Szylla's pen tapped lightly on her book's spine. "A free-willed aberration. How splendid."

  The words settled like frost between us. My breath felt sharp in my chest, slicing on the way in. Szylla simply regarded me over steepled fingers, her monocle catching a lambent ghost-glow from the cold fire.

  And then because the universe couldn't let my bitterness stew in solemn silence; Wailfiend made a dramatic, rasping gasp that could've been ripped from the throat of a dying prima donna.

  She sprang upright, clutching her bonnet with clawed fingers. Her bouquet tumbled to the floor, scattering black petals that curled and wriggled like tiny bugs before dying still.

  "Oh merciful graves. Is this the part where the tormented fledgling lashes out at the cruel matron, swearing vengeance or begging for scraps of maternal affection? Because I have been waiting—absolutely festering—for that scene. Shall I fetch a handkerchief soaked in ghostly wails for you to sob into?"

  She clasped her hands under her chin, eyes glistening with ghoulish delight. Her shadowy hair frilled out behind her, a specter's bridal train come horribly to life.

  "Or perhaps I should conjure a tiny violin made from marrow to serenade your newfound trauma. How splendidly, deliciously tragic!"

  I stared at her.

  She fluttered her lashes in grotesque parody of maidenly concern, then leaned forward so close her face nearly brushed mine; her breath cool and smelling faintly of grave-moss. Her grin stretched just a touch too wide, eyes cavernous and bright with feverish glee.

  "Well?" she whispered, in that lilting, sepulchral murmur. "Do you feel properly ruined? Will you pen gothic poetry by candlelight now? Shall I prepare your weeping chaise?"

  Something in me, battered and bitter though it was, simply refused to bend beneath her morbid theatrics. I let out a low exhale that was almost a scoff.

  "Nice try," I said flatly. "But if you want tears, find a mirror."

  Her expression slackened in the most petulant, crestfallen manner imaginable.

  She let out a mournful sigh and sank back into her chair, arms folded tight across her chest like a sulking specter denied its favorite haunting.

  "Honestly, why do none of the Sovereign's chosen ever play along? It's so dreadfully boring to haunt an audience with no sense of operatic tragedy."

  Szylla only sipped her tea, one eyebrow delicately raised in dry amusement, as if to say: this is why I keep her around.

  At last, she released a long breath. Her monocle darkened, the little glyphs fading to nothing. "Very well, my dear KiAera. I do so admire a soul with teeth. Moesgrave?"

  The Weregangrolf inclined his great head, a ripple traveling down the dense fur of his shoulders. He produced from somewhere within his waistcoat a small silver filigree box, etched with patterns that made my eyes water if I tried to follow them too precisely. With a surprising gentleness, he set it before me.

  "Your pass beyond this fold," Szylla said. "It will open the gate on the far side of my estates. The moonpath will carry you out. Do be mindful not to stray from the argent stones, or you may find yourself wandering deeper, rather than home."

  Her smile sharpened minutely. "This realm has appetites all its own."

  I reached out, hesitating only a fraction before taking the little box. It dimmed faintly, as though it contained a heart not quite aligned with my own. I tucked it carefully against my side.

  "You have my gratitude," I said. My voice was quieter than I liked. The vastness of her gaze had a way of swallowing even conviction.

  "Not necessary. You are, after all, my masterpiece in miniature. The mark you wear will whisper of me long after you have left these halls."

  Her eyes slipped past me, fixing on Wailfiend. "And you, dear Wailfiend. You may linger in the manor if you wish, or accompany our guest for as long as your tethers allow."

  Wailfiend startled, flitted to me, then away, then back again. "I—"

  Her voice faltered. Then she gathered herself, her head dipping forward. "If it pleases… I will follow. For now."

  Somewhere behind me came the faintest scrape, a rustle of fabric over stone. I turned just enough to catch Aria in my peripheral vision. She stood half-shadowed near a pillar, wearing a severe gothic dress of deep black satin overlaid with cobweb lace, gloves pulled high past her elbows. Her posture was rigid, head tilted down as though studying her gloved hands, yet I felt the burn of her stare on my neck.

  She said nothing. Her silence was more accusing than any outcry.

  Vaida entered then, casual as if stepping into a sunlit courtyard rather than this funereal tea chamber. His silver suit shimmered, the arcane bands binding his many tails into a singular length with prismatic script. He carried himself with practiced elegance, his fox ears flicking forward in amusement as he swept into a low bow.

  "My Sovereign, ladies, honored guests," he said, his grin sly, heterochromic silver-green eyes lingering on me a breath longer. "I hear congratulations are in order for the completion of Miss KiAera's metamorphosis. Might I escort her and her retinue to the border when she is ready?"

  Szylla's smile remained poised. "You might, dear Vaida. Do mind the hour. The deeper pockets of my forest are stirring; not all are partial to our company."

  Vaida's grin sharpened. "Understood."

  He offered me an elegant hand. I glanced once more at Aria, still silent. Her expression was caught somewhere between longing and loathing, her mouth a taut line.

  I did not reach for her. Instead, I took Vaida's hand. His grip was cool, his nails lightly pricking my skin.

  As he led me away from the table, Wailfiend drifted close, her bouquet cradled now almost like a wounded animal. "Do not wander far from me. If you vanish into some other dark… I might follow you in only to lose myself entirely."

  "Then stay close."

  Vaida chuckled. "Ah, it warms my old fox heart to see such tender confessions. Almost makes me forget what happens to most who try to leave Szylla's fold."

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  Wailfiend shot him a brittle glare over her shoulder, but said nothing.

  Then, from nowhere and everywhere came the laughter. A low, lilting sound, rich with delight and dripping with threat. I knew that voice. It lived in the back of my spine, in the marrow of my war-forged bones.

  "Oh, look at you now."

  The shadows near the ceiling cracked, spilling ribbons of light and ink down the cabin's walls. From that storm of beauty and dread, she stepped forward; graceful, glowing, grotesque.

  DeNultra.

  Zeldritch Sovereign Emperor. The Devourer. The one who had changed me.

  Her wings spanned wide—white to black, feather to fang—shifting like a contradiction given form. Her horns gleamed in the hearthlight that hadn't been there a second ago. And her bright, bottomless, famished eyes locked onto me with a gleam of admiration that felt far too intimate.

  Somewhere behind Szylla, Wailfiend let out a sob, probably a shriek… that crawled briefly across the tiles before curling in on themselves and dying. Vaida just vanished from the area where he once stood. My hand reached out as I saw Aria's grasp of her quivering shoulders.

  Szylla froze. I saw it in her posture; her tentacles coiled so tight they shivered. Her aura, for the first time since I met her, recoiled. Even in her own domain, she braced like someone about to be overrun.

  DeNultra just smiled.

  "I hope I'm not intruding," she cooed, in the way an earthquake might apologize for arriving early.

  "You are," Szylla said calmly, though the faint tremor in her voice betrayed the pressure in the room.

  "Delightful." DeNultra turned her gaze back to me and gave a theatrical little clap. "You did it, adorable little firebrand. Unique Grade. I'd kiss you if I didn't plan to eventually devour your soul."

  I huffed and crossed my arms again. "You always show up when I'm vulnerable."

  "You're always vulnerable," she said sweetly. "It's part of your charm."

  "I just survived a Rite that was supposed to kill me."

  She grinned, revealing too many fangs. "Yes. That's what makes you such an interesting investment. And now here you are, bright and wild and still so achingly mortal. But I can fix that."

  "Please don't," then I added under my breath, "unless there's an insurance plan."

  Szylla's whole composure suddenly dropped. I don't mean subtly, I mean the woman visibly pouted, monocle fogging with disdain, tentacles curling like offended cats.

  "Of course she shows up now," Szylla muttered. She cleared her throat sharply. "She's under my protection now."

  DeNultra turned her head very slowly to glance at her, eyes twinkling with unspoken amusement. "How sweet. You think I need your permission."

  And Szylla, Sovereign of Mysteries, high-rank entity of the Nine, visibly flinched. But to her credit, she held her ground.

  "She survived me, DeNultra. She chose herself. That matters."

  "Oh, Szylla. Still so dutiful. Still believing these delicate little rites and choices hold any sway over what we are."

  Her wings folded in with a sound like rustling knives, though she kept that consuming gaze on me. My skin prickled; though not in fear exactly like it should have been; but more like standing on the precipice of something vast, knowing if I leaned even a hairbreadth more, I'd be swallowed whole.

  Wailfiend, who until then had been rigid tense—finally made a small, strangled sound. Her eyes flicked between her mistress and this uninvited god-emperor who made even Szylla look mortal.

  DeNultra noticed. Her attention slid from me to Wailfiend with lazy curiosity, eyes dilating.

  "Ah, the banshee tucked in her corset. So precious. I do adore what you've done with her, Szylla. Almost gives you the air of a… what's the word your little monsters use? Mother."

  Szylla's jaw tightened until her cheekbone was prominent, her hands folding neatly in her lap atop her black lace napkin. Her tentacles were a riot of agitation beneath the table, coiling and uncoiling, brushing against the floor with soft wet sighs.

  "You're trespassing," Szylla said carefully. "Through seals and wards specifically designed to keep your brand of chaos out. That isn't merely audacious—it's a direct breach of inter-sovereign compact."

  "Oh please. I broke them because I can. The compact only binds those who wish to remain small, obedient, afraid. I am none of those things."

  DeNultra leaned over me suddenly, so close her breath teased across my cheek, wildly sweet.

  "And neither, my brilliant little chimera, are you."

  Her hand rose as though to cup my chin. But she paused, just hovering there, fingers twitching as though fighting the urge to seize me outright.

  I batted her hand away—carefully, because no matter how reckless I felt, I wasn't that reckless.

  "Get in line. Szylla still has half a dozen experiments left to run on me, apparently. You'll have to wait your turn to ruin me further."

  Wailfiend let out a shocked little gasp, a tiny hiccup of horror and delight. Her eyes darted to Szylla's reaction, clearly savoring any sign from her mistress. But Szylla only exhaled slowly, then lifted her teacup again with exquisite poise.

  "Your obsession is noted, DeNultra. But my pupil is mine for now. She's under contract…one sealed by roots and marrow and cosmic principle. Interfering before the term completes would force arbitration."

  DeNultra scrutinized the edges of my shape before snapping her gaze back to Szylla. "Do you think I fear arbitration? Or the courts?" Her smile grew impossibly serene. "I've devoured arbitrators before. They’re crunchy."

  "But it's so much more interesting," she added, tapping a finger against her own lips in a mock-thoughtful gesture, "to watch how you mold her first. To see how far she can stretch under your tender cruelty before she snaps… or evolves again. It's delightful theater."

  Szylla's monocle flared with a quick pulse of disdain. But DeNultra straightened and shrugged, her long and barbed tail trailing motes of dissolving reality; sweeping across the parlor floor and leaving a line of creeping distortion. She glanced at Wailfiend, then back to me, and her grin softened in a way that was somehow worse.

  Wailfiend's lips twitched as her eyes locked with mine. Her shoulders hunched higher, bonnet trembling.

  "Why does she look at you that way?” Her finger jabbed toward DeNultra without daring to make a direct point. "Why does my Sovereign flinch and posture as though defending the last breath in her chest? Why does everyone want to claim you if it is not… something precious?"

  Her voice died again, dissolving into a soft rasp that barely reached my ears.

  "It's not fair."

  "Oh, little banshee," DeNultra said. "It's adorable, truly, how you cling to this petty envy. But perhaps your Sovereign should've tutored you better in the ways of value."

  That earned her a murderous glare from Szylla, who spoke coldly. "I raised her to be loyal and discerning. Not to lap at your claws for scraps of favor."

  DeNultra arched a brow. "And yet look at her. Quaking and coveting. Practically hollow with longing."

  She turned her attention back to me, eyes gleaming with worlds unspoken. "Tell me, little starling—if you could give your old shape to her, would you? Just to soothe this tremorous shadow of a girl who still dreams of warm skin?"

  I went very still. Wailfiend sucked in a shaky breath.

  "No," I said at last. "Because it wouldn't solve anything. She's… more than a shape. And it would be cruel to let her believe otherwise."

  Wailfiend's stare flinched away. Her eyes pooled with something that might have been tears. Then they hardened into that eerie emptiness once more.

  "Humans always say such gentle lies," she whispered, but there was a soft, guilty curl at the corner of her mouth that suggested she'd hold those words close all the same.

  Meanwhile, Szylla stood and smoothed her skirts with exquisite poise. "Matron DeNultra. You have trespassed. You've circumvented security matrices older than the local ley-lattice. Impressive, I admit. But if you insist on prolonging your stay, you will do so at my table… under my hospitality… and by my rules."

  DeNultra made a show of sighing. "Very well, dearest Szylla. I can play polite guest for a little while longer." Her grin returned, all lush mockery. "Besides, watching your little Wailfiend simmer in jealousy is the finest theater I've enjoyed in centuries… Moesgrave, tea please."

  She swept to the table, choosing a chair precisely opposite Szylla so their mutual disdain could dance between them like a candle flame. And the werehound poured her tea with careful, trembling hands.

  I leaned back in my chair, wrapping my hands around my tea once more, savoring the warmth. The monstrous politics and tangled hearts that sprawled across this haunted tea table were not my fault… but for better or worse, they were my story now.

  So I gave Wailfiend a small, tired smile. "Next time, maybe just tell me you'd like me to sit closer."

  She looked scandalized.

  Szylla's eyes sparkled with sudden intrigue. "Oh, most interesting," she folded her gloved hands with a pleased sigh. "This little triangle may bear more fruit than I ever projected."

  DeNultra simply laughed a dark, silken sound that promised she would be around to watch it all unfold, no matter who tried to lock the doors against her.

  "Keep your little tea parties, then. I'll come for her when the echoes start to drown her sanity. That's when they're most delicious. And if she lasts long enough, well…" Her wings stretched wide. "Then we'll see what sort of crown fits that clever head."