Darian's POV
The diner hums with a single flickering light above our booth, throwing shadows that stretch too long across the counter.
The hour’s late enough that the waitress barely looks our way anymore. Across from me, Serenya sits with her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, tracing lazy circles on the rim as if she can’t quite feel her fingers.
The ring’s mark still glows faintly red against her skin — a perfect circle of burn that won’t fade until morning. I catch it every time she moves her hand. I wish I could stop looking, but it’s all I can see.
“You shouldn’t push it that far,” I say finally, voice low so it doesn’t carry. “The ring takes from you every time you use it.”
She glances up, eyes soft and unreadable, then signs it: Worth it.
Of course she would say that. I’ve
