The wet sandstone streets of Valarian shimmered under a relentless downpour. It was, of course, pouring. The city had been weeping for months, ever since the Leviathan died within Lady Marcelline, and today was no exception. Water ran in rivulets down the sides of buildings, gurgled in storm drains, and turned the usually dusty desert metropolis into something that felt born of the sea. The maritime architecture, with its swooping eaves and porthole windows, no longer seemed out of place. The wooden rope bridges swaying between towering structures looked less like desert oddities and more like natural extensions of the city’s new, waterlogged soul.

  The night before had been a cocoon of warmth. They had stayed up late, a tangle of limbs on Poca’s floor, sharing stories of the last few weeks—Yasmin’s near-miss with an alchemical explosion, Evan’s increasingly baffling conversations with Yucca about magical ectoplasm, Ayla’s quiet, frustrating progress with the mountain of paperwork Marcelline had left behind. This morning had been a flurry of final instructions, ensuring Carter understood his duties. The wooden golem had stood at attention, his permanent, too-wide grin somehow looking prouder than Paola thought possible, as Poca explained he was now a soldier, a protector of the homestead. He took the responsibility with a solemn, silent salute that was both touching and deeply unsettling.

  Now, huddled under the awning of a food stall, they were eating. The vendor had handed them skewers of some fantasy meat, probably a desert lizard or rock-hen, coated in a spiced, soft breading and fried until golden. It was greasy, hot, and delicious, a perfect comfort against the cool, damp air.

  Paola took a bite, savoring the crunch, and glanced at Ayla. “So, this captain of ours,” she began, her voice low to be heard over the drumming rain. “You sure we can trust him?”

  Ayla, who was meticulously eating her skewer without a single crumb escaping, nodded. “I met him a while ago, before the fallout. His name is Roric. He was one of the few independent captains in the city who never signed a contract with Marcelline. Refused, point-blank. Said he’d rather sail his ship into the sun than be owned.”

  “Sounds stubborn,” Yasmin commented from her other side, already on her second skewer.

  “He is,” Ayla agreed. “But he’s honorable as they come. His crew… might be a little odd. He takes in the strays no one else will have.”

  Paola looked around at her own team: the Harbinger of Chaos nibbling a meat skewer, the stoic demon assassin scanning the crowd, the gentle healer humming to herself, the explosive magist trying to steal a pickle from Evan’s plate, the skeleton awkwardly trying to shield his food from the rain, and the quiet, obsessive magist who was probably calculating the aerodynamic drag of the falling raindrops. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Well, odd is describing my team lightly.”

  Ayla’s lips curved into a small smile.

  Paola finished her food and glanced up, past the glistening rooftops and into the city that was still built into the sky. A complex web of rope bridges and pulley systems connected skyscrapers like titanic spiderwebs, swaying gently in the wind and rain. Somewhere up there, shrouded in the mist, was the skydock. Their airship. The Wandering Star.

  Her nerves, which had been dormant all morning, suddenly decided to wake up and do acrobatics in her stomach. This was it. The end of the rain and the mud, the end of the fragile peace they had built. The beginning of something else entirely. Something bright and unknown.

  Khepri liked the riverbank.

  The water ran clear there, sliding over glass-smooth stone, bending the city into fractured reflections. Helios never looked at itself straight on. It preferred angles. Distortion. A softened truth. From the bank, the city appeared doubled and inverted, towers sinking into the water while their roots reached for the sky. That felt honest.

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  He sat just beyond the eastern gate, where travelers slowed and guards pretended not to see him. Close enough to beg. Far enough to be forgotten. His bowl rested untouched at his feet. He never rattled it. Never asked. Need invited pity. Pity invited control.

  Khepri preferred curiosity.

  He smelled the man before he saw him. Not sweat or steel, but discipline. Old leather. The faint metallic tang of blood long since washed away. A soldier who had learned how not to be noticed and failed anyway.

  Augustus stopped at the river’s edge as if by accident.

  Good, Khepri thought. He’s learned restraint. That means he’s ready to be dangerous.

  Khepri did not look up at first. He traced a finger through the water, watching the light break around his knuckle.

  “They left us,” he said mildly, as if continuing a conversation already in progress. “You know that, don’t you?”

  The man did not answer. Silence was another kind of listening.

  “The gods,” Khepri went on. “Everyone says they ascended. Grew tired of us. Found something better beyond the veil.” He chuckled, soft and broken. “As if gods grow bored. As if hunger ever forgets its teeth.”

  Augustus shifted. Khepri felt it like a pressure change.

  “They fled,” Khepri said, lifting his eyes at last. He let madness cloud them just enough. Just enough to be dismissed if needed. “The world went thin. Magic dried up. Faith turned sour in their mouths. A god starves faster than a man when belief runs out.”

  That earned him a look. Sharp. Evaluating.

  Good.

  “Some ran far,” he continued, rocking slightly as if lost in thought. “Other worlds. Other skies. They wrapped themselves in new names and waited. Gods are very patient when they think time belongs to them.”

  He leaned closer to the water, voice dropping.

  “But some stayed.”

  The river stilled. Or perhaps it was only Augustus holding his breath.

  “They were too wounded to rule,” Khepri said quietly. “Too proud to flee. So they hid. They slept. They bound themselves into stone and blood and lineage. You build cities atop their dreams and call it progress.”

  He smiled then. Warm. Harmless.

  “Titans never slept,” he added lightly. “That’s the mistake everyone makes. You don’t make a beast to kill a god and expect it to forget why it was born.”

  Augustus finally spoke. His voice was low, controlled. “You speak like you were there.”

  Khepri laughed, sharp and bright. “I speak like an old man who listens.”

  That was true enough to be useful.

  The man’s reflection in the river was broader than his body suggested. Shoulders squared even when he tried to soften them. Authority clung to him like heat. He wore rags, yes, but the posture betrayed him. Leaders never quite learn how to shrink.

  Helios had noticed. The city always noticed.

  “She was weak,” Augustus said, almost to himself.

  Ah. There it is.

  Khepri did not respond immediately. He let the river carry the silence, let the thought settle and root.

  “Weakness,” he said at last, “is when a ruler doubts the necessity of their own hand.”

  Augustus’s jaw tightened.

  “The city needs order,” the man continued. “It needs direction. Not hesitation. Not inherited sentiment.”

  Khepri nodded, as if agreeing with a child reciting a lesson. “Cities do not survive on mercy alone. That is true.”

  He turned his head, studying the gates of Helios. The crystal-veined stone shimmered softly, storing the day’s light for later use. Always preparing. Always unfinished.

  “But order,” Khepri added, “is not the same as obedience.”

  Augustus frowned.

  “Obedience is easy,” Khepri said. “Fear buys it cheaply. Faith buys it in bulk. But order?” He tapped the riverbank. “Order is balance. And balance resents crowns.”

  The man bristled. Pride flared. Khepri felt it bloom, rich and familiar.

  Yes, you feel chosen, don’t you? he thought. You always do, at this stage.

  Out loud, he said, “You have survived where others fell. You have won wars others could not. That does not make you chosen.”

  Augustus’s eyes hardened.

  “It makes you available.”

  That landed. Khepri watched the idea sink in, watched it rearrange itself into something dangerous and useful.

  “The gods will return,” he said gently. “Not as saviors. As claimants. They will look at what remains and decide who has prepared the world for them.”

  Augustus stared at the river, at his own fractured reflection. “And if I do?”

  Khepri smiled, eyes ancient now, the madness gone like a dropped cloak.

  “Then you will have done exactly what they hoped,” he said. “And exactly what they fear.”

  Augustus straightened. Decision settling into his bones like armor being fastened.

  He nodded once, sharply, and turned back toward the gates of Helios.

  Khepri watched him go, then returned his attention to the river.

  Crowns always thought they were forged.

  They never realized they were grown.