Camilla brushed past him and walked into the studio, spine straight, as if entering a battle.

If a war ever did break out, he wouldn’t be surprised if she eliminated her enemies, one by one. Her will was one of the strongest he’d ever encountered.

Camilla was all polite society darling until pushed; then a scrappy little warrior emerged, baring teeth.

Her savage side called to his.

She rolled her stiff shoulders only once and then sat, the emerald paintbrush he’d gifted her already in her hand and poised above the red paint. She’d kept his apron cinched at her waist.

Behind her, Envy poured himself a knuckle of brandy and leaned against the settee by the fire, his gaze snagging on the painting for the first time.

Camilla was much further along than he’d imagined.

Seeing the throne emerge from the canvas, he was reminded less of a chair and more of a blade, which made sense, considering the hexed object was precisely that: a weapon. Camilla had chosen a color somewhere between champagne and bronze, not quite warm in tone and not cool, either, but situated perfectly between the two.

Opposites melded together in perfect harmony.

Camilla had only just begun to add the flames on the left. She worked on them now, her brush dipping in and out of the blended paint on her palette.

As he stared at the image, the darkness around the throne slowly undulated, as if smoke were curling around the sides of the canvas. Curious.

If Camilla noticed the oddity, she didn’t let on.

Envy sipped his drink, the burn satisfying as it traveled downward. Camilla was fascinating to watch, as present and free, a touch reckless, as she’d been while receiving pleasure. Her silver hair tumbled down her back, shimmering with her deft movements, and the emerald on her finger caught the firelight. In her hand, the paintbrush flickered with life, as if she were imbuing her very soul into the paint, breathing life into her art.

Envy’s attention shifted once again to the painting. Now its background moved like the sea at night, as if a secret might be rising in the throne’s wake. Somewhere in this image was the third clue.

Anticipation had Envy leaning forward, body tensed, ready to spring into action.

As if in response, Envy sensed another energy in the room, a sort of power, testing for any constraints, any magical boundaries set up to lock it in place.

His own magic snarled in response. Something otherworldly was definitely here.

Envy straightened.

This was his domain.

Camilla was completely unaware of the charge building in the room, of the shadows that began to slowly pour out from the canvas, leaching into the studio like a dark wave.

His heart thudded. She was close to finishing the piece.

And whatever had joined them knew it too.

The flames on the painting crackled like real fire. Across the studio, the flames in the fireplace flared in solidarity.

He’d never seen such a thing—Camilla was creating reality from fantasy with her brush.

For a moment, Envy forgot about the game, the prize, and what winning might mean for him and his court. Instead, he considered what it would mean to set his sights on the woman herself.

Could she truly create new realities?

Perhaps the painting wasn’t the clue he’d been sent after; perhaps the artist was.

Envy considered the implications of that as the studio howled around them, the darkness now swirling angrily like a great gathering storm.

Any moment now, fantasy and reality would no longer be discernible; their world and whatever Camilla created would collide.

Envy tossed back the rest of his drink and set his tumbler on the table, hands flexing. His demon blade practically burned at his side, begging to be used on this intrusion.

“Miss Antonius.”

Envy’s voice cracked through the storm like a whip of lightning. She didn’t seem to hear.

“Camilla.”

She turned from her easel, silver eyes glowing like stars.

He’d swear that whatever looked out at him was not entirely human.

Did the throne overtake her?

His heart ticked faster.

Envy said her name again, his voice this time laced with the command of a demon prince, a magical demand that none could ignore, and she blinked, irises once again normal.

“Come,” he said, his gaze fixed on the hulking form behind her. “Now.”

Camilla glanced over her shoulder and then did as he’d bidden without argument, her paintbrush still clutched in her hand.

Once she was safely secured behind him, Envy smiled mockingly at the throne before them.

With a roar that would make the devil himself pause, all hell broke loose.

CAMILLA DARTED BEHIND Synton, praying they would be able to exit the room before the hexed painting did whatever it was about to do.

But it was too late.

Much too late.

An inhuman screech rent the air. Her body felt suddenly hollow, as if giving life to the hexed object had taken something from her in return.

Camilla grabbed Synton’s arm at the exact moment he reached back for her, as they tried to take in whatever vileness she’d set loose.

From what she could tell, it was enormous, crouched or hunched before them, a dense shadowy form with glowing crimson-orange embers for eyes.

In all her years, in all her nightmares, Camilla had never seen the like.

Not in the stories her mother and father had told. Not even in the places her mind had roamed.

Whatever it was, she understood that it wasn’t the throne itself; it had been the hexed thing living inside the throne, using its physical form.

Fire raged around them, growing stronger, wilder, like its shadow master.

Its hatred was palpable—its fury unmatched.

Camilla sensed it wanted to burn the entire estate, the whole city, until nothing but ash remained. Destruction. Cruelty. Chaos. Who knew how many years it had plotted revenge, locked within the confines of its prison? Maybe the old stories had it wrong, maybe the witch had hexed the throne to keep this creature far from the world. Maybe her hatred wasn’t a threat so much as a protection.

Truth was often lost or rewritten over the centuries.

“What’s happening?” Camilla shouted, her voice swept away by the next gust of sulfuric wind.

Synton squeezed her hand but didn’t comment.

What was there to say?

The world was breaking and re-forming into a hellscape before their very eyes.

Camilla’s mother had been less obsessed with the mythology of the other worlds than her father, but she had held fast to one rule: Pierre should never open his talent to a demon, and she’d raised Camilla that way too.

Camilla never would have painted the throne if she’d known what it truly was. And there was no way anything that malevolent was anything but demonic.

Winds howled in the most frightening manner, the air growing uncomfortably hot, smelling of death and ash.

Embers seared her skin, falling like some cursed snow from the devil’s domain.

Terror seized her. This would not end well.

Camilla needed to get herself and Synton to safety. If she destroyed the painting…

She inched forward, determined to—

“Stop.”

Synton barely raised his voice, but the creature heard him all the same. It stilled. And so did Camilla.

From deep within the bowels of the Underworld they now stood in came a sinister laugh.

It was layered, as if multiple voices in varying tones spoke at once.

“You dare to command me?” the hexed demon seethed.

Synton completely ignored the violence in the creature’s tone. He took a step toward it as if it should fear him. “You have information for me.”

Camilla wanted to throttle Synton. Did he not notice how much danger they were in?