There, beneath the weight of old stone and shattered skies, surrounded by the remnants of gods and the threat of tomorrow. They burned for each other, for the only truth they had left.
In the dark behind her lids, the Hollow still waited.
But for now—they had this.
It was enough.
THIRTY-TWO
CASSIAN
Cassian woke before the sun cracked the horizon.
The air was too still.
No birds. No wind. Just pressure—heavy and suffocating, like the gods were holding their breath.
He sat up slowly, blinking into the faint gray light that filtered through the jagged cracks in the ceiling. The world was hushed, wrong. Too quiet.
Seraphine lay curled beside him, one arm slung carelessly across her waist, her breathing steady. A golden strand of hair had fallen across her face. The curve of her bare shoulder peeked from beneath her coat where it had slipped in the night. She looked… peaceful.
He hated how much it made him ache.
Peace never lasted.
He rose soundlessly, his body stiff from stone and cold. His fingers flexed automatically toward the hilt of his blade. Something was off. More than off. The Veil felt thinner than it had the night before—stretched, cracking at the seams.
The silence wasn’t silence.
It was waiting.
He padded to the ruined archway, scanning the shadowed woods beyond. Trees stretched into the dark, unmoving. But hefeltthem—eyes. Magic. Threat. He strained to listen, heart pounding.
The Emperor had found them. He could feel it in his bones.
Maybe it was Varros. Maybe Vaela. One of the elite. Sent to finish the job the Emperor hadn’t the patience for.
Assassins.
Executioners.
He hadn’t seen them—but Cassian didn’t need to. Their presence hung in the air like smoke.
They were close.
He clenched his jaw, his eyes flicking back to Seraphine still sleeping, unaware. He didn’t want to wake her. Not yet. Not unless he had to.
A twig snapped behind him.
Cassian spun, blade drawn.
Not the forest.
Below.
The sound hadn’t come from the trees. It had come from the floor.
The stone groaned beneath his boots. A sharp breath of cold air spiraled upward from the cracks, brushing against his ankles like skeletal fingers.
