Months had passed since Rome burned beneath black-and-violet fire, though the newspapers had never agreed on what to call the night. Russian papers favored The Judgment of Rome, while British and French correspondents wrote of The Seventh Plague, borrowing language from Exodus because ordinary words had failed them. The more religious publications had settled on The Plague of Black Fire, printing woodcut illustrations of a skeletal devil flying above collapsing cathedrals. None of the artists had captured Jeanyx's face correctly, and most had given him horns large enough to gore a horse.
Jeanyx kept several of the clippings anyway. Not because he cared about the names they gave him, but because Nyxia found them hilarious.
Far from the frightened sermons and political arguments, winter had swallowed the countryside of northern Russia. Snow lay thick across the forest, rounding the shoulders of pines and burying the narrow road leading toward a large log cabin hidden among them. Smoke drifted from its stone chimney in a thin gray ribbon. Beyond the tree line, a frozen lake stretched beneath the pale afternoon sky, its surface untouched except for the tracks of wolves and the occasional black bird searching for something beneath the ice.
The cabin itself was larger than it first appeared, built from dark timber cut decades earlier and reinforced against winters that could freeze exposed skin in minutes. Nicholas had arranged the property quietly after Jeanyx's return from Italy, insisting that his nephew needed somewhere away from Petrograd, the army, the Church, and every ambitious officer suddenly interested in borrowing the Demon Rider for one campaign or another. Jeanyx had accepted mostly because the surrounding forest was quiet and no one knocked unless they had a death wish.
A wide wooden garage had been added to one side of the cabin. It smelled of engine oil, scorched metal, sawdust, and the faint mineral cold that clung to anything brought in from outside. Tools hung from pegs along the walls in neat rows, while spare chains, gears, bolts, and scraps of metal filled shelves that Jeanyx had built himself. A small iron stove glowed in the corner, its heat barely enough to soften the chill leaking through the timber.
Jeanyx sat on a low stool beside his motorcycle with his sleeves rolled past his elbows, his long black hair tied loosely behind his head. The machine rested on a raised wooden platform, its hellish form subdued for the moment. Without its black-and-violet flames, it almost resembled something built by human hands, though the broad frame, oversized rear tire, and unfamiliar engine still belonged to a future no mechanic alive would recognize. Some of its metal panels bore thin red seams that pulsed faintly whenever Jeanyx touched them, as though the motorcycle had a slow heartbeat buried beneath its casing.
He had removed one of the side covers and placed it carefully on a folded cloth. A wrench turned between his fingers while he leaned closer to the exposed engine, listening to the minute shift of metal beneath the pressure. There was nothing wrong with it. He knew that before he had even begun. The motorcycle repaired itself whenever his hellfire ran through it, and the red energy within his panjas bracelets could restore the entire machine from a twisted frame or a pile of rust.
That was not why he worked on it.
The garage door creaked behind him, letting in a blade of white light and a gust of wind that scattered loose papers across the workbench. Malik slipped inside sideways, using one shoulder to force the heavy door shut while balancing two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. Snow clung to his coat and boots, and his cheeks had gone dark-red from the cold.
"You know, old friend, I still can't figure out why you bother working on that bike," Malik said as he crossed the garage, carefully stepping around a line of tools Jeanyx had arranged on the floor. He glanced at the open engine and shook his head, already smiling because they had argued about this before. "You could set the whole thing on fire, snap your fingers, and have it repair itself before I finish drinking this."
Jeanyx kept his eyes on the engine while he adjusted a small bolt by hand. "That isn't the same."
"It ends with the motorcycle fixed," Malik replied, lowering himself onto an overturned crate with a quiet groan. He set one cup beside Jeanyx's tools, then wrapped both hands around his own to steal as much warmth from it as possible. "From where I'm sitting, that sounds very much like the same thing."
Jeanyx tightened the bolt another fraction, paused, then loosened it again when the position failed to satisfy him. "If I use my power, the machine changes itself into whatever it thinks I need. It doesn't teach me anything."
Malik raised his cup but stopped before drinking, watching Jeanyx work with an expression that hovered somewhere between affection and disbelief. "You built a flying metal demon out of a scrapyard. I'm not sure you need many more lessons about machines."
"I didn't build it." Jeanyx selected a thinner wrench from the cloth and slipped it into the narrow gap beside the engine block. "I touched a pile of rubbish and let instinct do the rest. Half the time, I still don't know what I made until I use it."
"That is somehow less comforting every time you say it." Malik took a cautious drink, frowned at the heat, and blew across the surface. "Does the plane know what it is?"
"No."
"Does it know how to fly?"
"Usually."
Malik lowered the mug and stared at the back of Jeanyx's head. "Usually?"
Jeanyx's mouth twitched, but he didn't turn around. "It hasn't crashed yet."
"We've only flown it once."
"Then it has a perfect record."
Malik's sigh was long enough to carry several months of accumulated frustration. He leaned forward and extended the second cup until it hovered beside Jeanyx's shoulder. "Here. Before I decide you don't deserve it."
Jeanyx finally looked away from the engine. Steam curled above the dark coffee, carrying the smell of roasted beans and a little cinnamon Malik had taken to adding after discovering that Jeanyx preferred it that way. Caffeine had not affected him since the experiment. Neither had alcohol, poison, most medicines, or anything else his body could identify and burn away before it entered his bloodstream. He could force his body to tolerate them when he wanted, but doing so required more concentration than getting drunk or tired was usually worth.
He accepted the cup anyway.
Malik had learned not to ask why.
Jeanyx took a slow sip and let the heat settle across his tongue. It did nothing for his exhaustion, because he wasn't tired. It did nothing for his focus, because his mind was already painfully clear. The flavor, however, remained ordinary, and ordinary things had become rarer than miracles.
Malik watched him over the rim of his own mug before his attention returned to the motorcycle. "You never answered me."
"I did."
"No, you explained why fixing it with magic isn't proper work." Malik shifted on the crate, one boot scraping sawdust across the floor. "That's not the same as telling me why you spend three hours tightening bolts that don't need tightening."
Jeanyx's hand stilled on the cup. Behind him, the fire in the stove gave a soft crack as one of the logs split.
Malik didn't press immediately. He had grown better at recognizing the silence Jeanyx used when he was deciding whether to answer or bury a thought so deep that neither of them would see it again. Instead, he rubbed his thumb along a chip in the enamel of his cup and waited.
Jeanyx looked down at the exposed engine, at the faint sheen of oil across gears that could heal themselves faster than he could damage them. "Because it's the only thing in my life that feels normal."
Malik's expression changed, though only slightly. The humor remained at the edges of his mouth, but it lost some of its sharpness. He looked around the garage—the hand tools, the oil-stained cloths, the wooden shelves, the pieces of machinery lined up for reasons only Jeanyx understood.
"You set priests on fire in Rome," Malik said after a moment, his voice quieter now. "You fly around in a metal nightmare, turn into a burning skeleton, and argue with a creature living inside your body. I don't think normal was ever going to be an easy fit."
Jeanyx glanced at him over the cup. "Thank you for that thoughtful observation."
"I try." Malik took another drink before setting his mug between his boots. "But I get it. Back home, I used to repair the kitchen chairs even when they weren't broken. My wife would find me sanding the legs at midnight and ask what was wrong with me."
"What did you tell her?"
"That the chair was uneven."
"Was it?"
Malik's smile faded into something smaller and more private. "No. But the house was quiet, my boy was asleep upstairs, and for an hour there wasn't anybody telling me what I had failed to become. It was just wood, sandpaper, and something I could fix without it arguing back."
Jeanyx studied him for a few seconds, then looked down into his coffee. "Your chairs sound less complicated."
"They didn't transform into flaming beasts whenever I got angry, so yes."
A cool pressure shifted between Jeanyx's shoulder blades before black-and-red matter slid through the back of his shirt without tearing the fabric. Nyxia's head rose over his right shoulder, her shoulder-length black hair forming last, the tips bleeding into dark red as her features sharpened. Her eyes went immediately to the cup in Jeanyx's hand.
"Oh, coffee," Nyxia said, leaning closer with none of the restraint a normal person might have shown. "Give me that."
Jeanyx moved the mug away before her lips reached it. "Malik brought it for me."
"And you're immune to it," she replied, reaching around his shoulder with a thin tendril that curled toward the handle. "That means you're wasting it."
"It still has a taste."
"So does Malik."
Malik slowly lifted his head, one eyebrow rising. "I heard that."
Nyxia's grin widened. "Good. Saves me repeating myself."
"You are not eating me."
"Not today."
"That isn't reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Jeanyx tried to take another sip, but Nyxia's tendril looped around the mug and tugged. He held on for a second, more out of principle than any real desire to fight her over coffee. She pulled harder, her face taking on the stubborn concentration of someone attempting to steal an object from a child without admitting that was what she was doing.
"Nyxia," Jeanyx warned, turning his head enough to look at her from the corner of his eye.
"You can make more."
"So can you."
"Yes, but stealing yours is easier."
Malik watched the struggle for several seconds before leaning back against the wall with a tired smile. "I'm not making a third cup."
Nyxia gave one sharp pull. Jeanyx could have stopped her, but the handle was beginning to creak, and he didn't feel like cleaning broken pottery from the floor. He released it without warning.
The mug snapped toward Nyxia. She caught it with both hands, overbalanced slightly, then narrowed her eyes at him as if his surrender had somehow been dishonest.
Jeanyx returned his attention to the motorcycle. "Enjoy."
"I will." Nyxia lifted the cup with a smug little tilt of her chin and took a drink. She paused immediately, stared into the coffee, then looked across at Malik. "Why is this bitter?"
"Because it's coffee."
"You made Jeanyx's sweet."
"He likes cinnamon."
"I like cinnamon."
Malik picked up his own cup again. "Then next time ask before stealing."
Nyxia took another sip, grimaced less dramatically, and settled her chin against Jeanyx's shoulder. "I did ask. He said no. That made it stealing."
"That is not how asking works," Jeanyx muttered as he reached for the wrench again.
"It worked for me."
Malik laughed into his cup while Jeanyx turned back to the engine, the tension that had briefly entered the garage thinning beneath the familiar argument. Outside, wind pressed snow against the walls in dry whispers. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a raven called once and went quiet.
Jeanyx adjusted another bolt, listening to the clean click of metal meeting metal while Nyxia drank his coffee over his shoulder and Malik complained that neither of them appreciated how expensive imported beans had become during wartime. The motorcycle did not need repairing, but he continued anyway, hands moving through a routine that asked nothing from him except patience.
Malik finished what was left of his coffee, then rolled the empty cup between his palms while the last of the heat bled out of the enamel. He had been sitting on the crate for several minutes with the look of a man carrying news he intended to enjoy delivering, one boot tapping against the floorboards while Jeanyx bent over the motorcycle again.
Jeanyx had the rear wheel lifted off the ground now. He threaded the drive chain around the sprocket one link at a time, his fingers blackened with grease despite the fact that he could have cleaned them with a thought. The chain had no real need to be replaced. The old one had barely been worn. He had removed it anyway, laid every piece out in order, and spent half the morning adjusting a machine that could survive artillery.
Malik watched him tug the chain into place and shook his head. "Your uncle called," he said, leaning back until the crate creaked beneath him.
Jeanyx kept one hand on the wheel while he pulled the chain tighter with the other. "Which one?"
"The one who owns half the damn country," Malik answered, his mouth flattening when Jeanyx still didn't look at him. "Nicholas. The Tsar. Your favorite uncle. The tired-looking fellow with an empire falling apart around his ears."
Jeanyx gave the rear wheel a slow turn. The chain rolled around the sprocket without skipping, though one section clicked against the teeth a fraction harder than the others. He frowned at it. "What did he want?"
"He's throwing a party."
That made Jeanyx stop.
Not fully. His fingers remained wrapped around the chain, but his attention shifted toward Malik without his head turning.
"A party," Jeanyx repeated, sounding as though Malik had just announced an outbreak of plague.
"That is the word I used, yes." Malik pushed himself off the crate and stretched until his back cracked. "Big imperial celebration. Officers, ministers, nobles, all the polished sons of bitches who like standing close to victory once the blood's been wiped off it. Your uncle says the war is going well enough that the Empire could use a night of pretending everything is under control."
Jeanyx glanced over his shoulder. "And what did you tell him?"
Malik stared at him as if the answer should have been obvious. "I said we'd be there."
The wrench in Jeanyx's hand paused halfway toward the axle nut. "You accepted for both of us?"
"Damn right I did."
"You didn't ask me."
"I have spent months watching you burn Germans, tear priests apart, turn streets into black sludge, and drink enough vodka to drown a cavalry regiment." Malik stepped closer and pointed the empty coffee cup at him like an accusing finger. "I figured I could risk making one decision without consulting His Infernal Highness."
Jeanyx looked back at the motorcycle and tightened the axle nut. "I don't dance."
"Neither do half the officers invited, but that won't stop them from stomping on women's feet and calling it courtship."
"I don't like crowds."
"You rode through Petrograd in a gold-covered box while half the city screamed your name."
"That was different."
Malik let out a rough laugh and tossed the cup onto the workbench. "How in the hell was that different?"
"I didn't have to talk to any of them."
"There it is." Malik planted both hands on his hips and gave Jeanyx a long, knowing look. "You'll burn down Rome without blinking, but some old countess asks what wine you like and suddenly you're looking for an escape route."
Jeanyx gave the wheel another turn. This time the chain moved cleanly, its links settling into the sprocket with a low mechanical whisper. "Old countesses ask dangerous questions."
"They ask whether you're married."
"Exactly."
Nyxia stirred against Jeanyx's back, her face beginning to form over his shoulder. She appeared slowly this time, black-and-red matter shaping her chin, lips, and bright eyes before her hair spilled into place around them. "We should go," she said, resting both hands on Jeanyx's shoulders as she peered at Malik. "Parties have food."
Malik pointed at her. "See? The hungry parasite has sense."
Nyxia's eyes narrowed. "Call me a parasite again and I'll chew the word out of your tongue."
"You say that like you haven't tried."
"I was bored."
"You were hungry."
"I'm always hungry."
Jeanyx reached up without looking and pushed her face away from his ear. "You're both making the party less appealing."
Malik ignored him. He had already turned toward the small iron stove, warming his hands above it while the wood snapped beneath the flame. "We need this, Jeanyx. Don't give me that look. I mean it."
Jeanyx's hands slowed.
Malik's tone had changed. The humor was still there, but it had shifted aside enough to show what had been sitting underneath it.
Malik stared into the stove rather than at him. "We've been causing havoc up and down the front for months. Every place we stop smells like fire, rot, or dead men. I wake up some mornings and have to think about which country I'm in before I put my boots on. That ain't living. It's surviving with better transportation."
Jeanyx rested his forearms against his knees, the wrench hanging loosely from one hand. He didn't interrupt. Malik rarely spoke about the war unless he was cursing a general, mocking a plan, or warning Jeanyx not to throw him out of another aircraft.
Malik rubbed his thumb over an old scar across his palm. "A man can only spend so much time killing before he starts forgetting what the hell he was trying to get back to. I got a wife in New York who probably thinks I'm dead, missing, or too stupid to know how to write. Got a two-year-old boy growing every damn day I'm over here, and I don't know what words he's learned, whether he's running yet without falling on his face, whether he still reaches for the door every time he hears a man's voice."
His jaw tightened. He covered it quickly by reaching for the coffee cup, forgetting for a second that it was empty. When he noticed, he scowled into it as though the lack of coffee had personally offended him.
"Everybody knows this war's crawling toward an end," Malik continued, setting the cup down harder than necessary. "Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next month. But it can't keep eating men forever. Empires are running out of sons, and even rich white men eventually notice when there ain't nobody left to carry their luggage."
Jeanyx studied him quietly. "You believe you'll be home soon."
"I have to." Malik turned away from the stove at last, his voice losing its humor completely. "I told you two years. I meant two years. I'm grateful for what you did, and I'll keep my word, but my wife didn't marry a ghost and my son deserves more than stories about some fool who ran off to prove his dead father wrong."
Jeanyx looked back at the motorcycle, though he wasn't seeing the chain anymore.
"You're not a failure," he said.
Malik's eyes lifted toward him. "That took you long enough."
"I assumed it was obvious."
"Nothing about you is obvious." Malik's mouth twitched, though his gaze stayed serious. "You look like somebody's beautiful daughter, sound like a prince who got bored halfway through etiquette lessons, and turn into a flaming skull whenever somebody ruins your coat."
"That coat was expensive."
"You can make another one with your skin monster."
Nyxia leaned farther over Jeanyx's shoulder, offended on her own behalf. "Skin monster?"
Malik waved her off. "You know what I mean."
"I do, and I don't like it."
"That sounds like a personal problem."
Jeanyx let them bicker for another few seconds before laying the wrench on the folded cloth. He wiped his hands on a rag, leaving dark streaks across the fabric.
"I'm excited to meet them," he said.
Malik stopped arguing with Nyxia.
The words seemed to catch him more than Jeanyx intended. He looked toward the motorcycle, then at Jeanyx's face, searching for sarcasm and not finding any.
"My family?" Malik asked, his voice quieter now.
"Your wife and Jack."
Malik's shoulders eased slightly. "You sure about that? My wife ain't scared of saying what's on her mind. She finds out you've been dragging me through battlefields and dropping me out of planes, she may decide your immortality needs testing."
"I like her already," Nyxia said, popping farther out of Jeanyx's back until both arms draped over his shoulders. "Does she cook?"
Malik's expression hardened immediately. "Don't you start looking at my wife like a meal."
"I meant food."
"You are food-motivated enough that the distinction matters."
Nyxia rolled her eyes. "Humans are so possessive."
"Damn right."
Jeanyx reached behind himself, caught Nyxia by the forehead, and pushed her back until only her face remained beside his neck. "Ignore her."
"I have been trying to ignore her since she threatened to eat my bike."
"It looked crunchy," Nyxia muttered.
Malik stepped closer to Jeanyx and planted a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was heavier than it needed to be, his fingers tightening once before relaxing.
"My boy Jack," he said. "Two years old now, unless I've lost count somewhere between Belgium and this frozen piece of hell. Likes wooden trains. Hates peas. Thinks his daddy can whip any man alive because I've told him so every chance I got."
Jeanyx glanced at the hand on his shoulder, then back at Malik. "You lied to him."
Malik's eyebrows rose. "Watch yourself."
"I can beat you."
"That don't mean my son needs to know."
Nyxia laughed against Jeanyx's ear. "I'm telling him."
"You tell that boy one damn thing and I'm feeding you nothing but boiled cabbage for a month."
"I don't need you to feed me."
"Then I'll make Jeanyx eat it."
Jeanyx looked between them, visibly regretting the direction the conversation had taken. "I'm not eating cabbage to punish Nyxia."
"You share a stomach, don't you?"
"It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated."
Malik stepped back, the grin returning properly now. "Anyway, party's in three nights. Your uncle sent clothes."
Jeanyx's face went blank. "No."
"Oh yes."
"No."
"Silk, medals, little gold buttons—the whole royal nightmare."
"I have clothes."
"You have black coats, black shirts, black trousers, and one black kimono that Nyxia keeps shortening whenever she gets bored."
Nyxia's smile widened. "His legs are pretty."
Malik looked at her, then at Jeanyx, then wisely decided he wanted no part of that conversation. "The package is inside. Alexandra picked the outfit herself."
That landed harder than the invitation.
Jeanyx looked toward the door connecting the garage to the cabin, suspicion gathering in his eyes. "She did?"
"According to the message, she said she doesn't trust you to dress like a member of the Imperial Family without supervision."
Jeanyx stared at him for a long moment, then slowly looked down at the grease on his sleeves.
Malik slapped him on the back as he passed. "Finish playing mechanic, Prince. We got a party to attend, and I need enough time to figure out whether Russians know how to make a suit for a man built like me."
Nyxia slid back into Jeanyx's body, though her laughter lingered in his head. I hope they gave you something with lace.
Jeanyx picked up the wrench again, tightened the already-tight axle nut another quarter turn, then stopped when the metal gave a warning creak beneath his hand. From inside the cabin came the sound of Malik opening the package, followed almost immediately by a loud, delighted curse.
"Jeanyx," Malik called through the wall, his voice carrying easily into the garage, "you better get your narrow royal ass in here and see this coat."
The imperial ballroom had been dressed for victory, though no one in the palace seemed entirely certain what victory looked like anymore.
Crystal chandeliers burned above polished floors. Gold-leaf moldings caught the light along the walls, while tall windows stood black against the winter night beyond them. Officers in decorated uniforms mingled with nobles wrapped in silk, velvet, and enough jewels to feed a regiment for a year. A military orchestra played from the gallery, the strings fighting to remain elegant beneath the heavier rhythm of drums brought in from the countryside at Nicholas's request.
Those drums were new.
So were the carved wooden charms hanging from more than a few necks.
Before the war, most of the guests in that ballroom would have laughed at anyone who openly invoked the old Slavic gods. Pagan rites survived in villages, in harvest songs, in whispered superstitions, but respectable people kept such things behind closed doors. The Church had made certain of that.
Then a prince officially dead for two years returned wrapped in black fire, rode through German trenches on a burning machine, froze men into statues, and survived an assassination carried out by priests in the middle of Petrograd.
After Rome burned, laughter had become harder.
People had begun leaving offerings beneath oak trees again. Soldiers carved symbols of Perun into rifle stocks. Women whose sons had gone to the front tied red thread around household icons and quietly placed bread beside older, rougher figures made of wood. In taverns, men argued that the strange prince was not a demon at all but a forgotten god who had returned because the new faith had grown weak and arrogant.
No one agreed on what Jeanyx was the god of.
War, according to some.
Winter, according to others.
Fire, death, vengeance, the hungry earth, or the road between the grave and the living world.
Malik's legend was simpler. A dark-skinned warrior arriving from across the sea with thunder in his fists and the favor of the dead prince had been folded neatly into the stories of Perun. By the time the tale reached the villages outside Petrograd, Malik Fury had become the storm god's wandering son, sent westward to stand beside Russia's returned deity.
Malik thought the whole thing was ridiculous.
Jeanyx found that opinion increasingly difficult to maintain once the doors opened.
The herald struck the base of his staff against the marble floor, his voice rolling through the room as the orchestra faltered and died beneath it. "Его Императорское Высочество, князь Jeanyx Романов, и господин Malik Fury, герой Российской империи!"
(His Imperial Highness, Prince Jeanyx Romanov, and Mister Malik Fury, hero of the Russian Empire!)
Every conversation stopped.
Malik stepped through first, mostly because Jeanyx had slowed at the threshold long enough to make it clear that one of them had to move.
Alexandra's chosen uniform sat heavily across Malik's shoulders, though he had admitted—after nearly twenty minutes of cursing the tailor—that it fit him well. The dark military coat had been cut close enough to display the hard breadth of his chest without restricting his arms. Gold braid looped from one shoulder, imperial embroidery traced the cuffs and collar, and the deep red lining flashed whenever the coat shifted behind him. A white shirt stood open at the throat because Malik had refused the high collar after trying it once and announcing that he would rather face German artillery than be strangled by Russian fashion.
His dreadlocks had been pulled into a high tail, the sides of his head shaved clean. Black boots struck the floor with each step, and the old scar near his eyebrow caught the chandelier light when he looked across the ballroom.
Malik stopped two paces inside.
"Jeanyx," he muttered in English without moving his lips, his eyes passing over the rows of staring nobles, "why are all these people looking at me like I walked out of a thundercloud?"
Jeanyx entered behind him, one gloved hand resting lightly over the head of a closed black parasol that he had no intention of using indoors. "Because half of them think you did."
Malik's jaw shifted. "I swear to God, if one of these people asks me to bless their crops, I'm leaving."
"You'll offend them."
"I burned men alive in three countries this year. I think I can survive offending a farmer."
Nyxia stirred warmly beneath Jeanyx's skin. I'd ask you to bless my crops.
Jeanyx kept his expression smooth. You don't have crops.
Then I'd get some. Just to bother him.
Jeanyx's own attire drew an entirely different kind of silence.
Alexandra had not trusted him with a conventional imperial uniform, and Nyxia had interfered halfway through the fitting. The result was black from throat to heel, severe enough to resemble mourning clothes until the details emerged beneath the light. A fitted coat drew tight around his narrow waist before falling into long divided tails layered over dark trousers. Fine embroidery climbed the sleeves and lapels in patterns resembling thorned vines and frost. Silver chains crossed his hips, carrying small black stones that moved faintly when he walked. The high collar framed a black choker, beneath which rested the raven-and-crescent necklace Nyxia had formed for him after Red Lake.
A narrow-brimmed hat, decorated with black feathers and a small silver ornament, sat at an angle above his long hair. The fabric softened the sharpness of the outfit without making it less unsettling. His figure remained unmistakably feminine beneath the fitted layers—the same curved waist and balanced hips inherited from his mother—yet nothing about the way he carried himself encouraged anyone to mistake delicacy for weakness.
Malik had stared when Jeanyx first emerged from the dressing room.
Then he had laughed so hard he needed to sit down.
Jeanyx had considered killing him.
Now, as they crossed the ballroom, Malik leaned closer and murmured, "Still look like a rich widow who poisoned her third husband."
Jeanyx's smile never shifted as he answered through his teeth. "Keep talking, and I'll make you the fourth."
"There he is."
The guests did not bow all at once. The reaction moved through them in a wave.
Older nobles performed the proper court bow first, trained too deeply in etiquette to do anything else. Officers followed, some with stiff respect, others with poorly concealed reverence. Then several men and women near the rear touched two fingers to their brows and lowered them toward the floor in a gesture Jeanyx did not recognize from court.
He recognized it from villages.
A pagan greeting.
One young lieutenant, his right arm bound against his chest, stared at Malik with wet eyes. A small wooden axe hung from a cord around his neck.
"Сын Перуна," the lieutenant whispered as Malik passed.
(Son of Perun.)
Malik didn't understand every word, but Jeanyx had taught him enough that Perun landed clearly.
He stopped.
The lieutenant froze too, suddenly realizing the man from the stories had heard him. He tried to straighten despite the injury, his face flushing.
Malik glanced at Jeanyx. "He just called me what I think he called me?"
Jeanyx looked at the carved axe, then at the lieutenant's bandaged arm. "Yes."
Malik breathed through his nose, studying the young man. "Tell him I ain't nobody's goddamn son but my mother's."
"You know enough Russian to say it."
"Not without insulting his grandmother by accident."
"That has never stopped you before."
Malik's eyes narrowed, but when he turned back to the lieutenant, some of the irritation had left his face. His Russian came slowly, shaped by weeks of practice and an accent that remained firmly his own. "Я не сын Перуна. Я просто Malik. Солдат. Понимаешь?" he said, touching two fingers to his chest.
(I am not the son of Perun. I am only Malik. A soldier. Understand?)
The lieutenant looked uncertain, then glanced at the small axe at his throat. "Но гром был в ваших руках. Я видел. Под Ригой."
(But thunder was in your hands. I saw it. Near Riga.)
Malik rubbed a hand over his beard. "What'd he say?"
"He saw you near Riga."
"And?"
"He saw the lightning."
Malik stared at the lieutenant again. The man was no court flatterer. His face was too tired for that, his injured arm held too carefully. Whatever he believed, it had been earned somewhere beneath gunfire.
Malik's shoulders settled. He reached out and clasped the lieutenant's uninjured shoulder with one broad hand. "Я человек," he said more firmly, meeting the soldier's gaze. "Но я рад, что ты жив."
(I am a man. But I am glad you are alive.)
The lieutenant swallowed and bowed his head. "Благодарю вас."
(Thank you.)
Malik moved on before the moment could become any more uncomfortable. "That better not happen all night," he muttered as he caught up with Jeanyx.
"It will."
"Wonderful."
Ask him to make thunder, Nyxia suggested brightly.
Jeanyx ignored her.
At the head of the ballroom, Nicholas waited beneath the imperial banners with Alexandra beside him. Rasputin stood a little behind them, dressed plainly among the jeweled court, his dark beard and steady eyes making him look more out of place than either Jeanyx or Malik.
Nicholas's smile was tired but real.
"Добро пожаловать домой," he said as Jeanyx approached, stepping down from the low dais rather than waiting for his nephew to come to him.
(Welcome home.)
Jeanyx inclined his head. "Я отсутствовал меньше месяца."
(I was gone less than a month.)
Nicholas placed both hands on his shoulders and looked him over anyway, as though expecting to discover a wound hidden beneath the black coat. "С тобой месяц может быть равен десяти годам."
(With you, a month can equal ten years.)
Jeanyx glanced toward Alexandra. "Она заставила меня надеть это."
(She made me wear this.)
Alexandra's mouth tightened, though amusement softened the corners. "И впервые за много лет ты выглядишь так, будто принадлежишь своей семье."
(And for the first time in years, you look as though you belong to your family.)
"Я похож на вдову," Jeanyx replied, flicking one of the silver chains at his hip.
(I look like a widow.)
Malik folded his arms beside him. "Told you."
Alexandra looked to Malik for a translation. Jeanyx gave her one before Malik could make the situation worse.
"Он согласен со мной."
(He agrees with me.)
"Тогда вы оба ошибаетесь," Alexandra said, taking Jeanyx by the chin and turning his face slightly toward the light as though he were still a boy arriving late to dinner.
(Then you are both wrong.)
Nyxia pushed a small patch of black matter beneath Jeanyx's collar, just enough to tickle his neck. I like her. She dresses you like a doll and you let her.
I let her because Nicholas would complain if I fled.
Coward.
Nicholas released Jeanyx and offered his hand to Malik. "Господин Fury, Россия снова у вас в долгу."
(Mister Fury, Russia is in your debt again.)
Malik understood enough to catch the meaning, though his eyes briefly flicked toward Jeanyx for confirmation. When Jeanyx nodded, Malik clasped Nicholas's forearm rather than taking his hand delicately.
"Не долг, Ваше Величество," Malik said, stumbling slightly over the formal title before recovering. "Я дал слово. Я держу слово."
(Not a debt, Your Majesty. I gave my word. I keep my word.)
Nicholas studied him for a moment, then tightened his grip. "Редкое качество."
(A rare quality.)
"Damn right," Malik replied in English, earning a puzzled look from Alexandra and a small laugh from Jeanyx.
Rasputin had remained quiet through the greetings, though his gaze had moved over both men with uncomfortable patience. When Malik finally noticed, he looked the holy man up and down.
"You always stare at people like you're measuring their coffin?" Malik asked in English.
Rasputin's eyes shifted toward Jeanyx. "Что он сказал?"
(What did he say?)
Jeanyx adjusted one glove. "Он считает вашу бороду впечатляющей."
(He finds your beard impressive.)
Malik slowly turned his head. "That ain't what I said."
"It was close enough."
Rasputin's mouth curved. He clearly did not believe the translation, but he allowed the lie to stand. "Люди уже называют их богами," he murmured to Nicholas while looking toward the ballroom.
(The people already call them gods.)
The words pulled Nicholas's attention back toward the guests. More pagan charms were visible now that Jeanyx knew to look for them. Small axes for Perun. Carved suns. Twisted branches meant to represent household spirits. One elderly countess had hidden hers beneath a diamond necklace, though the rough wood still showed against her throat.
Nicholas's expression tightened. "Это опасно."
(It is dangerous.)
"Вера всегда опасна, когда люди выбирают её сами," Rasputin replied, folding his hands within his sleeves.
(Faith is always dangerous when people choose it for themselves.)
Alexandra glanced sharply toward him. "Они заменяют Бога страхом перед Jeanyx."
(They are replacing God with fear of Jeanyx.)
Jeanyx heard her despite the music starting again. "Большинство верующих начинают со страха."
(Most believers begin with fear.)
Alexandra's eyes found his. There was no anger in them, only worry deep enough to make her voice gentler. "А чего хотят от тебя эти люди?"
(And what do these people want from you?)
Jeanyx looked across the ballroom.
Some guests watched him openly. Others looked away the instant his gaze touched them. A group of wounded officers near the orchestra bowed their heads together around a small bowl of bread and salt, leaving an empty place beside it in the old fashion. Near the western windows, two noblewomen whispered while tracing signs over their hearts that had nothing to do with the cross.
"They want something that can't die," Jeanyx answered in English, forgetting for a moment to remain in Russian.
Alexandra understood only his tone, but Nicholas understood the language well enough. His gaze lowered.
Malik looked around the room with less patience. "What they want is somebody else to bleed for them," he said, rubbing his thumb along the gold cuff Alexandra's tailor had forced on him. "Always been plenty of believers when the god's the one getting shot."
Nyxia's face briefly pushed out from behind Jeanyx's shoulder, visible only to Malik and the family standing nearest. "I don't mind being worshipped," she said with a cheerful little grin. "Do we get offerings? I want meat. None of that bread nonsense."
Alexandra stiffened.
Nicholas closed his eyes.
Rasputin stared at Nyxia with open interest.
Malik pointed one thick finger at her. "You stay inside him tonight. These folks already got enough foolish ideas."
Nyxia bared the tips of her teeth. "Make me."
"Don't tempt me, little red-headed leech."
"I'm taller than you when I want to be."
"And still annoying at every height."
Jeanyx reached back, caught Nyxia by the cheek, and shoved her into his shoulder until her face dissolved into his coat. "Behave."
Her voice lingered in his mind. He started it.
You threatened to eat the offerings.
I was being honest.
A servant approached carrying a silver tray of champagne. His hands trembled so badly that the glasses chimed against one another. He stopped in front of Jeanyx, bowed too deeply, and nearly spilled the entire tray.
"Мой князь… мой бог…" the servant stammered, unable to decide which title frightened him less.
(My prince… my god…)
The conversation around them thinned.
Jeanyx looked at the young man's white knuckles, then at the glasses.
"Князь," he corrected quietly as he took one. "Только князь."
(Prince. Only prince.)
The servant nodded too quickly. "Да, мой князь. Простите."
(Yes, my prince. Forgive me.)
Malik took a glass as well, though he sniffed it suspiciously before drinking. "If somebody calls me Lord Thunder tonight, I'm walking back to the cabin."
"You don't know the way," Jeanyx said.
"I'll follow the smell of oil and bad decisions."
Nicholas watched the servant retreat into the crowd, his earlier warmth dimming beneath thought. "Я хотел показать, что Россия сильна," he said, keeping his voice low enough that only those near him could hear.
(I wanted to show that Russia is strong.)
Jeanyx lifted the champagne to his lips but did not drink. "Ты показал им чудо. Люди редко оставляют чудеса в покое."
(You showed them a miracle. People rarely leave miracles alone.)
Nicholas looked as though he wanted to argue. Instead, he glanced toward the banners, the pagan charms, the officers watching Jeanyx with the raw gratitude of men who believed he had personally kept death from their trenches.
Across the ballroom, the musicians shifted into a livelier piece. Several couples moved onto the floor. A nobleman near the center raised his glass and shouted, "За князя, вернувшегося из могилы!"
(To the prince who returned from the grave!)
Another voice answered from among the officers, louder and rougher. "За сына Перуна!"
(To the son of Perun!)
A cheer rolled through the room before Nicholas could stop it.
Malik stood very still, glass halfway to his mouth.
Jeanyx turned his head toward him. "Don't."
Malik's eyes narrowed as the chant spread through several groups.
"Сын Перуна! Сын Перуна!"
(Son of Perun! Son of Perun!)
"I told that young fool I was a man," Malik muttered.
"They didn't hear you."
"I can make them hear me."
"You'll start a diplomatic incident."
"I have started bigger things over less."
Jeanyx caught Malik's arm before he could step forward. Malik looked down at the pale hand around his sleeve, then at Jeanyx's face. For a second, stubborn pride pushed against common sense.
Then a little girl slipped away from one of the noble families.
She couldn't have been older than seven. Her blond hair had been braided with red thread, and she carried a crude wooden hammer in both hands. The crowd opened around her as she approached Malik, too young to understand why every adult suddenly looked frightened.
Malik's anger faltered.
The girl stopped in front of him and lifted the carving. "Для вас, сын Перуна," she said, staring up at him with solemn blue eyes.
(For you, son of Perun.)
Malik looked at Jeanyx in silent appeal.
Jeanyx's mouth twitched. "She made it for you."
"I got that part."
The girl continued holding the hammer up, her arms beginning to shake under the effort.
Malik cursed under his breath, set his champagne aside, and lowered himself onto one knee. The room quieted enough that the orchestra seemed suddenly too loud.
He accepted the carving carefully, turning it between his fingers. The head was uneven, one side larger than the other, and the handle had been painted with crooked lines meant to resemble lightning.
"Спасибо, маленькая," Malik said, his Russian rough but gentle as he looked at her. "Это хороший молот. Очень хороший."
(Thank you, little one. It is a good hammer. A very good one.)
The girl smiled and reached out before anyone could stop her, touching one small hand to the scar along Malik's cheek.
"Мама говорит, вы прогнали громом немцев от моего брата," she whispered.
(Mother says you drove the Germans away from my brother with thunder.)
Malik didn't understand the whole sentence. His eyes went to Jeanyx.
"Her brother was at Riga," Jeanyx translated. "She believes you saved him."
Malik looked back at the little girl. Something shifted in his face, all the irritation losing its edge.
"Твой брат жив?" he asked after a moment.
(Is your brother alive?)
She nodded quickly. "Да. Он дома."
(Yes. He is home.)
Malik's thumb moved over the rough wooden hammer. He swallowed once, then rose carefully and handed the girl back to the relieved woman who hurried forward to collect her.
He kept the carving.
Jeanyx noticed him slide it into the inside pocket of his coat.
Malik caught the look and scowled. "Say one word."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
Nyxia whispered into Jeanyx's mind, delighted. The son of Perun has a toy hammer.
Jeanyx covered his mouth with the champagne glass before Malik could see the smile forming.
Malik pointed at him anyway. "I know that damn parasite said something."
"She thinks the craftsmanship is impressive."
"Both of you can go to hell."
"Already been," Nyxia replied from inside Jeanyx. "Food was terrible."
The orchestra carried on, couples resumed moving, and the conversations slowly rebuilt around them. Yet the atmosphere had changed. Malik remained irritated by the title, but his hand rested against the pocket containing the hammer. Nicholas continued watching the room with a ruler's concern, measuring faith against usefulness. Alexandra stayed close to Jeanyx, occasionally adjusting some part of his clothing as if keeping him properly dressed could keep the rest of the world from claiming him.
Rasputin smiled into his wine while a new round of whispers moved through the guests, gathering fresh details for stories that would be very different by the time they reached the countryside.
Jeanyx finally drank his champagne. It tasted expensive, sharp, and entirely incapable of affecting him.
Malik reclaimed his own glass from the table, drained it in one swallow, and leaned close enough that only Jeanyx could hear him. "We stay one hour. Then I'm finding the kitchen."
Nyxia immediately stirred. I knew I liked him.
Jeanyx looked toward the crowded dance floor, where three elderly countesses had already begun glancing in his direction with predatory interest.
"Thirty minutes," he said.
Malik followed his gaze and grinned. "Scared of the old ladies, God of Death?"
Jeanyx's fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. "Twenty."