I shove the images down where they belong, into the locked box in my chest where I keep all my weaknesses. There’s no place for sentiment in this line of work.

A figure moves in the wreckage. I walk through the rubble to the remains of what was probably a charming little town hall twenty minutes ago. A woman huddles there, hunched and shaking, and in her arms is a man. I know a corpse when I see one, and he is firmly, emphatically dead—and I’m his murderer.

I stare at the woman curled over her deceased love, the oathbreaker’s mark glimmering on her wrist. A declaration of her guilt. She swore her life to the Accords, and she reneged. She failed in her duty.

I should finish this. Put her out of her misery and call it a night. It’d be a mercy, and the stars know I’m not in the business of being merciful, but…

There’s something hypnotic about her grief. She’s lost everything in the space of a single night, her entire world reduced to ashes, and it’s like being confronted with a mirror image—horribly, viscerally familiar.

But centuries of loss and duty have carved out all my soft places, everything in me that should have been the king Scillari chose me to be. Now, I look at this woman, and images fill my head of golden spires crumbling to dust. The air in Turpori stinking of bodies. My brother, broken and bleeding against my side as we staggered through the streets humans tore apart with stolen power.

A rustle of wings jars me from the memory. I don’t turn. I’d know that aura anywhere, cold enough to numb.

“You missed one,” Alexios says.

I keep my attention fixed on the woman. “Didn’t realize you were keeping such close tabs on me.”

“Someone has to.” He moves to stand beside me, wings settling. His irises glow in the dim light—the same color as the blood on my clothes. “Especially when you hesitate over simple executions.” His breath ghosts across my ear as he leans in. “Did that little princess fuck with your head and get too deep under your skin? Is that what this is?”

My hand shoots out, wrapping around his wrist. “Don’t.”

“Or what?” His smile is mocking.

“Don’t,” I repeat, very softly. “No games. Not tonight.”

His expression falls with a sudden understanding. “You’re thinking about Turpori.”

It’s not a question. He understands me too well, knows all my scars like they’re his own. After all, he found me in the aftermath and offered me purpose when all I wanted was for the realms to bleed the way I did.

I nod.

“Put those memories back in their box.” His voice is almost gentle. “Lock them away.”

I can’t help but watch the woman again. Some strange heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach as the screams echo from the lockbox of my memories. “Ever consider trying mercy? Change things up?”

Alexios jerks his head toward me, eyes blazing with inner light. “You can’t be serious.”

“Thought exercise.”

“Don’t start that thought exercise shit with me. One human skips their tithe? Fine. But then another follows, and another, and soon I’m drowning under the pressure of a thousand broken vows. So don’t stand there and preach to me about mercy when you don’t carry what I carry.”

At this moment, he’s not Eternal of Asteria. He’s a male buckling under his burdens—the Shroud, the neglected tithes, two realms balanced on his shoulders.

“If you feel so bad for her”—he gestures to the woman—“go on and Claim her. See how long your compassion lasts when you’ve got her every thought bleeding into your skull and her constant existence pressing against yours.”

I hesitate. There’s a feverish light in his eyes I don’t like, a manic energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s fraying, and I’m not sure I want to be around to witness the shape of what’s left when he finally loses it.

“This isn’t working,” I say, picking my way through the minefield of his mood. “Beating them into obedience isn’t a solution. The Vartenans already hate us, and someday, we’ll have another war on our hands.”

“Then give me an alternative to the blood and the tithes.” He spreads his arms. “Tell me how else we keep the realms at peace and maintain the Shroud without sacrifice. Come on, enlighten me.”

“You could try showing yourself once a century. Attract the crowds, speak to them. It wouldn’t go against the Accord’s clause about interfering with Devaliant rule if you—”

“I can’t,” he says through his teeth.

That pulls me up short. “What do you mean can’t?”

“Their voices get too loud.” He taps his temple. “I don’t hear them when they’re dead, which is why I prefer to visit their corpses.”

I knew he could sense his Claimed and sometimes hear their thoughts. I hadn’t realized proximity sharpened the connection until it was physically agonizing for him. But then, no god in history has Claimed as many as Alexios. No god has held an entire realm barrier together with their power alone.

“You came to me full of vengeance once,” he continues with a sigh, “determined to make the humans pay for what they did to our people. You understood why this was our only option. So if you want mercy for her, what are you willing to trade?”

I swallow down a surge of bitterness at how easily he wields our shared past like a dagger poised over my chest. “You never bargain for human lives.”

He gives a sharp, mirthless laugh. “That’s because I’m still choking on the last deal I made with one. It’s currently splitting my skull in two. Be grateful I’m making an exception for my favorite Wolf.”

“So, those are my options? Save her or kill her?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Choose.”

He makes it sound so simple, as if he’s not asking me to crack my ribcage open, pry out a shard of this woman’s soul, and stake it to mine. “My mother taught me it was obscene to Claim someone without soulbonding with them. It’s sacred. For Chosen only.”

For those who earn the right to touch your wings, to share your breath and know your soul. To soulbond is to bare your jugular to someone’s teeth and say, Here, this is where I’m softest. This is where I break. I won’t Claim anyone I’m not willing to soulbond with.

“Well, your mother’s dead, along with everyone else who believed in sacred anything. This is what’s left. These are the choices we make now.” He jerks his head at the woman again. “Choose. Kill her clean, or I’ll make it last. You know I will.”

So I obey because I’m his Wolf—his weapon. And a weapon doesn’t get to choose, not really. It simply cuts.

The woman clutches her dead lover tighter. “Please,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Shh,” I say.

My hand closes around her throat, and her pulse flutters against my palm like a trapped bird. With a sharp jerk of my hand, I snap her spine and drop her to the ground.

Alexios watches me. “Don’t ever ask me for mercy again.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “One last thing. The princess’ body—did you find it?”

I keep my face blank. “Not yet. Scavengers probably got to it. I’ll get her for you.”

Once I’m finished with her.

“You better.”

Something dangerous flickers in his expression, a warning of what he’ll do if her corpse isn’t found. Thunder rolls across the sky and lightning flashes, painting everything in harsh white light—the broken buildings, the scattered bodies, the blood turning black on the ground. Alexios’ mood making itself known. His wings rustle as he walks away in dismissal.

“Clean yourself up,” he says over his shoulder. “You smell like a slaughterhouse.”

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17

EVANDER

THE FLOATING ISLANDS of Caelestis dot the horizon like a string of pearls.