The terrace smelled like rain, candle smoke, and expensive flowers dying beautifully in gold vases.

Nysera hated how perfect it was.

The black marble beneath her palm was cool and slick from the storm rolling over Neo Atlantica. Below, the city burned red and gold through the mist, towers glittering like a crown set on a skull. Above, clouds gathered in bruised purple layers, flashing with silent lightning.

Behind I.O., his guards stood motionless in black armor.

Faceless.

Red-eyed.

Terrifying.

Nysera glanced past his shoulder and lifted one brow.

“So,” she said, her voice low and wickedly dry, “do they come with you everywhere, or is this the premium emotionally unavailable package?”

I.O. did not look away from her.

That was his problem.

No, that was one of his problems.

He looked at her like the universe had put every answer he had ever been denied inside her mouth and told him not to touch.

“They are not listening,” he said, his voice deep as velvet dragged over a blade.

Nysera laughed softly. “They have ears.”

“They have obedience.”

“That is worse.”

His mouth almost curved.

Almost.

The tiny betrayal of amusement made him dangerously beautiful. His obsidian-dark skin caught the gold terrace light, fractures beneath it glowing like ancient stars trapped.

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