Page 229 of The Encore’s Crown

I look back at her and she catches me staring. Her smile changes when our eyes meet, softer around the edges but somehow brighter, and she gives me a tiny wave with just her fingers. There goes that fucking feeling in my chest again. Rafe pats my shoulder once more.

“That’s all you need to know.”

“Still hate the myth shit.”

“Yeah.” He starts walking away. “But I’m still right.”

Unfortunately, the bastard usually is.

A few months into the festival circus, we get invited to an awards show, and I ask Natalia to come as my date. Elise handles the rest. Within a day, Nat is getting calls from designers who apparently consider dressing someone built like her a competitive sport. She spends the next week showing me picture after picture of gowns, switching between tabs so fast I stop pretending I can keep track.

“You’ll look good in all of them, Kroppy.”

“That's not helpful.”

“It’s true.”

When she finally presents her choice, it's one that makes every other dress look like it gave up.

The moment we step onto the carpet, she changes. Every camera finds her. Every pose lands. She answers questions with this easy grace that makes it look like she’s been doing it for years instead of standing on her first major carpet beside a man thirteen years older and a band everyone already has opinions about. She doesn’t flinch once.

At twenty-three, I could barely stand still for a photograph without looking like I wanted to punch the lens. Natalia owns the whole fucking thing. The red carpet is her bitch, and watching her prove it is something else.

Rafe stands just ahead of us under the lights in a black suit, no veil tonight. It's an awards show, so of course Stefan said he wanted our faces on display in a planned, socially acceptable event for once. But even without his mask, he still has that distance clinging to him. That hush. That don’t-touch-the-glass quality people mistake for arrogance. He answers something with a laugh. Polite and practiced. Then the reporter’s smile goes flat as they gear up for a challenge. I feel it before she even finishes asking, that change in the air. The click of a trap being set.

“So, Obelus, I have to ask,” she says, pushing the microphone closer. “Atlas Obsidian just kicked off The Apollo Tour, and it’s already getting massive buzz. Elias Hawthorne has named The Riven Altar as one of his biggest inspirations. He’s said he’s a fan. What do you think about that?”

My hand tightens on Natalia’s waist.

Rafe laughs softly, but I hear what’s under it. I’ve known him too long not to. It’s the same laugh he uses when someone tries to make him the villain in a story they wrote before he arrived. He hates this shit. He hates being made into someone else’s measuring stick. Hates it when they try to turn music into a dogfight.

“Yeah, you know,” Rafe says, dipping his head a little. “It’s an honor. It’s humbling, really, to inspire new musicians. Anyone making people excited about live music right now is doing something good.”

A good, clean answer. Which means they won’t take it. The reporter nods like she’s listening, but her eyes have already moved past his words to the headline she wants instead.

“Yeah, but Greek mythology in rock?” she presses. “That’s The Riven Altar’s whole brand, isn’t it?”

Natalia goes still beside me. My jaw flexes. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? They don’t want an answer, just blood on the carpet. For Rafe to sound arrogant or bitter or threatened. They want Atlas Obsidian fans to start fighting with our fans by breakfast, and Elias Hawthorne’s name trending beside Obelus’s with a little flame emoji and some caption like rock gods at war?

Rafe gives another small laugh and shrugs. “You know, I don’t think the ancient Greeks really had a trademark system set up.” A few people nearby laugh. Rafe smiles, dry and easy. “It’s free game, man.”

That should be enough, but she's not letting this go until she gets what she wants. I see the reporter inhale. and the microphone lift again. I see the question forming behind her perfect teeth, and I know exactly where she’s about to put the knife.

So I lean in and pull Natalia half an inch closer with me because some petty part of me likes the idea that if I’m about to be a nuisance, she’s going to be the prettiest thing in frame.

“Their bassist is fucking sick,” I say, and throw up devil horns beside Rafe’s shoulder.

One beautiful second of silence, then the interviewer blinks. The cameraman makes a tiny strangled sound, like I’ve stepped on his soul. Natalia’s fingers dig into my jacket.

I keep grinning. “Seriously. Filthy god damn tone. Great hands. Tell him I said that.”

The reporter’s smile goes brittle. “Okay, well—”

“Love that shit,” I add.

Just to bury the footage properly, at least for most outlets. Oh no, no snippet, no blood. Her eyes flash with annoyance. Her hand drops with the mic and she makes a face like I’ve pissed directly into the champagne tower. Good luck using that, then. Run my f-bomb on daytime television. Caption it, try and start that fan war. Please. I’d love to see a morning show host trying to present my “fucking sick”.

“Thank you for that, Kiri,” the reporter says, in the exact voice teachers used on me right before giving me detention.