I received the invitation over breakfast.
Sealed with wax. Embossed with the World Government's crest. Carried by a trembling courier with a stutter. I didn't open it right away—no, that would have been impolite.
Instead, I let it sit on the plate beside my honeyed eel and orchid-topped toast.
Winter read it before I did. She always did.
"Garling wants you to attend a marriage gathering," she said, her voice flat as polished steel.
"Another?" I sighed, dabbing my mouth. "Didn't we just attend one last season?"
"You insulted the bride."
"She looked like a goat and spoke like a drunk pelican."
"She was also your cousin."
"All the more reason not to marry her."
Garling's request was not optional, of course.
The event was a farce, a thinly veiled ritual designed to preserve bloodlines and mask paranoia. The Celestial Dragons were dwindling, and everyone knew it. Incest made poor genetic investments.
So they gathered. Matched. Bred.
Like prized horses in formalwear.
I sent Winter ahead to scout the names. Who was on the list. Who was desperate. Who had ambition.
She returned with a chart.
"A Saint Carlotta is promising," she noted. "Minimal inbreeding. Physically plain, but her grandfather owns five arms factories."
"Charming," I said.
"There's also Saint Olinette. Tall. Fertile. Already had three stillborns."
"Pass."
"She drinks."
"Pass faster."
Winter tilted her head. "You don't want children?"
"Eventually. But I want children who won't melt in sunlight."
The ball was held in the Hanging Gardens.
Suspended platforms of glass and steel hovered over Mariejois like crystal lily pads. Flowers imported from twenty-two islands bloomed in hanging silk-wrapped planters. Harpsichords played. Drones served wine.
I arrived in full regalia. White coat, golden mask, cane tipped with a sharpened sapphire.
Winter walked a step behind me. No mask. No shoes. Lightning sparking in her hair like static dreams.
Ash stayed behind, under orders. She hated dancing.
Garling was waiting near the fountain of tears—an actual fountain sculpted from crying stone children. Subtle.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm early by ten years."
He gestured toward the crowd. "Pick a wife."
I raised a brow. "What, like fruit?"
"Exactly like fruit. Rotten or ripe. Your choice."
I made the rounds. Laughed. Flirted. Flinched.
Saint Melnora had a laugh like a dying crow.
Saint Belphemina tried to touch my face. I nearly screamed.
One girl—Saint Vaniella—told me she admired my cruelty. I asked her what cruelty. She listed seven.
I was almost impressed.
Winter trailed me like a ghost with judgment.
"She's pretending to be what you are," she murmured as Vaniella left.
"She should try harder. I'm a much better liar."
Garling called me aside as the music shifted.
"I've seen the reports," he said. "Winter can destroy a ship with one gesture."
"She has lovely hands."
"She doesn't wear gloves."
"She prefers shocking suitors."
He didn't laugh. He never did.
"You're building a family," he said. "I see it now."
"I'm building insulation," I replied. "A lightning-proof dynasty."
Garling leaned closer. "And what happens when Imu asks where your bloodline ends?"
I looked at Winter across the ballroom.
Her fingers curled around a glass. Lightning fizzled inside the stem.
"I'll show him what divine succession looks like."
Back at the estate, Winter sat on the edge of my bed.
She didn't speak. Not at first.
Finally: "Did you choose one?"
"No."
She nodded.
I poured wine. She didn't drink.
"Do you think blood matters?" I asked.
Winter stared at me.
"You saved me," she said. "So now, my blood is yours."
Then she got up and left.
Her footsteps buzzed with static.
I sipped my wine and watched the storm roll in.
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