Lyre raised the bow and pulled the string back. As the knuckle of his thumb touched his cheek, everything around him disappeared, leaving only the flex of muscles in his back, the leather grip against his palm, the string under his fingertips, and the nock of the arrow between them.

He relaxed his fingers and the string snapped away. The arrow shot through the darkness, then the thud of impact.

“You’re almost as good as Ariose.”

Lyre glanced over his shoulder as he pulled three arrows from his quiver. His brother crossed the rooftop and stopped a few feet away. The other incubus, dressed in casual attire covered by a white lab coat, squinted at the board leaning against a railing at the other end of the flat roof, well over two hundred feet away.

Keeping two arrows tucked against his palm with his ring and pinky fingers, Lyre nocked the third arrow and pulled the string back. His hand had barely reached his cheek before he loosed the bolt. He flipped the second arrow up, pulled back, released, then snapped the last one into place and shot it.

“Do you think you can surpass him someday?” Reed asked.

Lyre shrugged as he pulled the three-fingered leather glove off his right hand. From anyone else, the question would have sounded patronizing, but Reed was genuinely inquiring.

“In archery, maybe,” he answered, starting forward.

Reed followed him across the rooftop to the board. A single arrow pierced the center of a dark knot in the wood, and the other three formed a neat triangle around it. He pulled the first arrow free, checked the head for damage, then dropped it back into his quiver.

Reed watched him free the remaining arrows. Though older than Lyre by a few seasons, Reed didn’t look it. Most people mistook them for twins, but that’s just how incubi were, especially related ones. They didn’t look quite so similar out of glamour, though.

“Andante has summoned you,” Reed eventually said.

“I know.” Lyre eyed the board, pondering whether he wanted to shoot a few more rounds. He didn’t feel like he’d worked off any of the tension that had driven him up here in the first place.

“He called for you hours ago.”

“I know.”

Reed nodded, unsurprised. “Do you expect to be disciplined?”

“Probably.” Lyre slung his bow over his shoulder and leaned against the railing. “Eisheth threw a big fit about how my ‘second-rate weaving’ almost killed her.”

“I heard she complained directly to Samael.”

The name of the Hades warlord—objectively the most powerful daemon in the three realms—sent a zing of fear down Lyre’s spine. He shook his head. “I doubt he cares. He has more important things to worry about.”

“I suppose. But I also heard no one has seen her subject since he walked out of Chrysalis.”

“Well, shit.” Maybe he should have tried to stop Ash from leaving.

Reed leaned against the railing on the other side of the board, absently picking at a splinter of wood. “Why won’t you make the weaving she wants? You can’t delay forever.”

“She wants a torture collar. That’s Dulcet’s arena, not mine.”

“If you just did it, you wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore. What does it matter? That daemon is just another mercenary.”

Lyre met Reed’s amber eyes, identical to his own. “We both know that daemon isn’t a mercenary.”

Reed sighed. “Still …”

Turning his archery glove over in his hands, Lyre exhaled. “What do you know about him? About Ash?”

“Not much. He’s a draconian.” Reed lifted one shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “I heard soldiers saying he isn’t really missing. He’s just avoiding anyone who could tell him to report in.”

Lyre smirked. “Can’t disobey orders if you haven’t received them, right? Solid strategy.”

“He’ll turn up again soon, and Eisheth will calm down. But you still need to see Andante and find out if you’re being reprimanded.”

“Then I guess I’d better get it over with.” Lyre pushed off the railing. “See you later.”

Reed nodded, gazing vaguely at the dark sky.

Lyre swung by his workroom to drop off his archery gear and pull on a white lab coat, then he reluctantly ventured into the halls of Chrysalis. Despite the darkness outside—a usual state of affairs in the Underworld—the building was buzzing. Dozens of daemons of various castes hurried about, all stopping to greet Lyre politely. He offered only nods in return. He could have happily put an arrow into each and every one of them.

Weapons of war. Tools of torture. Filthy, foul magic that hurt, terrified, destroyed. That’s what Chrysalis made. And every daemon who freely came here to add their mark to Chrysalis’s legacy of death deserved a dagger in the ribs.

Oh, he could list dozens—hundreds—of their spells that weren’t disgusting or evil, that daemons everywhere used in their daily lives. Shields and barriers, protective wards, lights, warmth, defensive spells, healing magic—all that and more. But that was just the result of putting a bunch of genius weavers in the same building and keeping supervision to a minimum. They invented stuff. And sometimes it was even good stuff.

But that wasn’t what Chrysalis excelled at. They were the biggest, richest, most preeminent producer of magic in the three realms because their weavers were really, really good at coming up with every conceivable way magic could kill people.

As another wannabe weaver offered Lyre a respectful nod and greeting, he jammed his hands deeper in his pockets and walked faster. This was why he usually came here during off-hours when the halls were quiet and empty, and he didn’t have to resist the urge to paint the white walls crimson. He’d already contributed to enough spilled blood as it was.

At Andante’s workroom, he paused to tap on the door before swinging it open. Magic crackled over the wards embedded in the door, a warning of what they would do if activated.

His eldest brother sat at his worktable, a metal disk in his hands. Golden light shimmered over his fingers as he turned the disk. Lyre stumped to the cluster of wood chairs in the corner and dropped into one, prepared to wait. Most weavings couldn’t be stopped and started at a whim. Interrupting would cost Andante hours of work.

Propping his elbow on one knee and already bored, Lyre braced his chin on his palm. The large room held a long worktable and a wall of packed bookshelves, the shelves and cupboards filled with crafting tools. The chairs in the corner were the lone concession to visitors, and probably there only to encourage them to wait quietly.

He reached over a chair to the nearest bookshelf and pulled out a thick tome at random. A study of astral variations among different daemon castes. How exhilarating.

He flipped it open despite his lack of enthusiasm for the topic. Daemons came in countless “types” called castes, with each caste bearing unique features, magic, and culture. Incubi fell on the weakest end of the power spectrum, whereas draconians like Ash dwelled at the opposite end. However, the amount of magical firepower a daemon possessed wasn’t as important as how he used it.

Along with variations in magical ability, castes often varied wildly in appearance, more like different species than just different races. However, many had the ability to use glamour to pass as something closer to human, which disguised the biggest differences. Lyre always used glamour. Ash, too, had been in glamour every time Lyre had seen him. They were in the minority though. Many daemons, especially in their own world, didn’t bother with it.

He had flipped through the book’s pages for nearly an hour before Andante spoke. “Do you enjoy humiliating our family?”

Lyre glanced up. “Who’s humiliated? I didn’t think you cared what that hag thinks of us.”

Andante set the metal disk on his worktable and turned on his stool to face Lyre, the length of the room between them. His white-blond hair was shorter than Lyre’s and combed neatly, and his face was only slightly older, even though Andante had begun training with their father as the next family head before Lyre had learned his first spells.

“Eisheth’s opinion matters,” Andante said, “only in that she regularly shares that opinion with Samael.”

“Weavings don’t always work as expected, and the daemon she wants a collar for is an anomaly on several levels.”

“Regardless, you need to produce results. She specifically requested you for this. If you can’t create the weaving she asked for, then you aren’t fit to be a member of this family.”

Lyre pressed his lips together. Disownment, banishment, exile—if only. He would love nothing more than to be cast out, to be thrown to the curb and told to never return. But that would never happen. He knew too much. He was too skilled, too dangerous, and too deep in all their dirty secrets. Ejection from the family didn’t mean exile. It meant execution.

But this wasn’t the first death threat he’d received from his brothers, so he merely shrugged. “If I can’t do it, then I can’t.”

“Even with your shortcomings, you could produce a functioning collar if you applied yourself.” Andante rose to his feet. “Your limited skills are as much a result of your lack of discipline as your inferior talent. No Rysalis weaver is as incompetent as you allow yourself to be.”

Again, all things Lyre had heard before. And he was hardly insulted, considering he agreed with everything his brother had said. He could make a collar if he wanted to, and he was less skilled than his brothers—at least in the ways that mattered to his family.

“Our father holds the slim hope that you will someday mature into your potential,” Andante said with cold menace. “If not for that, I would have killed you years ago.”

Lyre yawned and slumped in his chair. “Uh-huh. But you won’t kill me, because despite all that, I’m more innovative than you or any of our brothers, with the possible exception of Dulcet. But he’s, well … you know how Dulcet is.”

Andante’s expression hardened and Lyre resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How many times would they have this discussion? True, Lyre wasn’t as good as his brothers, but where they were brilliant mathematicians, he was an artist. He might not be able to achieve the same technical finesse, but he could think outside the box. He wove things his brothers couldn’t even imagine.

Yeah, his stuff blew up in his face on a regular basis, or fell apart, or disintegrated after a single use, and yeah, it sometimes took him months to make a single new weaving work, but his creations were different in significant ways. His brothers could only copy what he dreamed up—and then improve the technique and weaving construction, because Lyre kind of sucked at that.

So, they wouldn’t kill him. And neither would they ever, ever let him go.

“Our father thinks you’re worth the trouble,” Andante said. “But I disagree. You would do well to keep that in mind for when I become the head of this family.”

Lyre said nothing. Another threat he’d heard before.

“Eisheth has demanded we penalize you. Though our father wouldn’t normally humor her, Samael has also agreed that your behavior is unacceptable.”

Despite his efforts to conceal his fear, Lyre’s face went cold.

“So.” Andante leaned against his worktable. “You will complete Eisheth’s collar commission—a functioning and thoroughly tested weaving that I will approve—by the turn of the season. If you fail, I will give you to Eisheth to do with as she pleases. Whether that means putting you to work or extracting some other sort of punishment will be up to her.”

Proper bravado escaped Lyre. Though he’d once mockingly called her the queen of torture, it was an accurate title. Eisheth oversaw the bastille—Hades’s primary prison where enemies of the territory met their deaths. Very slow, very painful deaths.

He inhaled deeply. The turn of the season was enough time to weave a custom collar—if he could stomach the work. “Is that it?”

“Not quite. Completing your assigned commission in a timely fashion is a poor chastisement for nearly killing an important official. So, you will also handle our next three clients—assess their needs, select or create weavings, and complete the sale.”

“Seriously?” Lyre shook his head. “I might be a second-rate master weaver, but it’s still a waste of my time to babysit buyers.”

“It’s a fine opportunity for you to prove your worth.” Andante folded his arms. “Our father chose the task, so if you disagree, you can take it up with him.”

Scowling, Lyre leaned back in his chair. Giving him an apprentice weaver’s job was a lame punishment, but that was probably the point. It was their father’s way of meeting Samael’s demand for a reprimand while also sending Eisheth a clear “fuck you” for interfering in Chrysalis business.

“Who are the clients, then?” he asked grudgingly. If he was lucky, they wouldn’t waste too much of his time. He had an Evil Collar of Ultimate Torment to weave before he ended up tied to the rack.

“Your first one should be interesting.” Andante picked up a paper from the corner of his worktable. “Our father only just approved it. We weren’t sure we should take them.”

“Oh?” Lyre propped one foot on the seat beside him and hung his arm over the back of his chair. “Interesting how?”

“A small, wealthy territory is looking for military-grade weapons to stave off a powerful neighbor. The client has the potential to offer a very profitable trade for our weavings.”

He could think of a dozen minor, well-off kingdoms that might need extra firepower. “What’s so interesting about that?”

Andante looked up from the paper. “It’s an Overworld territory.”

Lyre’s eyebrows shot up. An Overworld territory? Coming to Chrysalis for spellcrafted weaponry? That was like a nun stopping at a brothel for her afternoon tea. “Wow. These Overworlders must be desperate.”

“Indeed. And desperate people aren’t effective negotiators.”

“Generally not.” Lyre pushed to his feet. “Guess I can make that work.”

Andante nodded and his face hardened again. “This is not the time for another one of your petty rebellions, brother.”

Lyre waved dismissively, already heading for the door. “I wouldn’t dream of messing up a big sale, dear brother.”

He swung the door shut before Andante could reply. An Overworld buyer. Well, if the high and mighty Overworlders wanted to get their hands dirty with some nice bloody magic, he wouldn’t stop them.

But seeing as he held Chrysalis’s buyers in the same high esteem as Chrysalis’s weavers, he had no intentions of being nice about it.