Often called the crown jewel of Asteria, the city is a breathtaking expanse of crystal spires set against patches of lush greenery. Elaborate sky gardens float overhead, loaded with hanging vines and luminous flowers. The pools of starlight scattered across the landscape are connected by bridges between the islands, ending in waterfalls that cascade over the sheer cliffs and into the sea below.

I veer west to the smallest island in the chain. Zephyr’s home dominates the cliff face, an elegant spire with glowing blue wards winding around every pillar and arched window—a warning to anyone uninvited to back off. But I’ve known Alexios’ spymaster since I was an infant, and she’s one of maybe seven gods I trust. Well, trust is a strong word—let’s call it confident apathy. I doubt she’ll stab me without a good reason.

Probably.

I drop onto the landing platform, my boots leaving bloody prints behind. The smell of metal and leather thickens as I stride toward the smaller building just off her sky garden.

Zephyr’s workshop is a cozy space with vaulted ceilings and marble columns inlaid with runes to enhance her magic. Workbenches and tables are pushed up along every wall, littered with half-finished works—the flowing fabric of a formal gown, leather armor, some training garments. Zephyr makes any wearable for the right price.

“You’re dripping on my floor, you degenerate.”

I huff out a laugh as I turn.

Zephyr stands in the doorway, her black wings tucked against her back. She’s all lean muscle and sharp edges, always buttoned up and proper, with her dark hair pulled tightly in a braid. Her light brown skin glitters in the runelight. She has an elegant face that’s the kind of pretty that doesn’t stick overlong in your mind—until you see her eyes. One black, one silver. No other god in the realm shares those irises.

“Funny,” I say. “I thought you’d be used to blood by now.”

“On the battlefield? Yes. In my home? Absolutely not. I ought to take you out back and shove you in my pool.”

“I’ll send you a cleaning crew.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, and a tattoo peeks out from under her collar—angular marks, each representing a campaign during the war, back when she led armies instead of trading secrets. Whether she has tattoos other than those, I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen Zephyr in anything but her high-collared uniform.

“Why are you here, Wolf? I’m on a schedule.”

“I need clothes.”

“You’re wearing clothes,” she says dryly. “Granted, they’re more blood than fabric at this point, but I didn’t think that bothered you. Unless you’ve suddenly developed standards?”

Hilarious.

“Not for me. For a female.”

That gets a raised eyebrow from her. “I thought you preferred your lovers wearing as little as possible. Did you actually find one who gets off on bloodshed as much as you do?”

If she only knew.

I can’t help but picture the Devaliant in my lap, blade in hand. The look on her face after she cut me up, all that anger turning into something darker. Hungrier. I can’t wait to feed all that rage.

“She needs a functional wardrobe,” I say, ignoring her question. “Clothes that can hold up in a fight or on rough terrain.”

Zephyr is quiet for a long moment, just staring at me. I stare right back, daring her to ask.

“This girl,” she finally says, “must be special if you’re asking me to dress her.”

“She’s a means to an end.”

“Well, whatever the end, she’ll need to come in for measurements.”

“I have them memorized.”

And then I’m speaking, spilling numbers like secrets. The architecture of her. The flare of her hips and the dip of her waist. The delicate circumference of her wrists, ankles, and throat. I map the Devaliant in digits and degrees, charting her body as one might the stars.

The air thickens as Zephyr’s magic unfurls. She perches on her workbench, liquid shadows spilling from her fingertips to pool on the floor. Her loom rises from the darkness. It’s an ancient-looking thing made of black metal and gleaming filaments. Honestly, I can’t explain where it comes from when she pulls it up out of nothing. Zephyr’s power is singular in Scillari—the magic of creation, the ability to pull from the realm at will.

She begins to weave.

It’s mesmerizing to watch her work. Shadows gather in her palms, becoming solid and real. Piece by piece, armor takes shape—leather molded to invisible curves, scaled and segmented for ease of movement. The hide is soft yet reinforced, lined with silk for comfort against bare skin. Metal follows, but not the crude stuff of mortal forges. This forms a mesh so fine it might as well be liquid. It reinforces vital areas without adding bulk or weight. Perfect for someone small who needs to move fast.

Someone like my nemesis.

There are a hundred little details I wouldn’t have thought to include. The precise flare of a vambrace, the cant of a shoulder piece, the slight thickness of the chest piece for protection. It’s so clearly made for a woman as petite as the Devaliant. I can already picture how it will cling—the perfect mix of allure and armor.

“No fastenings for wings,” I instruct. “Closed at the back.”

Zephyr’s hands go still. Her stare digs into me as if she’s trying to pry open my skull and peek inside. I know how it must look, commissioning armor without consideration for wings. Plenty of demis lost their wings in the war, but it means losing status—being permanently ground-bound and barred from battle.

But she only nods and keeps her questions to herself. Her fingers twitch and pull more shadows from the air. They twist between her knuckles while bits of starlight cling to her skin. I’ve seen her kill a man with those same gentle movements.

“It needs to be tight. Make it cling,” I add, just to see her scowl. She doesn’t.

She turns, reaches again into the heart of the loom, and tosses a garment at me. I catch it, glaring down at the scrap of clothing in my hand.

It’s a nightgown. Black silk and lace, a swooping V-neckline that plunges to the navel, and cobweb-fine silver embroidery that gleams in the workshop’s low light.

My mind blanks out to images. The Devaliant laid out across my bed, breasts straining against the fabric, the juncture of her thighs a shadowed tease. Tearing it off with my teeth and fucking her in scraps of starlight.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. Then I lift my gaze to Zephyr’s. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

The demigoddess has the audacity to look amused. Like she knows every filthy, depraved thing I just pictured. “No, but I’d bet my best blade it’s what you wanted.” She leans back and raises an eyebrow. “Will there be anything else?”

I exhale slowly through my nose. I’m not about to engage in a verbal sparring match with Alexios’ spymaster. “Someone told me to get her sweets. Good advice or no?”

“Decent,” she says with a shrug. She turns and rummages through a chest behind the workbench, pulling out a silver box. “I was saving these for myself, but go ahead and take them.” She flips the lid, revealing rows of confections wrapped in parchment. “Ambrosial clusters. Roasted nuts and dried fireplums drizzled in nectar and rolled in edible gold. Useful for your purposes?”

“Perfect.” I take the box from her and tuck it into the bundle of clothes. “Thank you.” I turn to leave, then hesitate on the threshold. “This stays between us.”

She’s closer to Alexios than anyone in the realms. I trust her with my life and my secrets, but I also don’t pretend to understand the complexities of her bond with the king, the way her eyes follow him when she thinks no one’s watching.

Her mouth thins. “Keep it from becoming a problem, and he won’t hear anything from me.”

Oh, Zephyr. It became a problem when I didn’t cut her throat.

*   *   *