“…and every time we think we’ve found the last of them, another one surfaces,” Ayla was saying, her voice steady but tired. “Another merchant who signed something he didn’t understand. Another guard who realizes half his decisions weren’t his. Another noble who wants restitution, or revenge, or both.”

  Rain pattered softly against the road as they walked. The city was far behind them now, replaced by winding paths and low stone walls, the land still soaked and breathing with new life under the endless downpour.

  “It’s like pulling a thread and finding out the whole world was stitched with it,” Ayla continued. “Cassian says we’ve only seen the top layer. That Marcelline didn’t just control people. She built habits. Expectations. Dependencies.”

  Paola walked beside her, cloak drawn close, ears flicking when Ayla paused between sentences. “So it never really ends.”

  “No,” Ayla said quietly. “It just changes shape.”

  They walked a few more steps before Ayla added, almost reluctantly, “Cassian’s been… kind. About it. About me.”

  Paola’s gaze shifted just slightly toward her. Not enough to stare. Enough to notice.

  “He always was,” Paola said.

  Ayla nodded. “He hasn’t blamed me. Not once. Not for what I did, not for what I didn’t know, not even for what I couldn’t stop.” A faint smile touched her lips. “He keeps saying I was just another victim. That Marcelline raised us both to play roles we never chose.”

  Us.

  Paola’s tail gave a small, involuntary flick.

  She knew their history. Everyone did. Cassian and Ayla had always been orbiting each other, pulled close, pushed apart. Like gravity without resolution. If Paola hadn’t fallen into this world, she suspected the story might’ve already written itself.

  And it didn’t make her jealous.

  Not at all.

  Mostly.

  “She never meant you to be siblings,” Paola said.

  “No,” Ayla agreed. “That part was a lie we told ourselves. Something softer than the truth.”

  “Which was?”

  “That we were meant to rule. Together. That we were supposed to become something… higher.” Ayla exhaled slowly. “King and queen. Or worse. Gods in her image.”

  Paola frowned. “That’s… disturbing.”

  “It is.” Ayla’s jaw tightened. “We were never meant to be family. We were meant to be tools.”

  They walked in silence for a moment, the road ahead slick and reflective under the rain.

  Paola finally spoke, carefully. “You don’t sound like you’re running back to him.”

  Ayla glanced at her, surprised. Then softened. “No. I’m not. Cassian is… important to me. He always will be. But what we had was shaped by her. By survival. By expectation.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I get to choose.”

  Paola’s steps slowed just a fraction. “And what are you choosing?”

  Ayla reached out, fingers brushing Paola’s hand, steady and sure. “You.”

  Paola swallowed, warmth rising to her cheeks. The rain suddenly felt less cold.

  “And the rest of it?” Paola asked quietly. “The contracts. Cassian. The mess.”

  Ayla squeezed her hand. “That’s just history trying to finish writing itself. We don’t have to be part of every chapter.”

  Poca’s hands were full and her mind was fuller.

  “Non, non, non—zat one goes zere, cherie, not zere—ah—wait, what was your name again?”

  The servant froze, holding a basket of seedlings, eyes wide like she’d been accused of a crime. Poca winced immediately, lifting her muddy hands in apology.

  “Pardon, pardon, I am so sorry. My fault. My memory is… how you say… very small today.”

  The girl relaxed and smiled. “It’s Lira, Madame.”

  “Lira. Oui. Beautiful name. You take ze seedlings to ze east patch, near ze blue flowers. Zey like ze wet soil more.”

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  Lira nodded and hurried off.

  Poca turned in a slow circle, her burlap dress clinging damply to her frame, frayed edges fluttering in the rain. It had definitely been a sack once. She could still smell faint traces of grain and earth in it. Normally she would have worn nothing at all and thought nothing of it, but the servants had arrived looking so horrified that she’d compromised.

  Her homestead was no longer quiet.

  It was alive. Loud. Chaotic. Full of motion and voices and panic and life.

  “OSO, PLEASE—”

  A crash cut her off.

  “GIVE IT BACK, YOU FUZZY CRIMINAL!”

  Poca turned just in time to see Oso bolt past the fence line, a massive blur of light-brown fur and starlit purple dust, clutching a glass jar in his jaws. Honey sloshed wildly inside. He was no longer a cub. Not even close. He stood nearly half the height of a grown man now, shoulders broad, paws the size of dinner plates. His playful energy hadn’t changed, only the scale of the disaster he could cause.

  Yasmin chased him, wings flaring behind her, boots slipping in the mud.

  “Oso! I swear to every star in the sky, if you break that jar I will—”

  Oso skidded sideways, narrowly missing a servant and a crate of herbs, and bounded again, tail whipping, cosmic dust trailing behind him like a comet.

  Poca clasped her hands together. “Mon dieu…”

  Carter stood nearby.

  Not helping.

  At all.

  He was positioned at the edge of the garden like a statue of war. His new body gleamed even in the rain: layered plates of fine wood reinforced with polished metals, thick limbs shaped like something built for battle rather than tea parties and sewing kits. His carved grin was wide and permanent. His hollow eyes watched the chaos with unsettling calm.

  He looked… proud.

  Like a guardian.

  Like a knight.

  Like an armored bodybuilder who had decided his job was to observe the apocalypse politely.

  “Carter,” Poca whispered, glancing at him. “A little help, mon ami?”

  He did not move.

  He only straightened slightly.

  The pride somehow increased.

  Poca rubbed her face. “Zis is what I get for giving you confidence…”

  “HEY!” Yasmin yelled, slipping again as Oso doubled back. “You can’t just take food! That’s theft! That’s—”

  Oso plopped down suddenly, jar tucked between his paws, and stared at her with wide, innocent eyes.

  Yasmin skidded to a halt. “Oh no. Don’t do that. Don’t you dare do the cute thing.”

  Oso tilted his head.

  Yasmin groaned. “I hate you. I love you. I hate you.”

  Poca hurried over, hands lifted in gentle surrender. “Oso, chéri… ze honey is not for playing, oui? It is for cooking. For healing. And for Yasmin’s tea when she is grumpy.”

  “I am not grumpy!”

  Oso looked between them.

  Then slowly nudged the jar toward Poca.

  Yasmin blinked. “Did… did we just win?”

  Oso immediately snatched it back and bolted again.

  Yasmin screamed and took off after him.

  Poca watched them go, exhaustion and affection tangling in her chest.

  Servants rushed back and forth, some laughing nervously, some calling for instructions, some clearly questioning their life choices.

  Her garden.

  Her home.

  Her sanctuary.

  It was chaos.

  And she loved it.

  But she was tired.

  Deeply, soul-tired.

  Poca placed a hand over her stitched chest and breathed.

  “I am ready for Helios,” she murmured to herself. “Very ready.”

  Evan had learned something important about being… whatever he was.

  He could eat.

  He could taste.

  He could enjoy it.

  And that alone made existence infinitely better.

  He sat on an overturned crate near the edge of the supply yard, rain ticking softly against canvas awnings above, gnawing thoughtfully on what might have once been a chicken leg. Or a turkey. Or a very ambitious goose. The bone was thick. The meat was rich. He was happy.

  Malakar, of course, was not.

  “You chose the food station,” the voice in his skull sneered. “Again. Selene is acquiring information. Weapons. Leverage.”

  “And possible stab wounds,” Evan replied silently. “Don’t forget those.”

  “You are wasting potential.”

  “I am maximizing calories.”

  He took another bite, grease dripping between skeletal fingers that somehow still felt warm. Or at least, warm enough that the memory of warmth satisfied him. He chewed slowly, savoring it.

  Across from him, Yucca sat with perfect posture, calmly sorting through a small ledger and several crates of neatly bundled supplies. Her wings were folded close to her back, silver glass catching dim light even in shadow. Her opalescent eyes flicked from page to page, tracking inventory with surgical focus.

  Selene was… elsewhere.

  Not physically far. Just spiritually dangerous.

  She leaned against a wall near the alley entrance, arms crossed, ash-grey skin barely visible beneath dark leather, her mithralite fist resting against her hip. Purple eyes watched the flow of people like a predator evaluating prey. Occasionally someone would glance her way and immediately decide to walk faster.

  Malakar approved.

  “You should be with her,” he said. “She understands the necessity of violence.”

  “She also understands the necessity of stabbing,” Evan replied. “I’m trying to minimize that.”

  Yucca looked up from her ledger and squinted at him.

  He froze mid-bite.

  “Oh no,” Evan muttered aloud, mouth still full. “This is where you tell me I eat too much, right?”

  Her gaze shifted from his hands… to his cloak.

  “…That isn’t standard issue,” she said.

  Evan glanced down at himself.

  The new cloak was black. Not the navy-blue one that hid him. This one was different. Lighter. Dramatic. Flowed just enough to feel important. He liked it. A little too much, honestly.

  And leaning against the crate beside him was the scythe.

  Long shaft. Curved blade. Obnoxiously stylish.

  “I… might have picked it up,” Evan said carefully.

  Yucca’s eyes narrowed. “From where.”

  “From the weapons rack.”

  “The ceremonial weapons rack?”

  “Is that bad?”

  Malakar laughed. A deep, satisfied echo. “Finally. You choose something with presence.”

  “It’s very… thematic,” Yucca said slowly. “For Earth.”

  Evan brightened. “Right? That’s what I thought. Paola will get it immediately.”

  “She will,” Yucca agreed. “She will also ask why you’re dressed like Death.”

  Evan shrugged. “I kind of already am.”

  Malakar was pleased.

  “You wear it well,” the voice said. “It suits the bones.”

  Evan ignored him and took another bite of meat.

  Yucca studied him for a moment longer, then returned to her ledger. “You avoided Selene’s assignment.”

  “Strategically,” Evan said.

  “Cowardly.”

  “Safely.”

  “…Acceptable,” Yucca conceded.

  He smiled, though no one could tell.

  Between the strategist, the assassin, and the skeleton who just wanted lunch, Evan was pretty sure he had chosen the best possible role.

  And honestly?

  If Helios involved less stabbing and more eating, he was all for it.