Paola stood at the very front of the ship, where the deck curved upward and the railing thinned to almost nothing. She didn’t know what it was called. Bow, prow, something like that. It didn’t matter. It was the place where the sky met her first.

  Her cloak was open, useless against the wind, snapping and streaming behind her like a banner. It caught the air and pulled, like it wanted to lift her off the deck and let her join the stars. Her tail swayed with the motion of the ship, and her ears flattened just enough to keep the wind from roaring straight through them. Her ponytail whipped wildly, strands of hair stinging her shoulders and back, the sensation sharp and alive.

  She grinned to herself.

  If anyone had been there, she would’ve said it.

  “Look, Jack. I’m flying.”

  She didn’t care that she was naked. At this point it barely registered. After months of running into danger with nothing but her skin and her chaos to protect her, modesty had become an abstract concept. The wind slid over her body freely, cool and electric, tracing every curve, every scar, every inch of her like it was memorizing her. It felt honest. Clean. Exhilarating.

  Roric passed behind her, boots heavy on the planks. He gave her a sideways glance and a grunt of amusement. “Enjoy it while it’s cloudy,” he said. “We’ll be breaking free of Valarian’s skies soon.”

  She turned just enough to beam at him. “Soon like… soon soon?”

  “Soon soon.” He tipped an imaginary hat and continued on, already heading below to steal a nap before the real travel began.

  Paola faced forward again, heart thudding.

  And as if the sky itself had been waiting for her anticipation…

  The fog thinned.

  The grey broke.

  The ship surged upward, the last veil of cloud peeling away like a curtain pulled back from a stage.

  Suddenly, there was nothing above them.

  Only infinity.

  The sky exploded into color. Not simple black, but layers of deep purples and soft pinks and endless midnight blues, like someone had tried to paint darkness and accidentally made it beautiful. Stars burned in impossible numbers, scattered thick and bright, some sharp and white, others warm and golden, others tinted faintly violet. It was as if the heavens had been dusted with crushed gemstones.

  Two moons hung high above. One pale and silver, calm and ancient. The other tinted faintly amber, like it had stolen a piece of sunrise and refused to give it back. Their light overlapped, washing the ship in soft, shifting hues.

  Paola sucked in a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

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  Her skin glowed faintly under the starlight, every curve outlined in silver and rose. The wind played across her like a lover that knew no restraint, tugging at her cloak, brushing her thighs, lifting her hair and tail into slow, weightless motion. She felt powerful. Small. Exposed. Infinite.

  The ship sailed forward into a sky that felt too large to conquer and too beautiful to belong to anyone.

  For the first time in a long while, Paola wasn’t thinking about Helios.

  Or chaos.

  Or destiny.

  She was just a girl standing naked at the edge of the universe, letting the stars see her as she was.

  Augustus stood with his shoulders squared and his chin lifted, the posture of a man who had learned long ago that doubt showed through the spine first.

  He was not a bad man.

  He told himself that often. Not as a lie, but as reinforcement. Bad men acted for pleasure. For cruelty. For hunger. Augustus acted because things needed to be done, and because no one else had the will to do them cleanly.

  He closed his eyes. Hard.

  Theopetra.

  The name cut deeper than any blade ever had. He had been one of her most trusted captains. Chosen not for blood, but for competence. For loyalty proven in campaigns that bled men dry and still demanded more. He had stood at her side while she spoke of reform, of patience, of Helios learning to guide itself without gods or crowns pressing down too hard.

  And then he betrayed her.

  Helios was dying. Not loudly. Not in flames. It was rotting gently, comfortably, beneath crystal and greenery and polite debate. A city that believed itself above gods had begun to starve for meaning. Augustus had seen it in the eyes of soldiers, of merchants, of citizens who no longer knew what they were meant to endure for.

  Change was not optional. It was necessary.

  From ashes, gods would rise.

  The thought sent a familiar heat through his chest. Not fear. Anticipation.

  The war between gods and titans had never ended. That much he understood now. History books called it resolution. Myths called it balance. But balance did not leave scars that still ached when magic stirred. Balance did not wake ancient things beneath the earth.

  Fallen Stars had begun to return.

  Months ago, when the first of them fell screaming from the sky, Augustus had known. Some landed here. Most struck near Valarian, carving burning wounds into the Seracian Sands. The world did not call upon Fallen Stars for celebration. It called them when something older began to stir. When gods shifted in their sleep. When the cage began to crack.

  Khepri had confirmed it.

  Wise, maddened Khepri. The beggar with too-straight posture and eyes that looked past the present. Augustus trusted him more than he trusted scholars or priests. Khepri did not speak to be believed. He spoke to be heard.

  Since then, Augustus’s decisions had sharpened. Streamlined. Each move he made while Helios panicked over Theopetra’s disappearance felt guided, almost inevitable. He had stepped into the vacuum because someone had to.

  He would be ready.

  Wouldn’t he?

  The thought faltered when another truth surfaced, unbidden.

  He had loved her.

  The realization burned like venom through his veins, slow and corrosive. He had never spoken it. Never allowed it shape. She had never noticed him that way, not really. She had followed another captain’s counsel, trusted another man’s presence. That had made it easier. Distance always did.

  And then she was gone.

  Just like that, the Queen of Helios vanished from the board, and the city reeled. Augustus had not expected it to be so easy. Or perhaps he had simply underestimated how fragile systems became once the symbol at their center was removed.

  Now the streets whispered again.

  Faith, long dismissed as archaic and dangerous, was returning. Not in temples or hymns, but in murmurs. In questions. In longing. Khepri’s words spread through alleyways and marketplaces like embers carried on the wind.

  Gods were coming back.

  And Augustus knew exactly when to strike.

  He opened his eyes, gaze lifting toward the crystal-lit skyline of Helios. The city refracted the light beautifully, hiding its fractures beneath clarity and order.

  It needed a leader.

  And this time, the gods would find Helios ready.