100 years ago.

  The two airships clung together like tangled balls of wire, anchored nose-to-nose, orbiting the same rusted mooring post. An entire market hung between them, an artificial island powered by gemstones and bad intentions. A city without a monarch. A place only accessible in the silence of the void.

  And Amara’s horns felt like they might rot off.

  Engineering marvel or not, the stench was skin-clawing, the pungent odour penetrating every pore.

  It invaded beneath her blouse and soaked the new heels she’d bought yesterday.

  Sure, she knew it was a wasteland, a place for criminals, but apparently, no one saw a need to shower here. She flicked off a chrome-and-black sludge and huffed.

  “Why in all hells does it have to be here?”

  Maybe she had the wrong coordinates. A misprint. A cruel joke.

  But no…

  The Circle didn’t make mistakes. No, their orders were perfect. Their instructions exact. Fume, it was almost like they could see the future.

  Except for the one where they were supposed to pay her on time.

  Amara sighed and glared at the handwritten note.

  “Purchase a girl of royal assent from the General of Lust. Wait for further instructions.”

  Nonsense. All of it.

  Why would a royal be sold on a floating trash heap like this?

  And why would the Circle, which preached anti-noble rhetoric like gospel, care enough to dispatch her personally?

  They hated nobles.

  She hated nobles.

  All those pampered little aristocrats, born into silk and smug superiority, never touching the grime the rest of the realm had to crawl through.

  “Spoiled little shits,” she muttered. “No life experience at all.”

  “I take it you speak of our overlords?”

  The voice slithered in like oil.

  Amara frowned and turned to the approaching Sebastian. His new Mermaid scale suit, a vibrant mockery of fashion trends. Brutish, flamboyant and still leaking blood.

  “From my understanding,” she said, “you’re half noble yourself.”

  “Hush now. You and I are both smugglers.”

  His incubus tail flicked as he closed the distance.

  “How about we enjoy some quality time before we… negotiate?”

  Her feet almost reversed themselves. His perfume hit first—sweet and expensive layered together. Then the finger traced her arm.

  A nerve raced her fingers into a fist, calling all the restraint she could muster. She wasn’t going to let his Valkar methods sway her, she wasn’t going to let—

  A touch crawled up her sleeve, licked the edge of her blouse.

  She slapped his hand away.

  “YOU CAN STOP THERE,” she growled.

  She, a whole foot taller than the little man, her anters like two golden spears aimed over his head, wished she had the nerve to slap the general’s face. Risk all she had built to put the rat in his place. But Sebastian only grinned. That invasive, predatory smile that said he wasn’t used to hearing no. Hell, she fantasised about kicking him into the void. No one here would care. Oh, it was so tempting…

  But the Circle didn’t care about her fantasies.

  They wanted results.

  And she needed this man—this preening, blood-stitched clown—long enough to get her merchandise.

  Sebastian sighed, long and heated, pushing through wet lips.

  “I’d hand the merchandise over straightaway, but… that product is somewhat difficult to package up.”

  Amara frowned. Difficult? Was this royal girl too much for thieves and thugs?

  “If you’re stalling,” she started, “I’ll—”

  Then, like a hammer colliding with a domino, a pair of airship doors blasted open. A Large body hit one, a thin leg kicked the other as the short demon dragged the mountain down. Vibrant violet hair, a scream only a warrior might wield, and a tiny package to contain it all.

  The girl spun and wrapped her legs like a noose around the werewolf’s neck, her body constricting the air from the beast’s lungs.

  “I SAID I WON’T LEAVE THEM BEHIND!” she spat.

  But the wolf man only thrashed, as his brutish fingers struggled to tear her off.

  “Really again?” said Sebastian, “I told you, drug her first, then move her. Can’t you follow my instructions?”

  But from the blue face the fuzzy man had, there were more things to worry about than instructions.

  Annoyed, Sebastian snapped his fingers, and two more men came out.

  “Sedate her,” the General ordered.

  But Amara only saw two large sticks, blunted and tinged with dried blood. And maybe by instinct, her feet wanted to step forward. A pull drawing her in, a relation to those furious crimson eyes, the girl had. And a part of Amara needed to step in. Stop those men.

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  But before she could react, the girl snatched a pouch from the passed-out werewolf.

  “Stop her!” Sebastian screamed, “Don’t let her—”

  The girl swallowed the contents, and a spark of energy shot through the entire ship, the roar and howl to the void.

  Amara gulped. Knowing instantly.

  “Archdemon,” she whispered. “royalty”

  But worse, adolescence. Power. Raw in waves without control. Amara tried to step back, but green Voltite chased her. The entire core that held this demon-made island vibrated as it destabilised, the floor sinking as airships began to break apart.

  Forget a mere breakout. This girl would kill them all. End Amara’s ambition here and now.

  “Sebastian”, Amara snapped, “General!”

  But the man had already started moving, not flaring power, but running, gun in hand, boots hitting crumbling tiles.

  The girl, under no illusion of control, screamed as Voltite veins flooded her skin, the blast of light mimicking a dying sun.

  “She was killing herself, and taking us down with her.” Amara hissed.

  And there was nothing Amara could do. Only Solelite could take down an Archdemon.

  Then she heard a bang, once, twice, three times.

  And then the floor steadied, and the girl lay among the dust. Powerless bleeding and…

  “Shit”, Amara said, “the circle said—”

  She didn’t have time, so she started running, pushing the goons and inspecting the wounds. But as her fingers found skin, she found it smooth, healed without a blemish.

  “What this can’t be, I saw, I saw…”

  “She was also using Hemarite”, said a voice. Young, soft, and close.

  Amara looked up, feeling the lag of Neurite claw inside her mind.

  “We gave it to her; we wanted her to help,” said another.

  Amara scanned and scanned, narrowing her focus to the corners of her mind, until…

  “Ah, I apologise for the mess, Lady Whitfield, but I don’t offer returns,” Sebastian said.

  Ignoring the man, Amara stood and walked towards the source of noise, a static that grew louder the hotter she got.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” the voice said, “she was just trying to protect us”

  “Don’t punish her, please, please…”

  Amara looked down. Two small shapes huddled under a shattered crate. Sirens. Red-haired, wide-eyed, trembling.

  “Don’t,” the girl said.

  Amara stared.

  To think she’d find such powerful Neurite weavers, an Archdemon royal, all in this gutter. The circle’s objectives aside. These two were indeed a boon. Covered in dirt, huddled together.

  What she had was a feral dog and two well-tuned handers. To think the circle sent her here for a princess. No, they sent her for this. It must have been a reward for all her hard work. A gift.

  Amara turned to Sebastian.

  “Add these two, and I’ll turn a blind eye toward your operation.”

  The slithering Valkar chewed his lip.

  “I assure you there is nothing—”

  Amara looked down at the general and said, "Even I know the king of lust disapproves of non-consensual acts involving children. Or should I inform your monarch about what you and your crew do behind closed ship doors?”

  The man stuttered, “The slave trade is a very…”

  “regulated industry,” Amara finished, “even nobles know that.”

  She placed her open palm towards the man and made a pointed gesture.

  Amara was sure he knew what she meant.

  “Hand it over.”

  And huffing out that thick nose of his, clearly not pleased with this, he pulled out three ID cards.

  One purple, two blue. A royal and two minor nobles.

  “Good”, she said, “it’s a pleasure doing business.”

  Sebastian grunted and then started ordering his men, or more so, screaming at them like a child having a fit. Very immature, just like his tastes.

  But feeling a tug at her skirt, like a tiny puppy with googly eyes. The smallest of the sirens spoke.

  “What do we call you?” the girl whispered.

  Usually, ‘master’ would do, the word hovered on her tongue. But for some reason. Amara patted the girl’s head. Hell, was age getting to her? Did she, of all people, consider it for real? She never had children, and at four hundred plus years old, she might never.

  She shook her antlers.

  They are products, tools, and a repulsive royal dog.

  Still, the tiny girl waited, hope trembling between them.

  “Lady?” the child asked.

  Amara swallowed.

  “Mast—”

  She cleared her voice.

  “Amara,” she said. “How about you?”