Page 92 of The Sin Binder's Chains

But I can still hear them. I probably shouldn’t be listening. Definitely shouldn’t be eavesdropping like a nosy little shit. But to be fair, they’re talking about us.

And if they’re going to do that right in front of me, well, that’s their mistake.

I shift slightly, still watching the fortress, still waiting for Severin to make his grand, ominous entrance, but my focus keeps slipping back to them.

To her.

Luna. I’ve spent a week riding beside her, holding her up when she was too exhausted to keep herself upright, watching her burn through enemy after enemy like she was born to tear this world apart and put it back together in her image.

And now?

Now she’s whispering to the girl who wears her face, talking about us.

And I want to know what the fuck she’s saying.

Layla murmurs something too soft to catch, her hands clasped together, shoulders hunched like she’s trying not to take up space. She’s nervous, shifting slightly under Luna’s gaze, and it takes a second to realize.

She’s looking at me.

Oh, that’s not ominous at all.

I force myself to keep looking forward, to act completely unbothered and not like someone who just got caught listening to a conversation he shouldn’t be hearing.

Luna says something next, something firm, something I can’t quite hear but feel.

Layla nods.

Like she’s accepting something.

Like she’s agreeing to something.

Two Sin-Binders. Two threads in the same unraveling tapestry.

And somehow, I am now part of this particular, batshit equation.

Great. Fantastic. I love that for me.

I flick my gaze back to Luna, catching just the slightest trace of something on her face. Something I recognize. Something I want to be closer to.

But before I can say a single thing, Lucien shifts beside me, his voice calm and smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath.

"He’s coming."

The words settle, thick, and absolute.

Because just ahead, the fortress doors yawn open like the mouth of something ancient, something that should have died a long time ago but refused.

And out they come.

Severin Virelius, Arrogance incarnate.

Vaelrik Kain, Bloodlust made flesh.

They don’t stride out. They don’t march like men with a plan. No, they drift, stepping into the pale, corpse-light glow of this place like they have all the time in the world.

Like they own the time in the world.

Lucien moves first, stepping forward in that slow, effortless way that somehow makes him look above all of this, like he’s bored before a single word has been spoken.

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