She stepped out of the window, and Séverin’s stomach lurched, everything in him expecting that she really would fall. But she didn’t. When he tilted his head just so he caught the glossy sheen of a clever, Forged glass floor. He and Laila followed after the matriarch, down a corridor that promised a drop of at least three hundred feet should they take any missteps. A molten golden door appeared as if in midair, and even though it was closed, Séverin caught the sounds of Hypnos playing the piano …

The door opened to reveal a great, domed dining room. A feast was spread out on a long, black table carved of onyx. Near the back of the room, Hypnos played at the piano, with Enrique, Zofia, and Eva beside him. As Ruslan made his way to greet them, Séverin eyed the room. Thinly hammered sheets of golden feathers served as the floor. Above, the Forged ceiling magnified the stars so that they seemed within plucking distance, and while the glass walls afforded a breathtaking view of Lake Baikal … they were ornamented with rotating lights that took on the shape of the Greek zodiac.

“It’s beautiful,” breathed Laila, tipping back her head. The light flared against the burnished line of her throat, and Séverin nearly caught himself staring.

“Yes, quite,” said Ruslan, bending over Laila’s extended hand. “And does the room please you too, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie?”

“I find it morbid.”

“Morbid?” repeated the matriarch.

But Ruslan’s smile widened. “Tell me what you see.”

Séverin tapped his foot on the floor. “The feathers of Icarus. And above, the too-close heavens. And around us”—he pointed at the zodiac—“inflexible fate. This room is a reminder of the great overestimation of men … a reminder of how far we might fall. I’m surprised the floor isn’t bloodred.”

Ruslan hummed in agreement, rubbing his bald head. “‘Blood flow’d, but immortal; ichor pure, such as the blest inhabitants of heav’n, may bleed, nectareous.’”

“Who’s reciting the Iliad?” called out Enrique from the back.

“Me!” said Ruslan gleefully. “Sometimes I surprise myself by remembering things … one imagines that without a ceiling of hair, all thoughts merely abandon the skull.”

“What did you say?” asked Séverin.

“Skull?”

“No.”

“Hair…”

“No.”

There was something else. Something that had struck him in that moment.

Ruslan paused, and then said, “Ichor?”

“Yes, that’s it. Ichor pure.”

Ruslan stroked his head. “The Fallen House loved any mention of the gods. It was even rumored they had found a way to give themselves ichor, of a kind. A way to manipulate their very human matter. A rumor, however.”

“It’s no rumor,” said Laila. “We’ve seen it.”

“Ah, yes … in the catacombs, correct?” asked Ruslan, looking from the matriarch to Séverin. “So it’s true? You saw their ichor?”

As if he could forget. Sometimes he found himself touching his mouth, dreaming of sticky gold. Whatever alchemy rendered men to gods, he craved it.

“What let them do that?” asked Séverin.

“Let?” repeated Ruslan, his mouth twisting on the word. “They had objects the likes of which you and I cannot fathom.”

Ruslan moved toward the dining table, pulling out a chair for Laila and Delphine as he spoke.

“House Dazbog specializes in the collection of Forging lore, and I believe the Fallen House had come across an ancient weapon … it had many names. In the Indian continent, it was known in the Tamilian language as an aruval, the medieval court of Baghdad called it a lost angel’s zulfiqar, but when the Fallen House came upon it, they called it the Midas Knife, not only after the cursed king from Greek myth, but also for its alchemical properties: blood to gold, man to god.”

“It sounds like magic,” said the matriarch dismissively.

“Perhaps Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie can tell us better,” said Ruslan. “Was it magic? What you saw?”

For a moment, Séverin was back in the catacombs. Once more, he kneeled on a stage, felt the sharp rip of wings searing through his shoulder blades, the pressure of horns at his head, and always the strange cadence in his blood that sang with divine invincibility.

“What is magic but a science we cannot fathom,” said Séverin.

Ruslan smiled warmly.

“Well put,” he said. “Though I would imagine such a weapon is wielded with great cost. It was said to be created from fragments of the top-most brick of the Tower of Babel, and thus closest in reach to God’s power.”

“Perhaps that’s what made the Fallen House think they could become gods,” said Séverin.

The matriarch scoffed, gesturing at the gold feathers of the floor, the intoxicating nearness of the stars. “One would think after all these reminders of fatality, they would’ve stopped themselves.”

Ruslan rubbed his one injured arm, still limp in its sling. “But then we would not be human, would we?”

He grinned and signaled to a server, who rang a dinner gong. Hypnos continued to play the piano, lost in the music. It used to be impossible to pull Hypnos away from the instrument.

Eva called out over Hypnos’s playing: “Do you take requests, Monsieur?”

Hypnos paused. “Yes!”

“Excellent,” said Eva. “Then stop.”

And she walked off. Hypnos’s expression soured, but he rose from the piano and joined everyone at the table. When Séverin turned to his right, he found that he was seated next to the matriarch. A servant stopped beside her, handing her a small, bloody vial that he recognized as her immunity to any unwanted blood Forging.

“You always see so clearly into the darkness of men’s hearts, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” she said, before adding in a softer voice, “But I remember when you used to see wonder.”

Séverin reached for his water goblet. “And now I see truth.”

For dinner, the spread appeared like burnt offerings, food presented to deities. All of it designed to look charred, though none of it was. In a silver bowl sat black figs, so velveteen and succulent, they looked as if someone had taken a silver spoon to midnight and scooped. Then a roasted haunch, served on a pillow of burnt sage; black pudding on ice terrines; soufflés the color of the night sky. Around them, the animals of the ice menagerie had been repurposed … a crystal jaguar prowled around the dining table, balancing carafes of delicate ice wine on its back. The onyx table reflected the sky above, and as the night stretched longer, the ceiling grew delicate stalactites that resembled thinly beaten strands of silver. Séverin moved through the motions of dinner, but he hardly felt present. As far as his mind was concerned, he was already inside the leviathan, already turning the pages of The Divine Lyrics, already watching as the blood in his veins turned to a god’s rich ichor. He wouldn’t need the Fallen House’s Midas Knife for such a thing. He could have it on his own.

Séverin didn’t realize dinner had concluded until the gong sounded once more. He pushed back from his chair, only to realize Zofia was standing beside him and glaring. He hadn’t seen her leave her seat, much less walk toward him.