I cringe. Good gods, he’s vile. I’d heard the Wolf was part feral, like a toddler with a knife and the skill to use it, but I always thought those were exaggerations meant to terrify children into good behavior. Of course, I had to go and negotiate with Alexios’ most unhinged Enforcer.

Too late to take it back now.

“Fine. Uninterrupted eye contact until my last breath.” You heartless bastard. “Sound good?”

“Deal. If it comes down to it, I’ll make it a good death.” Those gold eyes rake over me one last time. “See you around, Devaliant.”

Then he spreads those massive golden wings and leaps into the air, disappearing over the canopy in seconds.

Leaving me to deal with the corpse.

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2

BRYONY

Two years later

THE CROWD ROARS beyond the gates as Theodora and I step out of the palace. My older sister and I wear matching gold gowns shot through with crimson, rubies glinting at our throats and earlobes. Our gaudy temple regalia as Princesses of the Blood.

Another day, another death.

The city sprawls past the royal square. Hellevig is a patchwork of ancient ruins and buildings constructed after the Godkiller Crusades, when the war between humans and gods nearly wiped this place off the map. During the rebuilding, House Devaliant’s colors became the dominant palette. Red spires. Red domes. Red pillars. Red arches. Red, red, red. There’s a reason the capital of Luceni is called “the city that bleeds,” not just because of what my ancestress did with that blade, but because you can’t escape the color of Amalthea’s sacrifice.

Theodora’s nails dig into my wrist, jolting me to the present. To the crowd clamoring for our attention.

“Smile,” she tells me. She tucks an errant curl of copper hair behind her ear. “They’re all watching.”

No one could accuse me of being anything but well-trained, so I plaster on a smile and follow her toward the carriage waiting in the drive.

The portcullis groans as the servants heave it open.

“Princess Bryony!”

A girl darts under a guard’s arms before he can grab her, skidding to a halt in front of me.

My bodyguard tenses, but I wave a dismissive hand. “Stand down, Silas. She’s six, not an assassin. Just give her a minute.”

The last thing I need is an overenthusiastic member of my security pulling a sword on a child in view of a few hundred spectators. The broadsheets would have a field day.

I crouch down, my skirts pooling around me. “Hi there. What’s your name?”

“Ara.” She sticks out her small hand. “May I have your blessing?”

For a moment, I’m sure I misheard her. But no, those words definitely fell out of her tiny mouth, hanging between us like an accusation. Theodora goes rigid beside me. We both know blessings are the Eternal’s purview, not mine.

I bend and kiss her knuckles. “May Eternal Alexios protect you always.”

A standard non-answer. But the girl isn’t having it. Her grip tightens, nails biting at my Claim cuff. “Please, Princess. A blessing from you.”

Theodora’s lips press into a thin line, her expression hardening. No. Don’t you dare give that girl what she wants.

So I kiss the girl’s head and say the most neutral thing I can. “Fortune keep you, little one. Now get back to your mother before she worries.”

Silas scoops her up and deposits her behind the gates with a scowl darkening his face.

I smile and wave at the rest of the spectators, blowing a few kisses. “Remember to visit the temple and offer your tithes!” I call out. “Eternal bless you!”

I’m signaling our procession onward when a voice shouts, “The Princess will lead us to ruin! Alexios’ butchers will come for us all!”

My head snaps up, but I can’t see anything past the sea of faces. A ripple goes through the crowd as confusion gives way to anger. It looks like a fight might break out.

“Time to go, Bry.” Theodora’s grip on my elbow is firm as she guides me to the carriage.

The door slams shut, muffling the chaos outside. I stare out the window, watching as the guards attempt to calm down the masses and clear the road. Some people are still shouting.

“It’s always a delight joining you on temple day.” Theodora settles across from me and arranges her skirts. “I never know if I’m going to see a brawl or a parade in your honor.”

I glare at her. “Hilarious.”

The famous Devaliant skin is the only thing that marks my sister and me as related. Our father once told me that Theodora got her looks from our mother, who died giving birth to me, while I inherited features from a dead grandmother. Where my hair is nearly white, hers is a rich, glossy red, spilling over her shoulders in loose curls. Her bone structure is elegant, with a willowy physique that resembles a dancer’s. Mine is more petite. The Hellevig broadsheets often remark that we’re equally beautiful, but Theodora has an austere face that comes across as aloof. Remote. Cold.

People call her the ice princess when they’re being kind.

Frigid bitch, when they’re not.

“Should we take bets on when they build you a shrine?” Theo asks me. “Ten aurelii says it’s up by next week. Twenty says someone tries to steal a lock of your hair for a holy relic.”

“People are literally screaming about divine wrath, and you’re making jokes?”

“What else am I supposed to do? Uncle’s too busy drowning in wine and women lately to listen about the crowds outside our gates. Last week, he face-planted in his soup before I could even finish a sentence.”

I slump against the seat with a sigh. When the emperor spirals like this, it never ends well. Last time, he vanished for half a year, hopping on our family’s private train to screw his way across the empire while Theo kept the capital from crumbling.

Not that I could blame Idris much, to be honest. It’s tempting to throw yourself into any random vice when your life revolves around scheduled ritual sacrifice. That’s the price House Devaliant paid when we brokered peace with the gods three hundred years ago. Meanwhile, every other citizen gets off easy with a fingerprick and a single drop of blood for their tithe.

I trace the notches I carved on my inner elbow—five cuts, five steps to resurrection. Breathe. Feel. Name. Present. Real. To remind me that I exist and that I’m more than just a vessel.

Outside, gravel crunches under the carriage wheels as the vehicle makes a turn. Silas bellows at someone in the crowd who strayed too close, “Back the fuck off before I remove your head!”

I wince. “Could Uncle not find me a bodyguard who’s less… threatening? He made three children cry yesterday.”

“Listen, that man might have a brain like a rusted bear trap and the personality of a hostile brick wall, but he’s very large and enjoys hurting people who come near you.” Theodora taps her fingers against her armrest. “Which, given current events, makes him more useful than our wine-soaked excuse for an emperor.”

“At least Uncle isn’t riding with us.”

“Oh yes, I’ll miss his lectures on our many failings.” She mimics Idris’ voice, slurring slightly. “‘Theodora, you empty-headed waste of space. Probably dropped you on your head as a baby.’ Like he has any right to criticize when his idea of leadership is bellowing at people until his face turns red.”

Laughing, I peer out at the streets rolling by, at the stone towers and their massive stained glass windows. Every pane depicts some Devaliant sacrifice in revolting detail. You can’t walk ten feet in Hellevig without seeing our family’s offerings commemorated somewhere. They’ve made our deaths into decoration, our suffering into architecture.