“And? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“So”—I smile pleasantly—“I want you to train her.”

Silence stretches between us, filled with the cry of gulls and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

Then, “You’ve lost it. You’ve finally cracked.”

Well.

It’s not untrue. I left the best parts of my sanity somewhere amid the corpses in Turpori and abandoned it completely when I lost my family. But that’s neither here nor there.

“I want her proficient in every weapon she can lift,” I say, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Any style she shows an aptitude for. She needs to be able to incapacitate a male three times her size in under sixty seconds. She’s got business to settle in Vartena, and she has to survive long enough to make it interesting when I end her.”

She looks at me in annoyance. “Train her yourself if you’re so obsessed with turning a Princess of the Blood into a killer for your amusement.”

“I’ve never been much for honing delicate things. And you owe me, Amara. For services rendered.”

“Services rend—” she sputters. “Blackmail isn’t a service, Wolf. It’s coercion. You’re holding my secrets over my head to get me to do your bidding.”

My smile doesn’t waver. “It’s generous discretion between friends. A favor for a favor. Because if you don’t agree to it, I’ll tell Alexios where you are. How happy do you think he’ll be when he finds you, hmm? When he realizes you’ve been lying to him?”

All it would take is a few whispers in Alexios’ ear to watch her burn. I won’t actually do that, though. Probably. Unless she irritates me.

Amara’s lips flatten. “Fuck you.”

“Not interested. Are you doing this for me, or am I telling him?”

She crosses her arms. “Who exactly is the princess planning to kill? Just her attempted murderer or every idiot guard who ever glanced at her tits? What kind of training are we talking about?”

No, don’t like that. I don’t like the idea of anyone else’s hands on the Devaliant or someone other than me looking at her tits. From this moment on, she’s mine. Those tits are mine, that body is mine, her remaining days are mine.

Her death is all fucking mine.

“I don’t care if it’s anyone who’s looked at her wrong, touched her wrong, opened their big mouth to degrade her, or breathed wrong in her general direction,” I say, ticking off the options on my fingers. “That’s her business. I just want to ensure my prey can give me a good chase before I rip her throat out.”

Amara studies me, probably comparing this current unhinged me to the god she’s known for hundreds of years. “You know what your problem is?” she finally says.

Fuck’s sake.

“By all means, enlighten me with your pearls of wisdom.”

“You used to have some glimmer of control. But I think you’ve spent too long bathing in entrails. Between that and the isolation at your little hermit tower, your few remaining virtues have shriveled up and died.”

“Are you done with the character assessment?” I ask with a sigh. “Because I have a village to slaughter, and you’re cutting into my murder time. Do we have a deal?”

Amara’s gaze drifts over Keksa, studying the meandering lanes strewn with flowers. I wonder if she’s picturing how it will look when I’m finished.

“Fine. I’ll do it. But you don’t get to hold this over me again. Swear it.”

“You have my word.” I pause, considering. “When you train her, aim for the soft spots. I want the kill instinct hammered into her skull. It’ll make things more interesting.”

Amara shakes out her wings, getting ready to take off. “You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Her lips twist. “I’ll come to your tower at first light.”

“Wait. One more thing.”

She looks over her shoulder. “What now? Need tips on proper pet care? A manual for keeping princesses in captivity?”

I hesitate, searching for the right words. This will require a delicate touch. “The girl was whining about clothes earlier. Basic shit. Necessities.”

“I fail to see why this concerns me.”

“Well, that got me thinking. What’s the opposite? Of necessities?”

She squints at me. “Is this your addled attempt to ask me what gifts you should get for your pet mortal? Because that’s adorable in a demented, unhinged way.”

I’m about to break every bone in her wings, possibly twice. “It’s not a gift. I’m curious to see what she does.”

With softness. With things she’s never been allowed to have.

“Let me get this straight.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You want me to help you spoil the girl you’re planning on murdering?”

“Less commentary, more answers.”

“Sweets,” she says after a considering pause. “The more decadent, the better.” She shakes her head. “Why do I feel like I’ll regret telling you that?”

I ignore that, my mind already making plans. Miniature ambrosia cakes. Fruits drizzled with honey. I’ll hand-feed them to the Devaliant, a bite at a time—a nice interlude before I kill her.

“What else?” I ask, dragging myself from the edge of distraction.

“Let her lead. Something tells me agency and autonomy have been in short supply for a Princess of the Blood.” Amara’s wings rustle. “Maybe if you give her a little freedom, she’ll bite back harder. Show you what she’s made of.”

Yes, that’s good. The Devaliant has been an Anchor for the Shroud her entire life, her choices stripped away. She seemed to enjoy being in control when she cut me up with my dagger.

“A word of advice.” Amara gives me a look of distaste. “When you go to her later, try not to be covered in human guts, you savage.”

Then she’s flying off with a sharp flap of her wings.

Well, then.

I turn back to the village and take in another breath of the sharp air, admiring those quaint cottages before they’re rubble.

Time to get to work.

Power ignites within me, and with a downward thrust of my wings, I launch into the sky. Screams erupt as I tear into a building. Someone tries to run past me, but I catch them by the throat and squeeze until something snaps.

The first death is always the hardest. After that, I become the monster they made me into.

There’s an art to carnage. A poetry in the way bones break and flesh yields. You have the hands of an artist, the Devaliant said, and she was right. I’m a masterful painter, and tonight, this settlement is my canvas—a masterpiece of violence. The blood against the red hues of the fading light, the rubble silhouetted in lines of teal, the stars glittering above the slaughter.

I paint the world in my fury.

A whisper echoes through my thoughts, the ghost of my mother’s voice: Destruction is easy, son. Any beast can tear something apart.

“Shut up,” I mutter, crushing another windpipe. “Just shut the fuck up.”

Some human tries begging me, but I barely even hear it over the buzzing in my head as a deluge of memories batter at me. Images flash of the decimated cities in Scillari, all our dead, the pyres stacked high. These people squandered the peace we paid for with our lives and sanity.

Three hundred years isn’t enough to forget. Vengeance is a cruel master, and it never lets me rest.

By the time the last body hits the ground, my ears ring in the silence. I’m drenched in gore, my clothes barely visible. The stink of death is overwhelming. I straighten and take a slow measure of the devastation I’ve wrought—a once thriving settlement is nothing more than rubble and dust.

There’s always a strange stillness after a slaughter, a sound unique to each place. Here, it’s the lapping of distant waves and the rhythmic grind of sea rocks, the coo of a bird in the distance. And in that hush come the too-loud thoughts.

I want a drink.

I want my brother from before the war.

Remember when you were more? When you wore a crown instead of a collar?