When it’s done, blood drips from my wings and pools at my feet. Something in me settles. Quiets. I want to etch this into my bones as fuel for the hunts to come. For all the deaths I’ll grant the oathbreakers, the fleshtraders, any buyer who sets aurelii down for god parts to consume like we’re animals.

I collect Bastien’s feathers and tuck them into my armor to burn later. There’s still something I need to do here first.

I shut my eyes and gather my magic, letting it rise until my skin heats. And then I release it in a searing wave that crashes over the room.

When I open my eyes, nothing in the shop is left but drifting motes of ash and the crackle of super-heated stone. I stride into the waiting night. The cobbles steam in my wake, puddles flash-boiling to vapor. Passersby scramble out of my path.

Good. Let them remember what happens to fleshtraders in this city.

Alexios’ voice slides into my thoughts, as cold as a blade. If you’re finished playing with your food, I need you at my palace. I have another throat for you to slit.

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5

EVANDER

NOTHING BEATS THE first flight after a kill. The knowledge of a job well done is better than ichor wine. Better than sex.

Well, sometimes. Depends on the job, depends on the fuck.

The Shroud shimmers ahead, a veil of starlight over the jagged peaks of the Duehavn Ridge. I slice through it, magic sparking across my skin as the protection wards flare and recognize me. Reality splinters, and Vartena disintegrates until I’m nowhere, suspended in that terrifying emptiness until—

The world snaps back together.

Scillari’s forests spread out below, broken by the ruins of old territories jutting up through the dense canopy. Trees emerge through crumbling throne rooms, towers are snared in the crush of vines, and ancient palaces of long-dead Eternals lie vacant and dilapidated. Nature is patient. Doesn’t matter how grand your territory—give her enough time, and she’ll turn your monuments to rubble.

Rivers of starlight snake through the valleys of Asteria, Alexios’ territory. And past that, water thunders down a massive cliff face, misting the Osbu Sea’s glassy surface.

I ride an updraft toward the Tokle Mountains. Sheer walls of granite and basalt rear up to meet me, their flanks shrouded in fog. Alexios’ palace resembles a crown of black glass nestled in the crags. It’s a sprawling complex of spires and bridges, barracks and pleasure gardens. Every part is built from dark opalescent stone native to Asteria. During the day, when the sun hits just right, all that black rock glows with red and orange inner light.

The palace is one of only two Eternal strongholds still standing. It survived because of its position—too high for human armies to reach, and too well defended if they tried. For a time, it served as a refuge for demis who had lost everything but the clothes on their backs. But now it’s back to housing the elite in the Court of Storms, the assembled descendants of past Eternals who live alongside the reigning god-king.

The garden stretches across the front of the property. In summer, it blazes with colorful blooms visible for miles. But now, during winter, only pale blossoms and glittering frost remain.

I close the remaining distance to the landing plaza, wings spreading wide as I land in a crouch.

Upended chalices and abandoned garments litter the grass—telltale signs of a revel. Not even the cold is a deterrent when the court wants to party. When I inhale, the scent of ichor wine hits me, mingled with the musk of sex and sweat.

“About time you showed up,” comes Elias’ familiar voice. “We were starting to think you’d found yourself a different group of degenerates.”

I turn to find the king’s other Enforcers in various states of undress and sobriety. Elias lounges against the fountain’s edge, white wings spread beneath him, shirt long gone. Gabriel stands with his typical stern expression. I swear, it’s like someone shoved a stick up his ass and he’s determined to keep it there out of spite. Arcadia casually tosses one of her knives, silver wings rustling behind her as she snatches it from the air. And Vespera… she just watches me with shadows coiled around her fingers.

“You’d all die of boredom if I weren’t here to keep things interesting.” I kick at a discarded silk robe with my boot. “Starting the orgy without me, though? That’s rude.”

Arcadia’s face scrunches. “You smell like an abattoir fucked a sewer. Clean it off, and I might consider extending an invitation next time. No one here wants to use blood as a lubricant. We have standards.”

“Standards are overrated. Just ask Elias.”

Elias laughs. “Ignore her. I think the whole ‘savage beast fresh from a kill’ look works for you.”

His power brushes my skin in a subtle tendril of lust. Warm. Insistent. Not unpleasant, if I’m honest, but after centuries of this shit, I’ve built up a tolerance.

“Cute,” I say, shaking it off. “Save it for someone who hasn’t seen your dick.” A rumble of thunder draws my attention to the palace proper, where storm clouds are gathering above the highest spires. That can’t be good. “Do I want to ask what crawled up the king’s ass and died? He says he wants me to kill someone.”

Gabriel rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No idea. Nearly took my hand off earlier when I tried to give him my report on the border patrols. Apparently, we’re all incompetent children who couldn’t find our own asses with both hands and a map.”

“Any volunteers to go in with me?”

Elias barks out a laugh. “Pass. I like my face the way it is. You’re on your own with this one.”

Everyone agrees.

“Cowards,” I say.

Their voices chase me across the plaza. Elias shouts something about kissing my mangled corpse. Arcadia and Vespera place bets on which gate would look best adorned with my severed head—the west gate has a certain dramatic flair, but you can’t beat the east gate at sunrise.

The ladies have taste, I’ll give them that.

I’ve barely crossed into the foyer when Alexios’ power slams into me. Dark. Turbulent. Like facing down a hurricane. I breathe it in, letting that electric bite sear my throat.

The palace buzzes with noise. Everywhere, clusters of demis draped in silk and jewels block my way. Snippets of gossip whisper past me, slipping between languages—Gaufian and Uruk, the singsong cadence of Fér. I track the noise to the central atrium and step onto the balcony. A hundred pairs of eyes lock on me at once. There’s a collective intake of breath.

What can I say? I make an entrance. All artists sign their work; blood is just my signature.

Their whispers trail me as I descend the grand staircase.

“… blood everywhere, all over his hands and wings. Looks like he bathed in…”

“Tore through an entire village, I heard. Ripped them apart with his teeth.”

I flash the scandalized speaker a lazy smile. “If you ask nicely, I’ll demonstrate.”

The demigod shrinks back as if I might rip his throat out. Which I wouldn’t. It’s poor form to kill guests in the throne room. The thing is, though—they’ve got the basic facts right. There’s always a village that won’t be showing up on any maps anymore. Plenty of them over the years, actually.

Death is my craft, and I’m nothing if not a master artisan.

Alexios lounges on his throne at the far end of the chamber. His massive, dark wings stretch almost lazily, red feathers catching in the light. His chin is propped in his hand, shoulder-length black hair loose and framing a face that rivals Elias’ for beauty. The Eternal of Asteria has cultivated the appearance of a bored, pleasure-seeking king. But when his scarlet eyes find mine through the press of bodies…