I can’t help but grin. Yeah, that’s right. Get a good, long look.

With a strong flap of my wings, I take to the sky again and circle the palace. I hope the image of me is seared into their worthless skulls.

Once the street empties, I land on the large balcony along the palace’s eastern spire. The air reeks of incense and perfume, the balustrade lined with half-melted candles and petals. Someone has left a shrine. A miniature portrait of my Devaliant sits wreathed in black ribbon and roses.

I pick it up, studying the delicate brushstrokes. They’ve captured her physical beauty well enough—the silvery hair, the luminous skin, those violet irises. But it’s missing all the ways she snarls and snaps. The painting shows a porcelain doll; I have the real thing—messy and breathing and full of rage.

“Put it down.” The voice at my back is cool and clipped.

“Princess Theodora, I assume?” I say pleasantly, still examining the portrait. “You know, this doesn’t look a thing like your sister. Too perfect. Too pristine. The thing that struck me the first time I saw her was how hungry she looked. A bit like a cornered animal still pretending to be civilized. And this?” I flick a dismissive finger against the painted surface. “It’s dull. Boring. You should burn it, to be honest. It’s offensive.”

“I said put it down. Or I’ll shove it down your fucking throat.”

I turn slowly. Theodora Devaliant looks about two seconds from tearing out my jugular. Her red hair is all tangled, her green eyes flashing. The physical resemblance to her sister is there—a similarity in the features, if not the coloring. But where my girl runs hot, all restless energy and burning need, this one is cold down to her core. Even the way she holds herself is different—tightly leashed. In control.

I like seeing the contrast, knowing that my Devaliant is the wild one.

“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you it’s stupid to threaten gods?” I ask her.

Don’t be rude, my Devaliant said in her note. I have the feeling her sister will make that difficult.

“You aren’t the first arrogant prick from Scillari I’ve told to go fuck himself. Just ask your brother. He’s had the pleasure.”

Of course, Bastien would have crossed paths with Theodora Devaliant during his duties. I wonder if he saw the same thing I do now—that complete absence of fear that would be admirable if it weren’t so foolish. Fucking Devaliants. Challenging monsters everywhere they go.

She takes another step. “Did you come to gloat, or do you get off on tormenting grieving families?”

Huh. I set down the portrait and give her my attention. Let’s see how this plays out. “What exactly am I meant to be gloating over? Be specific.”

“You murdered my sister.” There’s a waver in her voice, a crack in that icy composure. “Hunted her down like an animal and left her to bleed out on the Duehavn. Alone.”

For a moment, I can only stare at her. So this is the tale Hellevig has spun for itself? Me as the black-hearted villain who slaughtered their precious princess? They won’t be wrong, but it’s a little obnoxious that they’re bleating about it when they haven’t even seen my actual work yet.

“She lived and died in service to Alexios,” Theodora continues. “And she was branded an oathbreaker for crimes she didn’t commit. What have you done with her body?” When I just raise an eyebrow at her—because honestly, she’s a lot right now—she grabs the front of my shirt. “Answer me. I don’t give a damn about that mark on her wrist, Bryony’s ashes belong in the crypt with her family. She deserves to have a public pyre.”

I try to remind myself that this woman thinks she’s lost her sister. If I hurt her for the presumption, my Devaliant would never let me hear the end of it. I enjoy her fury, but not that much.

“Be careful,” I say, almost gently. “You aren’t my target today, but I can always make an exception.”

Her fingers tighten. There’s anger in this one, too. No hint of fear. Only fury and grief and something sharper, more bitter. Hate, perhaps. Runs in the bloodline or maybe in the circumstances.

“If you don’t—”

“You’ll what? Cry at me? Make threats?” I pry her grip loose. “Here’s the problem with your tragic little story. If I’d been the one to kill your sister, I wouldn’t have been so sloppy about it. Executing Devaliants is a rare treat these days. I like to take my time. She’s simply misplaced.”

“Misplaced,” she repeats slowly. Processing my words. “Where?”

“Somewhere safe. And rather conveniently out of reach, as it happens.”

She drags in a slow, rattling breath and blinks away the moisture in her eyes. “Is she with you?”

“She’s where she chooses to be. I’ve agreed to deliver the news.”

Theodora’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when did the Wolf of Asteria become a human’s glorified carrier pigeon?”

Damn me, I wish I knew. “Since the human in question became my new favorite distraction,” I snap. What is it with these Devaliant girls? Why do they ask so many questions? “And it might interest you to know she was found bleeding out on the Duehavn. And placed in my care.”

Understanding flashes across her features, quickly masked—but not quick enough. She knows exactly who tried to murder her sister.

“I see,” is all she says.

I could press her for answers. Demand a name. But I want to hear it from my Devaliant’s lips.

“Good.” I leap onto the balcony’s edge. “And while I’m playing carrier pigeon, you might want to do something about the rabid mob at your gates. I’ve scared them off for now, but Alexios is getting real tired of their neglected tithes. And when the Eternal loses his patience?” I cast a cold smile over my shoulder. “People tend to die screaming.”

“Wolf. Tell her…” She clears her throat. “Tell Bryony I love her, would you?”

I incline my head. And then I’m tipping back into the open air, wings stretching as I fly toward the horizon.

*   *   *

Snow falls over the tower as I descend.

I land in the courtyard, the ice collapsing under my boots with a muted crunch. Frost-covered trees crack and groan in the hush, and in the distance, the waves of the Osbu Sea crash against the shore. My wings settle against my back as I head down the garden path.

Then I see her, standing under an arch of branches with her head tipped back. Bryony Devaliant has a gift for demanding my attention without saying a word.

“You know, Devaliant,” I say, approaching her, “there are quicker ways to die than exposure. Easier, too. If that’s what you’re going for.”

She doesn’t startle at my voice, just keeps her focus on the cloudy sky as snowflakes settle in her hair like a crown of crushed stars.

“I’ve never seen snowfall before,” she says, soft and wondering.

It’s such a small admission, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But it knocks the breath from my lungs—because how can this woman who moves through life like she was born to conquer the realms still have pieces of herself untouched by it?

“No snow in Hellevig?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “The magic that anchors the Shroud traps heat in the city. Even with how close we are to the Duehavn, it’s never cold enough.” Her laugh is so bitter it sends a painful jolt through my chest. “Not that I could leave to see it, anyway. A Devaliant has to stay in Hellevig to keep the Shroud anchored, and I was the convenient choice. No ruling duties. No diplomatic missions. So I never left the city.”

“Never?”

“No.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I used to stare at the mountains from my window. Press my face to the glass and imagine how snow would feel, how it would taste. You have no idea how often I thought about sneaking to the train station and running away. Pathetic, right?”

“It’s not pathetic at all.” The words emerge rougher than I intend.