He studies me as if I’ve surprised him. “Then they get to use their full magic. If you have something to prove, don’t do it by half. Prepare to bleed for it.”

And die for it, he doesn’t say. But the message is clear, all the same.

I nod. “If I win, we’re done. You unbind Evander’s powers, forgive him for Hellevig, and give him his territory.”

“Deal. Tomorrow night, little sacrifice.”

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55

BRYONY

PRINCESS?” A MUFFLED voice filters through the door of Evander’s bedroom the next evening. “I’m here to dress you for the final test.”

Evander’s arm tightens around my waist, dragging me against his chest. “Tell Alexios to fuck off, Zephyr.”

I should answer, but I’m not ready to leave yet. After he woke up from the healing pool last night, I didn’t tell him about my deal with Alexios. But we returned to his room, and I’ve been saying wordless goodbyes with my body ever since. I fucked him slowly in the morning. Kissed him as if it was the first time—soft and searching, relearning the taste of him, the pressure of his lips.

For right now, this is mine. This quiet vulnerability. I want to freeze this moment.

This might be the last time.

My throat closes up. I focus on my Chosen: his heartbeat, his breath in my hair, the press of his fingers. I burn each sensation into memory just in case. Just in case I won’t have him in my arms again.

Just in case.

His teeth graze my pulse point, and I bite back a whimper.

A snort sounds from the other side of the door. “Wolf. Some of us have actual work to finish today.”

I twist in Evander’s hold until we face each other, my fingers trailing over his jaw. He kills me when he’s like this—rumpled and warm, his sharp edges gentled. Those amber eyes, still soft with sleep, are dark and hungry as he stares at my mouth.

The deal I made sits heavy on my chest. He’d lose his shit if he knew—probably chain me to this bed before letting me anywhere near that arena.

I can’t hide behind your wings forever. You can’t shield me from every hurt. That’s not who I am. It’s not who we are.

“You know I have to go,” I whisper.

His fingers flex on my hips, digging in deep enough to leave marks. “Bryony.” Then softer: “Don’t. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been behaving all morning.”

My throat closes. “You have to let me fall, remember?”

Please don’t hate me for what I’m about to do.

I force myself out of his hold. Shivering, I pull on the borrowed clothes a servant brought last night and crack open the door. The first thing I notice about the demigoddess on the other side is her eyes—one silver, one black. She’s got dark hair and a face that’s all sharp angles and cold beauty. A hint of a tattoo peeks out where her coat collar doesn’t quite cover her neck.

“This way,” the demigoddess says—Zephyr, Evander called her.

She leads me down the corridor and into a massive chamber with tall windows. Chandeliers and orbs of light drift aimlessly overhead, illuminating the multi-hued fabric spilled across the tables. Unfinished garments float by themselves, held up by nothing I can see. Dresses, armor, and training clothes are all suspended in the air in various stages of completion.

Two other demigoddesses are sprawled lazily against the workbenches. I recognize Arcadia—it’s impossible to miss those silver wings. The other one is petite with dark gray wings.

The dark-winged female’s face scrunches with disgust when she sees me. “She’s so small. Why is she so small? I thought the Wolf liked something he could sink his teeth into.”

Arcadia’s lip curls. “Hardly seems worth the trouble, does she, Vespera?”

“Maybe I should find out why he’s keeping her around. Ten seconds is all I’d need.”

“Five.” Arcadia rakes me with a glare. “If that.”

“Stop, both of you,” Zephyr cuts in. “The Wolf would rip you to shreds, and I’m not cleaning up the mess because you’re feeling territorial. Take your usual fuckery elsewhere.”

Arcadia’s stare doesn’t leave me. “I won’t challenge her, Z. But I’ll enjoy watching them tear her apart in the arena. You should stay for the show.”

“Out,” Zephyr snaps.

The two demigoddesses exchange looks but comply. The door closes behind them.

I let out a relieved breath. “Thanks,” I say to Zephyr.

“This is why I keep my real workshop away from this cesspit,” Zephyr mutters. “Strip. I need to fit you for armor properly this time.”

I peel off my clothes, trying not to fidget as she studies my body as if she’s able to calculate my measurements by sight alone. Maybe she actually is. “This time?”

“Yes, this time. But he was thorough.” She says the second part to herself. “Got your sizes to the quarter inch when he asked for your wardrobe, though he wouldn’t say who it was for.”

I gape at her. “Wait—you made my clothes?”

“The nightgown was one of my better pieces. Did he enjoy it?”

Heat crawls up my neck. Gods, the way he’d looked at me in the armory when that robe hit the floor… Then both of us grinding against each other like we were starving for it.

“I—ah—put it to good use,” I say, clearing my throat.

Her mouth twitches. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

She settles onto a stool and extends her hands. Power fills the room as shadows twist from her palms and spill onto the floor in a wave of black tendrils. A pool forms, spreading around her feet and glittering with starlight.

A loom rises from the darkness with silver veins and old symbols pulsing along the frame. Zephyr caresses the instrument, and I watch as threads of light spill from her fingers, twisting into intricate knots and shapes in the center of the loom. My mouth falls open—she’s forming armor right in front of me.

The leather pieces float upward one by one. Shoulder guards engraved with markings, vambraces, chest plate, all perfectly sized for me. The set shimmers like she bottled the night sky and worked it into metal.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, reaching out. The leather is smooth and warm to the touch.

“It’s functional,” she corrects, collecting the bits of gauzy underthings that materialized along with the armor. “This is what you’ll wear beneath.”

The underwear is comfortable against my skin as I slide it on. Then comes the leather armor. Zephyr tightens the buckles and straps as if she’s done this a thousand times. There’s a brisk professionalism to her movements that sets me at ease.

“The underlying layer is imbued with defensive magics,” she explains as she works. “It will function as a second skin and distribute impact to shield you from injury. The main pieces are as light as I can make them while providing protection, but don’t let any of those demis land a direct hit. Even the best armor only goes so far.” One finger taps thoughtfully against her chin. “How much combat experience do you have?”

“Enough to know every bone in an arm makes a different sound when it snaps.”

“It won’t be enough,” she says simply.

I don’t think her words are meant to hurt—it’s only the truth. The sky is blue, water is wet, and I volunteered for a violent end.

She sighs. “Look, I know what you’re doing this for. And I get it, I do. But you’re human. Squishy. Breakable. This”—a rap of knuckles against the leather breastplate—“will reinforce your skeleton, but it won’t magically put you on par with a demi. There’s only so much I can do to keep you from getting splattered.” Her hands smooth over the armor, making minute adjustments. “Use your size to your advantage. You’re small. Dodge fast, and they’ll start taking each other out. Friendly fire’s killed more fighters than you’d think when the target is quick enough. They won’t play fair, and neither should you.”