The air in Aric’s apartment felt different that night. Too heavy, too sharp, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. The five of them sat scattered around the living room, mugs of ale and the remnants of dinner between them, but no one seemed fully at ease.

Fynric could feel it in his skin—Joren’s gaze, sharp as broken glass, always lingering too long. Since that morning, every laugh, every glance had carried a shadow.

Dorian sat close enough that their knees brushed, his presence a silent anchor, but even that didn’t steady the pounding in Fynric’s chest. Not when Joren leaned back, smiling lazily like he was the only one who knew the rules of the game they were all unwillingly playing.

“Aric,” Joren said suddenly, raising his mug. “Tell me, who do you trust most here?”

The question dropped like a stone.

Aric narrowed his eyes, clearly sensing the trap. “Depends on the day. Sometimes Luthien, because he sees everything. Sometimes Fynric, because he says nothing.”

Joren’s lips curled. “And Dorian?”

Aric smirked faintly. “Dorian trusts himself too much to need me.”

Dorian snorted, unbothered, but Fynric felt the words settle like coals.

“And what about me?” Joren asked, his tone deceptively light.

Aric raised his mug in mock salute. “You? You’re trouble. Always have been.”

The group laughed, but Fynric caught the flicker of satisfaction in Joren’s eyes. Trouble—yes. Trouble with a secret that could gut them all.

Later, when the others drifted toward games and talk, Joren cornered Fynric near the window. His voice was low, meant only for him.

“You’re pale,” he said softly, almost kindly. “Keeping secrets doesn’t suit you.”

Fynric stiffened. “Leave me alone.”

But Joren leaned closer, his breath grazing Fynric’s ear. “I am leaving you alone. For now. But you should start convincing Dorian to play nice with me. Otherwise…” His eyes flicked toward Aric and Luthien across the room. “…I might forget how to keep my mouth shut.”

Fynric’s chest clenched. His fists curled tight, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Dorian noticed. He always did. In an instant, he was there, sliding between them, his green eyes ablaze. “Back off, Joren.”

Joren only smiled. “Relax. I was offering him advice.”

“Your advice,” Dorian spat, “is poison.”

The tension snapped like a bowstring. Luthien’s gaze sharpened from across the room, his sketchbook forgotten. Aric paused mid-laugh, his eyes darting between them. The air thickened, waiting for someone to break.

Joren smirked, tilting his head. “Maybe. But sometimes poison is the only thing that keeps the disease from spreading.” He clapped Dorian’s shoulder mockingly as he passed. “Think about it.”

---

Later, in the quiet of Fynric’s apartment, the storm broke.

“You let him close to you,” Dorian snapped, pacing the floor, his voice jagged with fury. “You should have pushed him away.”

Fynric’s chest ached. “What was I supposed to do? He holds everything in his hands—us, Dorian. One word and—”

“I don’t care!” Dorian’s voice cracked, louder now, raw. He stopped in front of Fynric, gripping his shoulders hard. “I don’t care if the world burns. He doesn’t get to own us. He doesn’t get to put his leash on you.”

Fynric’s breath caught at the fire in his eyes, the desperation that bled through every word. “And if he does? What if he ruins everything? What if he tells Aric, Luthien—”

“Then let him,” Dorian said, his jaw tight, his voice shaking with unspent rage. “I’d rather fall with you than live chained to his games.”

The words broke something inside Fynric. His throat tightened, and he pressed his forehead against Dorian’s chest, trembling. “You don’t mean that.”

Dorian’s arms wrapped around him instantly, fierce, unyielding. “I do. Every word.”

For a long moment, the world outside didn’t exist. Only the storm inside them did—fear, anger, love—all tangled into something they couldn’t name, couldn’t control.

And in the shadows of the night, they knew: Joren wasn’t finished.

He was just beginning to pull the strings.