It wasn’t a kiss. Not at first. It was a fight, a furious clash of lips and teeth and breath, the raw, unthinking violence of it searing through Cassian’s skin.

His fingers had already found Thorne’s shoulders, nails digging deep, gripping hard enough to bruise. He wanted to shove him off, wanted to pull him closer, wanted—fuck, he didn’t know what he wanted.

He could taste the blood on Thorne’s mouth, warm and coppery, mixing with the tang of rum. He could feel the scrape of stubble against his jaw, rough and burning, the damp heat of breath between them as their lips parted, met again, parted—like neither of them could bear to stop, like they needed to devour, to tear, to take.

And then—a sound.

Low. Ragged. Spilling from Thorne’s throat like he hadn’t meant to make it. A small, wrecked moan that sent something hot curling down Cassian’s spine.

Thorne was losing himself in it.

His grip had slackened, no longer yanking Cassian closer, but clutching him, fingers trembling where they twisted in fabric and flesh. His body pressed against Cassian’s, hips slotted between his thighs, fitting too easily, too naturally. And when he moved—when he shifted his weight to keep Cassian pinned—Cassian felt all of him. The strength. The warmth. The heat.

His head spun.

And he hated it.

He hated the way his lips parted on instinct, the way heat surged through him at the taste of blood and rum and Thorne. He hated that this wasn’t just a fight anymore—that his body answered, traitorous and eager.

Thorne exhaled against his lips, voice rough, blurred, his mouth chasing Cassian’s like he wanted more, like he needed it.

Cassian bit his lip. Hard.

Thorne gasped, the sound caught between a curse and a groan, and Cassian used it—used the flicker of pain, the barest moment of hesitation—to seize control again.

His fingers twisted in Thorne’s shirt, yanking him closer, harder, dragging them back into something raw and vicious, something ugly.

“You are still deflecting,” he rasped, voice wrecked, breath uneven, and he hated that he could hear it—could hear the slight moan beneath the words, the heat tangled in his breath. And when he realised it, when he heard himself—something inside him snapped.

His grip turned rougher, nails biting into Thorne’s skin, desperate to ground himself, to remind himself what this was.

A mistake.

A disaster.

Thorne pulled back, but not all the way. His face hovered inches away, breath still mingling, gaze still locked onto Cassian’s lips like he might lean in again, like he hadn’t quite regained control.

And then—he laughed.

Low. Mocking. Like a curse spat between them.

Cassian didn’t know what the hell he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the raw, breathless way Thorne pulled back just enough to smirk at him, lips swollen, eyes dark with something Cassian refused to name.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, duque.” Thorne murmured, voice still ruined, but threaded with something smug.

Cassian shoved him. Hard.

Thorne barely moved, but the air between them changed.

Because they weren’t kissing anymore. They weren’t even fighting.

They were staring.

Cassian could still taste blood, still feel the heat where their bodies had been pressed together, and his stomach twisted with the wrongness of it.

Thorne’s tongue flicked over his lip, catching the blood Cassian had drawn. His smirk widened.

Cassian hated it.

Hated the way his body still thrummed with it.

“Still deflecting,” he repeated, but the words came rougher this time, more forceful, as if he needed them to bring him back to himself. His fingers curled into fists. “Who is Hypnos?”

Thorne’s smirk flickered. Just for a second.

And that—that was when Cassian knew.

There was something real here. Something Thorne didn’t want to say.

Cassian pressed.

“You’re stalling,” he said. “Is it because you don’t have an answer, captain?”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Watch it.”

Cassian grinned—sharp, humorless, knowing. “Hit a nerve?”

And that was it. That was when it happened—when Thorne’s restraint cracked.

“You left him.”

The words were a slap.

Cassian’s blood turned cold.

Thorne didn’t stop.

“You talk about me deflecting, but at least I stayed. You ran. You left him—”

Cassian lunged.

Thorne caught him.

They hit the floor with a great thud, struggling, rolling, limbs tangling in a mess of anger and desperation. Cassian felt the hard wood against his back, then his side, then his back again as they twisted for control. A sharp elbow to the ribs. A knee pressing down. The heat of Thorne’s breath as they fought like animals, furious and relentless, neither willing to yield.

And then, suddenly—Thorne was straddling him.

Cassian sucked in a breath, muscles tensing, ready to shove him off—but then Thorne’s hands were on his face.

Not to strike. Not to restrain.

To hold.

His fingers pressed against Cassian’s jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, firm, grounding, tilting his whole face up—forcing him to look.

Cassian’s breath hitched. His skin burned where Thorne touched him, rough fingertips smeared with blood, his own pulse hammering against the grip holding him still.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Thorne’s grip tightened for the briefest second, like he wanted to say something, like there was something he needed Cassian to understand—

And then, as quickly as it had happened, he let go. “I was answering you before,” Thorne said at last, voice low, strained. “Before you tried to take my fucking head off.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched. He was listening, though. The tension in his body had shifted—not gone, but waiting, coiled tight. His hands had fisted in his own shirt, knuckles white, like he was physically restraining himself from lunging again.

“I asked the gods for something I had no right to ask,” he admitted. “And they answered.”

Cassian gave a sharp nod. “I know that already.” His voice was flat. Impatient. “You cursed him. What I don’t know is how.”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. But Cassian’s stare didn’t waver.

So Thorne lifted his hand.

Slowly. Deliberately.

And pressed his palm to the floor.

Beneath them, the wood creaked.

Not just from weight, not just from the ocean’s roll—but something deeper. A groan, low and hollow, like the ship was alive, like it had felt the touch, the intention.

Cassian’s eyes flickered.

“The gods don’t like being told what to do,” Thorne said quietly. “Aphrodite wasn’t interested in my love. She was interested in making an example.” His fingers flexed against the boards. “So she took the one thing I valued most—the sea—and twisted it against me.”

Cassian didn’t speak. But Thorne could feel the shift in him.

“The Red Wind breathes, Cassian,” he murmured. “It feels. It’s alive.” His gaze lifted, finding Cassian’s again. “And it keeps me bound to it.”

Something flickered in Cassian’s expression.

Thorne exhaled, slow. “I can only touch land when the moon is full.” A pause. “The rest of the time—I belong to the sea.”

Cassian didn’t move. Didn’t react. But his fingers pressed a fraction deeper against his knees.

“My ship keeps me here,” Thorne continued. “It listens. It knows when I try to leave. And it makes sure I don’t.”

Cassian’s throat bobbed. “You’re saying your ship is keeping you prisoner?”

Thorne gave a sharp, humourless smile. “I’m saying my ship is the gods’ leash.”

The silence between them stretched.

Then, finally, Cassian spoke.

“What does that have to do with Matthias?”

Thorne’s fingers curled against the wood.

“Aphrodite didn’t just punish me,” he said. “She punished him.” His voice was steady—too steady. “I asked for love. She made sure no one could ever love Matthias, nor he could love someone else. If any option happened, his life would be cut in half.”

Cassian inhaled, sharp, through his nose. His gaze was locked onto Thorne’s—unblinking.

But he didn’t snap.

Not this time.

Thorne swallowed. “That’s why he’s cursed.” His voice was quiet, and he dared repeat it. “Because of me.”

Cassian’s breath was measured now. Not calm—controlled. He was holding himself together, barely.

But he wanted more.

“The map,” Cassian said suddenly. “It said something about dreams leading to death.” His gaze narrowed. “What does that mean?”

Thorne laughed.

Not his usual low, mocking chuckle. This was something different. Bitter. Almost hollow. “You really took a good look at my map.” Then, without warning, he moved.

Cassian tensed as Thorne reached up, bracing one hand against a hidden seam in the wooden ceiling. With a grunt, he shoved—and the panel gave way, swinging open with a quiet groan of wood and metal.

A hatch.

Not leading downward, but up.

And beyond it—

The stars.

For a moment, Cassian forgot how to breathe.

Moonlight spilled into the cabin, carving the shadows apart. The low glow of the lanterns flickered weakly against it, overtaken by something older, something vast. The ship groaned with the movement of the waves, and for a breathless second, it felt as if the Red Wind itself had been unmoored—not from the ocean, but from the world entirely.

Starlight dripped down the walls, pooling in the broken glass and spilled rum from their fight. The room, once chaotic and torn apart, became something else entirely—less a captain’s quarters and more a shrine to the heavens. The overturned chair, the shattered inkpot staining the floorboards, even the deep scratches where Cassian had slammed Thorne into the door—all of it remained, but softened by the silver light.

Cassian’s pulse hammered in his ears.

The constellations above burned like embers, stark against the ink of the sky. It was the kind of night sailors feared and worshipped in equal measure—the kind of night where the sea stretched endless and the stars felt close enough to touch.

Thorne pointed.

“There.”

Cassian followed his hand.

Two constellations, side by side.

At first, they looked the same. A mirrored pair of stars, twinned and interwoven, one a breath away from the other. But as Cassian studied them closer, he saw the difference—the wrongness—between them.

One of them—Hypnos—was soft in its shape, the stars forming the outline of a boy in slumber, his hands folded beneath his head, cradled in eternal rest.

The other—Thanatos—was its shadow. A darker shape, more rigid, the stars glinting like the edges of a blade. If Hypnos was sleep, then Thanatos was something deeper. Something from which there was no waking.

“They are brothers,” Thorne said quietly. “More like you and Matthias—twins. And they are easily confused.”

Cassian swallowed.

He didn’t like where this was going.

“Hypnos,” Thorne continued, “is responsible for dreams. Thanatos, for death.” His amber eyes flickered. “One leads into the other. If you’re not careful, you’ll never know which one you’re following.”

Cassian stared at him.

“So what are you saying?” His voice came out hoarse. “That in order to find Thanatos, we have to find Hypnos first?”

Thorne didn’t answer. Not at first.

His fingers curled against the wooden frame, knuckles paling, as if holding himself in place. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, something caught between disbelief and grim certainty.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“That’s the only chance we have.”

A chill crawled down Cassian’s spine.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s insane. The boy we’re keeping downstairs—”

His words faltered.

Because even now, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He couldn’t believe it.

The trembling, silent creature curled in the belly of the ship—the one who flinched at shadows and cowered at the touch of saltwater—he wasn’t a god. He couldn’t be.

He was just a boy.

Wasn’t he?

Thorne’s expression darkened, as if he could hear every thought racing through Cassian’s head.

“If he’s not Hypnos,” he said, voice rough, “then why did he tell us his name?”

Cassian stared at him.

The cabin was silent.

Too silent.

The kind of silence that felt like the ocean holding its breath.

Cassian’s throat tightened.

It didn’t make sense. If the boy was Hypnos, why would he give them his name so easily? Gods didn’t do that. Names had power.

Unless—

Cassian’s stomach twisted.

Unless he wasn’t afraid. Unless it didn’t matter. Unless the thing in the dark knew something they didn’t.

Thorne exhaled through his nose. “If that’s not enough for you—” He reached up, brushing his fingers along Cassian's ear. The earring was still there, dangling, identical to the one found in the boy's hand as they pulled him out from the sea. Identical to the one Matthias should be wearing. “Why,” he murmured, “would he have this in his hand?”

Cassian’s pulse stuttered.

Thorne watched him carefully.

Cassian had no answer. Because there was no answer.

Not one he was willing to accept.