The wind carried the scent of ozone and distant rain across the balcony, tugging at Rai Zeus's silver-gray hair as she stood against the railing, one hand loosely holding a thin black cigarette. The ember at its tip glowed with an unnatural purple hue—not fire, but Nether Flame, cold and consuming, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals that smelled faintly metallic.
Three hundred and twenty-five years of existence had taught her many things. How to kill efficiently. How to survive longer. How to bury secrets so deep they became part of the bedrock of reality itself.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for the particular brand of chaos that was Riyan Cris Descartes.
