It was a bad idea. A terrible one. But that hadn’t stopped her before.

The invitation wasn’t meant for her. It hadn’t even been addressed to a human. Gilded script shimmered across the parchment-like liquid starlight, a language no mortal tongue should have been able to read—but somehow, she had. And somehow, she had followed its pull to this place: a marble palace floating above the clouds, echoing with laughter that could crack mountains and flirtation sharp enough to draw blood.

Gods. Real ones. Not stories, not statues. Living myths draped in fire, starlight, and impossible beauty. And her? She stood in the corner of the ballroom, clutching a stolen goblet and hoping no one noticed the very mortal panic in her eyes.

She told herself she was only here to look. To see if the rumors were true. That the gods had grown bored of their own company. That sometimes, if the moon was right and the wine was dark enough, they let mortals slip in. Just to see what would happen.

No one had noticed her yet. Maybe they didn’t care. Or maybe they were just waiting for her to slip. She turned too quickly—nerves getting the better of her—and bumped into something solid. Someone.

He didn’t stumble. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, unmoving, carved from quiet. He wasn’t like the others. No radiant smile. No show of power or flame. Just a figure in white robes, eyes sharp and ancient beneath his pure white hair that barely hid the shimmer of gold around his temples. A quiver of arrows slung across his back, but no bow in sight.

Cupid, she thought—but not the cherub of greeting cards. No, this one looked like he’d long since grown tired of hearts and games.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice low, unreadable. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his gaze—annoyance, amusement, maybe even interest.