Page 130 of The Sin Binder's Vow

I crack open another beer, the hiss sharp in the quiet between us. “So,” I say, tilting my head back against the wall. “You going to tell me who the hell they are?”

Ambrose lifts his gaze lazily, as if I’ve interrupted a far more important thought. “Who?”

“The Council,” I murmur. “Keira. Lorian. The third one. Why are they here, really? Don’t give me the pretty version.”

A dry smile curves his mouth. “You think I’ve ever offered anyone theprettyversion of anything?”

I arch a brow, waiting.

He leans back, one boot tapping lightly against the stone floor. “They aren’t like us,” he says. “But they’re not entirely different either. Immortal, yes. But not born of sin. They weren’t forged from the Hollow. They’re... appointed.”

“By who?”

His smile stretches wider. “By us.”

I blink. “The Sins created the Council?”

“Appointed them,” he corrects, his voice low, amused by my surprise. “A long, long time ago. We needed someone to keep order. Pretend there were rules, structure, hierarchy. It was never about control. It was about optics.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because even monsters need something to kneel to. People panic when there’s nothing above them. So we gave them the illusion of higher power. A council of immortals to manage the world while we stayed buried.”

I swirl the beer in my hand, letting that sink in. “But now you’re back.”

Ambrose hums. “And they’re scrambling. They want to be the ones whoknew. Whomanagedour return. They want to look like they’re still in control. They want to be the welcoming committee of gods they never created.”

“They think if they align with you,” I say, “if they show unity—maybe they won’t be erased.”

“Exactly.”

The firelight in the corner flickers, catching the edge of his cheekbone. He looks too calm for someone who’s describing the political manipulation of entire bloodlines.

I glance toward the open window. The wind carries the distant sound of Silas laughing—chaotic, untethered. And I wonder, not for the first time, how many more pieces on this board are being moved without our knowing.

“They’re not here because of me,” I murmur.

“No,” Ambrose says, almost gently. “They’re here becausewe’reno longer bound. And they’re afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

He looks at me, and something ancient coils behind his eyes. “Afraid we’ll remember what we were before we let them exist.”

I stare into the half-empty bottle, the fizz long gone flat. Ambrose hasn’t moved in minutes, still lounging with that infuriating stillness only immortals seem to possess—like the world is just something they tolerate.

“So,” I murmur, not quite looking at him. “This is a school for the supernatural. But I still don’t know who’s actually in charge. Is it the Council? Blackwell who’s never here? Or is it you?”

His lips twitch. “Define ‘in charge.’”

“Who came first?” I ask instead. “You? Them? All of this?”

He hums under his breath, the sound like silk dragged across something sharp. “The Council was appointed by us. You already know that. But if you’re asking who came first…” His gaze lifts, distant now, like he's watching something buried under centuries. “We did. The Sins. Not as we are now. But we were… forged with the world’s first shudder. The Hollow shaped us, bled its first instincts into form. Before names. Before rules. Before your kind drew breath.”

I blink slowly. “That’s a lot to swallow.”

“Then chew slower,” he replies, maddeningly unbothered.

My fingers tighten around the bottle. “You’re telling me you’ve been alive since the beginning of the world.”

---