For all the suffering Lanthe had borne just to reach Sargasoe, she was excited to behold such an exotic place. But what was in store? Nïx’s prediction echoed in her mind: In one realm, hurt. In one realm, leave. In one realm, cleave. In one realm, shine.

So was Lanthe supposed to cleave here? She bit her lip, glancing at Thronos. Cleave was a word with several meanings, one of which was to separate.

She’d already sensed a portal. What if Nereus offered two different rides: one to the Skye and one to Rothkalina?

Was she ready to part from Thronos? Despite all her blustering and denials earlier, the thought made her chest ache. If only a relationship between them didn’t pose so many insurmountable odds.

When they passed a mirror, she turned away, not wanting to see her reflection. Yet suddenly all the injuries over her body began mending. The restraints around her wrists disappeared, and she felt as fresh as if she’d recently bathed. With a gasp, she peered down at herself.

She now wore a black leather skirt, mesh hose, and leather boots. Her top was a halter woven of gold and silver strands—with denser weaves of metal over the front to conceal her br**sts. Sleek metal gauntlets covered her hands and forearms, and she detected a mask over her face.

Sorceri formal dress! Her hands flew to her necklace. Still there!

She whirled around to the mirror. Her mask was sapphire blue, accentuating her eyes. Her hair had been twined around a substantial gold headpiece, with wild braids framing her face. No more bob cut in the back—long locks had grown out, left to curl down her back.

She felt more like a sorceress—less like food. She was starting to enjoy Sargasoe’s amenities! She turned to Thronos, and her lips parted.

The Vrekener was . . . drop-dead gorgeous.

His recent injuries had disappeared, and he was dressed in new clothes. Leather breeches and boots. A wide leather belt to highlight his narrow hips.

A crisp, white lawn shirt molded over his muscles and wing stems as if tailored. Which she supposed it had been, by a divine hand.

She was entranced by her tall, built, devilish, demon lover. Or would-be lover. He had the physical attributes to attract any female—but Lanthe also admired how he stood so proud and stalwart, ready to do battle once more.

She and Thronos continued to be challenged; they continued to overcome, protecting each other. Maybe he was right; maybe they were the Vrekener/Sorceri couple who could beat those odds.

“Is this real?” he asked, gazing back at their guards. “Between the loops and Feveris, I’m unsure.”

She was used to magics like these, Thronos not so much. “I think it is.”

“Follow the sounds to the feast,” the Stheno leader said, using her trident to point down the corridor. “Do not entertain ideas of escape. For your kind, there is only one way out of Sargasoe.”

When the cadre turned to slither away, a thought occurred to Lanthe. “Wait! Where are my clothes from before? There was a lock of hair—”

“Your offering has been received,” the leader said, her head snakes wavering. “It’s the reason you live yet.”

“Oh.” And then Lanthe and Thronos were alone. “Hope Nïx didn’t need that back.”

When he canted his head at her, Lanthe realized he hadn’t seen her looking this put-together in forever. “Sooo, what do you think?”

“Your garments are revealing. It won’t bother you to attend a feast half-naked?”

Before Melanthe could answer, a covey of scantily clad sea nymphs began to rise up from one of the floor cutouts. Nereids. The females were all ethereally stunning, and dressed in nothing but short sea-foam skirts.

Each time a nymph emerged from the water and flipped her hair back, she seemed to move in breathless slo-mo.

The Lore held that Nereus had been trapped in Sargasoe either by another power—or by his own agoraphobia. His loneliness had driven him to create a new species of nymph to serve as his concubines and servants.

The females stopped and stared at Thronos, pointing at his wings with admiring looks and giggling flirtatiously behind their hands. Lanthe supposed he could be the first male with wings that they’d ever seen. Not many sky-born Loreans would journey to the bottom of the ocean.

Before Lanthe’s eyes, the nymphs’ flirtation transformed to brazen desire.

What would Thronos think about their interest? As they raked their gazes over him, she delved into his mind, but found his shields up.

Because he was thinking lustful thoughts about them and didn’t want her to know?

Dick. Typical male.

So this is jealousy. How had Thronos lived with it for so long?

She glared daggers at the females. Back off, nymphos. He’s mine.

Mine?

Mine.

Merely thinking that word was like a gunshot triggering an avalanche of emotion.

She and Thronos had literally been through hell together. Act like partners . . . They’d become a team, and the idea of parting from him—or sharing him with nymphs—hurt.

When the gaggle of Nereids finally sashayed away, Lanthe said, “Perhaps I should go without this top? Since the nymphs wear none, I don’t want to be overdressed.”

He drew closer to her. “That is not going to happen.”

“You sure? You seemed as taken by them as they were by you.” Jealousy sucked.

His expression was inscrutable. “Did I? Hmm.”

What did that mean?

Thronos changed the subject. “If we’ve been healed and dressed, have we escaped a fate as ‘entertainment’?”