Page 78 of The Sin Binder's Destiny

It’s not an order. It’s something darker, something ugly under the surface, but none of us argue.

I shoot one last look down at the trail, at the fragile ghost of her footprints vanishing into the dark.

And I move.

Because if she dies out here—it won’t be the Hollow that did it.

It’ll be us.

The trees thin, branches clawing back like bony fingers as we break into a clearing. My pulse spikes the second my eyes land on the churned-up ground ahead. The dirt is scuffed, uneven. A heel mark, half-mooned in the mud like she slipped here, fell hard. I crouch, pressing two fingers to the disturbed earth, feeling the story of her desperation sink into my skin.

“She hit the ground here,” I say over my shoulder, voice clipped, breath sharp. “Didn’t stay down long.”

I rise and shift my eyes south. Her footprints drag, then right themselves, cutting toward the dense spiral of trees ahead. My jaw tightens.

“She’s headed for the Spiral,” I murmur, voice low, knowing Orin will understand what that means.

Elias whistles under his breath, dark and low. “That’s a hellhole.”

“It’s worse than that,” Orin replies quietly beside me. “The Spiral’s old. Older than this realm. The Hollow grew around it.”

Silas perks up like the idiot he is, grinning because he doesn’t know how to shut up when things are ugly. “Maybe she’s going for a stroll. Nice scenic route to get murdered.”

Lucien’s glare slices across him. One look and Silas’s grin slips, but not fast enough to erase how tight the corners of his mouth pull when he’s nervous.

I move forward, faster now. “She wouldn’t know what’s in there.”

She wouldn’t care.

The Spiral is a sinkhole in this realm. Magic distorts inside it, bends in on itself, devours anything that lingers too long. And she’s running right toward it, too desperate, too hollowed out by everything he said to see she’s not running from us—she’s running straight into something worse.

And the prints… they’re too clean now. No stumbles, no hesitation. She’s focused, running hard, hellbent on whatever she’s telling herself in that frantic, shattered little head of hers.

I glance back at the others. Orin is moving beside me already, matching pace. Caspian has that shattered look again, the one he tries to hide when anyone mentions Branwen’s name. Elias and Silas are keeping up, but even they’ve stopped bickering, which is how I know how bad this is.

Lucien lags just a step, slower, quieter. He hasn’t said a word since he admitted he may’ve pushed her too far.

I know how sharp his tongue can be. I’ve had it turned on me often enough.

But Luna… she wasn’t built to weather him. Not like that.

The trees press closer the deeper we run, until the canopy above strangles out what little light is left. I can feel it before I see it—that shift in the air, thatwrongnessslithering up my spine. I slow, a hand slicing up to stop the others, because something is moving ahead, fast, too fast. The sound comes first.

A thousand fluttering wings.

And then they pour from the trees.

A wall of black, undulating, rippling—the night itself tearing open andscreamingthrough the sky. Bats, but not just bats—too large, too jagged, teeth flashing in the dark like tiny blades. Their bodies shimmer with Hollow magic, twisted and rabid, jaws snapping like they’re tearing apart the seams of the realm itself.

I bare my teeth and say flatly, “Well, fuck.”

They descend like a curtain falling, and before I can bark a command, Riven’s already stepping in front of the others, rage snapping off him in sparks.

The swarm crashes down, and the sky disappears.

Riven’s Wrath unfurls like a living thing—the ground around him fractures, crimson lightning veins through the roots, and when he lifts his hands, the vines explode upward,sharp, wrapping around the first wave of bats mid-flight,crushingthem into splinters of bone and ash.

To my left, Caspian’s eyes glow molten gold. The air pulses when he moves. Lust’s magic isn’t pretty—it’s brutal. Whips unfurl from his palms, living things that snap and writhe, slicing through the swarm in elegant, savage arcs. Every strike draws a shriek from the creatures, their bodies combusting midair.

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