“What will you do to protect them?” asked the matriarch.

Séverin stared at his family, lingering a moment longer than he needed to on Laila. Laila and her warm smile, her rose water and sugar-scented hair … her body that would cease to house her soul in ten days’ time. She’d never told him how little time was left and now—

The matriarch’s grip on his chin tightened. “What will you do to protect them?”

The question jolted through him.

“Anything,” said Séverin.

Now, on the marble threshold outside Ruslan’s home, Séverin schooled his expression to blankness and regarded the kneeling man. He forced himself to answer Ruslan’s question. He didn’t know what the kneeling man had to do with Ruslan’s home, or how to enter it, which made his every word hold a strange balance.

“Indeed,” he said. “This man should be flattered.”

The kneeling man whimpered, and Séverin finally looked at him. On closer inspection, he was not a man at all, but a boy that looked to be in his late teens, perhaps only a few years younger than Séverin. He was pale, with blue eyes and dirty-blond hair. His limbs were skinny as a colt’s, and a flower poked out of the top button of his shirt. A lump rose in Séverin’s throat. The hair and eyes and flower … it was a flimsy echo, but for a moment, it was as if Tristan knelt at his feet.

“My father had a keen sense of understanding about the world,” said Ruslan.

The longer Séverin stared at the kneeling boy, the more he began to suspect the uncanny resemblance to Tristan was no mistake. His fingers twitched to reach out to the boy, to untie his hands and throw him into the stinking water so he might escape whatever Ruslan planned.

“Most importantly,” said Ruslan. “My father knew that nothing was without sacrifice.”

Ruslan’s hand blurred forward so quickly that Séverin didn’t have time to react. Séverin bit down on his tongue, tasting blood. It was the only thing that kept him from lurching forward to catch the boy and break his fall. The boy’s eyes widened for an instant before he slumped forward. Blood pooled from his slashed throat, spreading slowly over the marble threshold. Ruslan stared down at him, the knife in his hand now glossed with crimson. Wordlessly, he handed the blade to one of his followers.

“Sacrifice was built into the very design of our ancestral home,” continued Ruslan casually. “Father always knew it was our destiny to become gods … and all gods require sacrifice. That is why he named it Casa D’Oro Rosso.”

House of Red Gold.

Before, the house had seemed pale and nondescript. But the touch of blood had changed it. What had once been a colorless mosaic floor leading to the pale door, had begun to transform. As the blood seeped into the ground, the translucent stones shifted—a faint hue of crimson deepening to ruby. Cherry-dark garnet flecked the stones, haloed by patterns of pink quartz that formed a decorative geometric design. The color lazily bloomed outward until it hit the door. The white door blushed pink, swirls of dark gold crawling up from the marble and across the Forged wood that smoldered away, revealing the gold and iron scrollwork of a grand entryway. In one smooth motion, the door swung open.