The storm raged on.

  Frigid rain lashed the earth, thunder cracked the sky, and flashes of lightning split the clouds above Sanctum Vespertine. Yet within the Great Hall, the celebration roared as loud as the storm—heedless, indulgent, and totally unstoppable.

  It pulsed like a distant heartbeat beyond Vespertine’s walls, its lights shimmering through the drenched haze of the city below.

  A lighthouse of luxury in a world still struggling to breathe.

  The tall stained-glass panes shivered in their frames, trembling against the wind, but somehow held fast. The revelry fully shielded within. Without the painstaking enchantments of the Tower Mages and the iron will of Old World craftsmanship, such relics would have long since shattered beneath the tempests of the New World.

  These storms carried more than mere wind and water. They seethed with wild mana swells—capricious, destructive. A strong enough surge could crack enchanted glass, short-circuit ancient runes, or sweep an unguarded soul straight into the sky.

  “Oh, shit!” Evie gasped, catching herself on the doorframe before she was lifted any higher. Her mana, slippery as ever as it collided with the swell, sparked from her fingertips.

  Oliver laughed behind her, helping her down like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Shut up!” she hissed, cheeks already burning as she fought the urge to punt his smug grin clean across the room.

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  She dusted herself off, straightening the skirt of her black dress that matched Oliver’s suit, revealing her footwear.

  “Did you seriously wear your boots to the ceremony?” Oliver tried to bite back the chuckle pleading to escape.

  Venice was gonna crucify his niece.

  “The heels were uncomfortable, okay?” she defended, weaving between tables as they dodged guests already drunk on celebration.

  The party had barely begun and the drunkards were out in full force.

  Old, once-forgotten melodies spilled from every corner of the crowded, opulent room, their ghostly chords echoing off the buttressed ceilings. They tangled with raucous laughter and drunken cheers. Guests sang along, the familiar tunes stirring buried memories, even as the music clashed against the restless roars of the storm outside.

  They danced as if the sky would fall again.

  Evie caught sight of her uncle Sullivan and his brand-new bride—Princess Whatever-Her-Name-Was. They sat at the table of honor, stiff as statues in a garden of decadence. Not a hint of newlywed bliss. Just two strangers frozen in place, not a smile to share between them.

  Evie grimaced. They could at least pretend they liked each other. The whole charade was supposed to be a spectacle as far as she knew.

  She understood why they needed the alliance with the Crystal Forest. What she didn’t understand was why the Crystal Forest needed them.

  But Evie wasn’t a plotter. She was a doer.

  She whistled—sharp and quick.

  From the darker corners of the hall, a troop of shadebound unspooled at once. Her mana sparked like flint against the unnatural chill of her uncle Sully’s mana that congealed into his constructs. Amorphous servants of lightless soot, their ember eyes flickering to life at her call.

  “Clean-up and service,” Evie instructed. “Bottles, plates, top off the drinks—and make sure nobody slips and cracks their skull on the marble floors. It’s literally priceless.”

  With a blink, they dispersed, slipping between tables like shadows cast in her name. Evie’s will, made manifest.

  “You’re gettin’ good at that.”

  “I know. I’m practically a genius.” She beamed a fangy smile, happy to impress.

  Oliver cut off her gloating with a harsh snort. “Yeah, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  A middle finger was her only reply.