We’re not just individuals acting on a whim. We’re shaped, bent, carved into who we’re supposed to be by these factions, these ideals. Maddox has to fight cruelty with cruelty or risk watching his world burn.
It makes me think.
People like Maddox aren’t inherently bad. Or at least they don’t start out that way. Saying all of Gluttony’s leadership are power hungry evil warlords is like saying all Wrath soldiers are brawny, brainless hotheads. We didn’t want to be this way, but we were molded into it. It’s who we have to be.
It’s the factions themselves—their hunger, their rules, their expectations—that twist good into something unrecognizable. They trap you in their design until you can’t tell the difference between survival and corruption.
And if that’s true…
My thoughts slide, uninvited, to Atticus.
I’ve hated him for how easily he shuts down, how he hides behind that Pride façade and expects everyone else to just… figure him out. Meanwhile, I’m over here juggling my own feelings like a circus act.
But he was groomed for that. Keep the mask on. Keep the walls up. Don’t show weakness. Don’t let anyone see there’s an actual human under all that polished steel.
Wouldn’t showing affection in front of the others—openly, vulnerably—make him look weak? Wouldn’t it put him in the kind of danger Maddox spoke of?
Maybe he wasn’t rejecting me. Maybe I put him in an impossible position.
It burns in a way I wasn’t ready for.
I always assumed he felt nothing—didn’t want to. But what if he never had the chance? What if he was only ever allowed to be was that quiet, closed-off version of himself?
The factions don’t just demand loyalty. They demand pieces of you. And if you refuse to give them, they’ll take them anyway.
My back hits the wall. Eyes sting, pulse in my throat. Part of me wants to yell. Part of me just… gets it.
For the first time, the picture isn’t blurry.
We are all prisoners of the roles we were born into. And maybe the actual fight isn’t against each other at all.
Maybe it’s against the cages themselves.
***
A couple of days later, Holly, Tabby and I are flipping through more history books in the library. The faint smell of dust and ink, warm lamplight pooling across the worn wooden tables. I still can’t seem to get my conversation with Maddox out of my head.
Realizing this might be the right moment to share what had been gnawing at me, I clear my throat. “I’ve… been thinking.”
Three pairs of eyes swivel towards me.
“About speaking to Atticus…. Again.”
Holly cocks her eyebrow like I’m crazy.
I force myself to hold their gazes. “I might try giving him another shot. Our research is getting us nowhere.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything the library’s hush could impose.
“Wait—what?” Tabby, the first to find her voice, says scandalized. “You swore him off, Arwen! Like, passionately. And repeatedly. With very colorful language, I might add.”
“I know.” Sighing, I press my palms flat against the table, grounding myself. “I’ve been thinking about our interaction. So much of who he is comes from what’s expected of him. Atticus grew up inside Pride. Of course, he puts reputation first. Of course, he acts untouchable in front of everyone. Maybe I was… asking him to be someone he can’t be in public without ruining himself. Maybe I put him in an impossible situation the first time.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to throw yourself back into the fire,” Holly says, even though her frown reveals she is torn.
“It’s not just about him. We’ve been researching for weeks, and we’ve found nothing—no secret ritual, no other way to trigger a sin power. My best shot is still him. If I try again, if I can get him alone, maybe…” I hesitate, choosing my words. “Maybe it works. Maybe something awakens.”
“You’re planning on flirting with him?” Tabby’s voice pitched higher, incredulous. “On purpose?”
