Beep.

  Thomas Blackwood scanned his retina and unlocked the door to his cellar. Stepping inside, he inhaled deeply the familiar scent of subtly fermenting grapes encompassed by oak barrels. No matter how many times he came down here, it still felt like a private world that belonged to him alone.

  But of course, that was no longer the case.

  He moved to the back bar, dragging his fingertips across the shiny bottles until he chose a Shiraz. The label was gone, but he didn’t need to read it to know the year.

  Twist, soft pop, steady pour. Crimson curtained the glass.

  "Beautiful,” he whispered, swirling the wine, taking in the undertones of blackcurrant, cedar and espresso. “A fitting salute to our coming victory.”

  In response, violet mist gathered at the bar, tendrils circling the stem of the wine glass. "Humans, with your pitiful dependence on fleeting pleasures.”

  "Fleeting?” Thomas savoured the full-bodied flavour. “This is legacy. Bottled power. It takes discipline to wait for something to age properly.”

  "You call that disciplined? Power?” the mist sneered. "Mortals and your illusions of control; over time, over taste, over a glass of fermented grapes. Petty indulgences. You sound like that gluttonous fool I once knew.”

  “Don’t you indulge too, My Lord?” Thomas asked mockingly.

  The mist ignored his question. "How are the preparations coming along?"

  "I was under the impression that you were inside my head," he said in an arrogant tone. “If you’re asking, it’s only to test whether I’ll lie.”

  A pulse of dark energy shot through the room, shattering the wine glass still in Thomas’s hand. He hissed through clenched teeth and dropped the broken glass. The Shiraz bled down his sleeve, soaking his shirt and dripping onto the stone floor.

  Beep.

  Mist coiled around his arm, barbed and cold. “Remember your place, insect. You are not here to think. You are here to serve.”

  Thomas dropped to one knee, pressing a silk handkerchief to his bleeding palm. The crystal shards lodged there were small but numerous.

  “F-forgive me, my lord. There were complications. A seasonal flu hit my regular catering team. I have secured replacements, but there is a development.”

  The mist receded slightly. "Speak."

  “The heirs of Van Nassau and Whitlock request invitations.” Thomas rose and made his way to the sink. The automated faucet clicked on as he held out his bloodied hand.

  "Ares Van Nassau," the mist purred with amusement. "Alchymia's puppet master, is he not?”

  “Not only Alchymia, My Lord.”

  “Intriguing. Seems your gala is attracting more attention than expected.”

  “Athena, his youngest, will attend. The Van Nassaus don’t usually show up to anything, so it’s a good look for us. And the Whitlocks are European royalty. Old money from Silverkeep.”

  “Foreign support is permitted in a Senate race?” the mist asked, drifting lazily across the ceiling. “And why would the royal family of Silverkeep care about a local election?”

  “To a point.” Thomas dried his hand with a monogrammed towel. “They can contribute, and they do. Their reasons don’t matter. What matters is that their presence boosts my standing with the donors. That’s all I care about.”

  The mist laughed, its form expanding to fill the cellar. "How naive."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Two dynasties circle and you think it is your charm? You were nothing before me.”

  “You think… they’re suspicious, My Lord?”

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  “I think,” the mist said slowly, “we welcome them. Let them feel clever. Let them believe they are in control.”

  Thomas swallowed. “So we’re… setting a trap.”

  “Of course, Tommy.” The mist glided toward the shadowed far end of the room.

  Lying trapped on the beds were three bodies, their youthful faces half-hidden behind virtual reality masks, nutrient tubes snaking into their nostrils and veins.

  "Just like these,” the mist said. “They sleep, they dream, they serve our purposes. Your little guests will be no different. Now, tell me everything you know about this Athena and this Whitlock heir."

  Thomas typed out a message on his encrypted phone.

  "Chimera, urgent commission. 30k crypto wired upon receipt of intel package on Athena Van Nassau and Theomund Whitlock."

  The reply came within a few seconds. "Van Nassau? Make that sixty."

  Thomas grinned wolfishly as he typed back. "Deal. Deliver by noon. Usual channel.”

  “Good. We’ll give these children a night they won’t forget.” Its form dissolved into the ceiling, its ominous laughter seeming to vibrate the stone walls.

  And my appetite for indulgence knows no bounds.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  The heart rate monitors kept their steady rhythm, unbothered by the storm coming to Alchymia.

  Far from Alchymia’s political circus, in a quiet town hours from the capital, power moved in subtler ways.

  "Of course I want to see you,” Eydis’s hushed voice nearly drowned by the dorm’s off-key singing and hallway laughter. Floorboards groaned in sympathy.

  Her mother’s excited soprano crackled through the phone, prompting Eydis to hold it at arm’s length.

  Figuratively speaking, naturally, she mused. Unless she moonlights as an opera soprano. In which case, I take it back and offer a standing ovation.

  "Yes, I understand,” Eydis interrupted the lively monologue. "Reschedule for next Friday, please. Yes, I’ll see you then.”

  She ended the call. “Goodbye, Mommy,” and ignored the trailing string of “Aww, you too, darling.”

  Honestly, who couldn’t tell when their child had been body-snatched by an evil queen? Either they were blind, or Eydis was just that good.

  Then again, her actual Mother hadn’t been all that different, more interested in herself than anyone else.

  She leaned against the window in the corridor and stared at the worn wooden door of her dorm. It didn’t help her nerves, as though she were trying to light a starless night with a feeble firefly.

  Do I really have to do this?

  Night-blooming jasmine drifted through the narrow gap in the corridor windows from the courtyard, futilely trying to mask the lingering scent of curry clinging to her clothes.

  But try as she might, she couldn't shake the intoxicating fragrance that seemed to follow her everywhere.

  Sandalwood.

  Eydis’s sworn never to return to this broom closet. Had vowed to sleep under bridges, in locker rooms, even in Cerberus’s bottomless stomach before walking into this room again.

  But Astra's involvement with the student council had ruined that plan.

  Information was power. And she needed more of it.

  Your Majesty, Envy's voice buzzed mentally with disbelief, are you... trembling? With... apprehension?

  Eydis scoffed.

  Please. Trembling is for lesser beings.

  She paused.

  Is there no spell to give her selective amnesia?

  Perhaps a teeny-weensy concuss—

  Eydis slammed the mental door with the force of a thousand dungeon gates, banishing the serpent to the Deep and severing its access to her thoughts.

  No concussions. No memory wipes. No harm to Astra.

  The thought alone unsettled her. But since when did the Queen of Shadows feel unease? Maybe it was the teenage body. Or the lingering shame from that incident. Probably both.

  Yeah, that had to be it.

  She pushed open the door, bracing herself for ice glares, and maybe even flying thongs (not that kind of thongs).

  Then again, did Astra even own anything besides combat boots?

  Inside, Astra sat on the bed, one leg crossed over the other, locked in silent combat with a mountain of shopping bags, dragging a black?polished finger across her lower lip.

  Maybe to ponder the age-old fashion dilemma: “To don, or not to don? That is the question.”

  Eydis’s smirk was immediate and reflexive.

  Cute.

  She groaned inwardly. Where had that thought come from? Clearly, this dimension (or more likely, Natalia’s cursed vocabulary) was corroding her brain.

  The sound of Eydis’s entrance snapped Astra out of her trance. Her wide crimson eyes rose to met Eydis’s. The air between them tightened, so Eydis kept the door ajar, out of habit, not fear.

  Definitely not fear. Not that she had any intention of fleeing.

  In search of safe distractions, Eydis turned her attention to the finer ambiance of student living: the low hum of the heater, the muffled dorm laughter, and—

  A persistent thump.

  Followed by breathless gasps.

  “Oh gods.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “YES.”

  Eydis's nose wrinkled in distaste. “Do these simpletons think that shouting their way through these ‘Fifty Shades of Beige’ walls will summon divine intervention?”

  Astra's eyes widened ever so slightly before she glanced towards the source of the sound, as if she had only just become aware of it.

  "Really?" Astra looked at Eydis as if she had sprouted a third eye (or a fifth, she really needed to work on those contact lens application skills). “Div–You’re serious?”

  Eydis flicked her glasses up her nose bridge. "Perhaps the gods prefer their prayers set to a steady beat.”

  “You’re serious,” Astra repeated.

  “Of course.”

  Astra’s brow furrowed in what could only be described as… endear—no. Absolutely not. Redacted.

  “…I hate that you might actually be right.” A live ember of light skipped across her knuckles. Then the wall shared a sudden crack, and the room next door answered with a round of groans and inventive profanity.

  “Rebellious, I see,” Eydis teased. “I thought magic was Sanctuary-restricted.”

  “Would you prefer I let them pray all night?”

  Eydis pretended to consider this. “Tempting. But no. I fear it may summon something unspeakable. Like another verse.”

  She nudged the door shut, sealing the room and silencing their neighbour’s devotional enthusiasm.

  Without those sounds, unfortunately, an awkward silence settled between them. Neither spoke first, because if they did…

  Eydis had a feeling something fragile would break, revealing a truth neither was sure they were ready to face.

  Yet.