what’s yours,” Riven growls.

“She can’t have it.”

No one argues.

I step through the rubble until I reach the spiral on the floor. My boots grind over its center, disrupting it. I don’t care. Let it burn.

“She took Caspian. She took Ambrose. That’s not a challenge.”

I lift my eyes.

“That’s a declaration.”

Lucien nods once. “Then we answer it.”

Orin moves beside me, slow, deliberate. “She’ll want us to come after them.”

“I’m counting on it,” Lucien says.

Riven’s jaw clenches. “We move tonight.”

“No,” Lucien says. “We prepare tonight. And when we come for her… we don’t just take them back. We end her.”

The promise still echoes in the ruin of the house.

We end her.

Orin doesn’t flinch. Lucien watches me like he already knows what that will cost. And Riven,

Riven’s staring at the wall like he’s imagining her throat beneath his hand and trying not to smile about it.

The room feels stretched. Warped around that vow.

I feel it too.

Like the magic underneath the floorboards is listening. But it’s Elias who breaks it first. A quiet step. A clearing of his throat. A voice too innocent to trust.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out, “do we get matching outfits for this vengeance mission, or am I the only one thinking blood-themed couture?”

I blink.

He’s perched on the toppled arm of the ruined couch like a bored theater kid who missed his cue and decided to improvise. His shirt is unbuttoned. One sleeve is rolled. The other is still soaked from the half-glass of whiskey I didn’t even see him grab.

Silas follows behind him, shirtless, carrying a baguette like it’s a fucking sword.

“I vote armor made of leather and regret,” Silas offers, swinging the bread with a flourish. “Maybe a little lace, for dramatic flair.”

Orin turns toward them slowly, with the kind of expression that says centuries of self-discipline are being tested in real time.

Lucien exhales like this has become a daily affliction. “Why do you have a baguette?”

Silas looks down at it. Blinks.

“Oh. For emotional support.”

Elias leans toward me, stage-whispers, “I think the real question here is whether he intends to eat the emotional support bread or duel someone with it.”

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