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“The gods have immense power, yes. But they’re also predictable. Arrogant.” He faces the view again, his profile sharp against the deepening twilight. “They expect blind obedience and fear. They’re used to mortals cowering and accepting whatever fate is bestowed upon them simply because that’s how we’ve always responded. Due to our faith in them, we’ve always followed their will.”
His fingers flex at his sides with purpose, tiny ice crystals forming and melting in the air around them.
I wet my dry lips, almost afraid to ask. “What are you suggesting?”
Sterling’s mouth curves into his calculating battle smile. “What if we give them exactly what they want…but on our terms?”
“How?”
His eyes come alive with ambition. “They want us to fight as champions. Fine. We’ll fight.”
My heart contracts as I try to piece together his intent. “Sterling—”
“We’ll fight, but we’ll control how we fight, where we fight, and what that fight means.” He strolls closer to me. “We appear to comply. We train openly as champions and make it clear we’re preparing for battle. But secretly, we find a way to undermine them.”
My wings lift from their droop as I straighten. “And how exactly do we undermine gods?”
“By remembering what Rivlan told me tonight. I’m not just a champion, Lark.” Sterling’s demeanor grows more confident. “He called me a guardian. Like the Guardian from the portal. And reminded me that guardians are halfway between mortals and gods.”
I blink, struggling to process this information. “What does that mean?”
“It means I have more power than they believe. And as a dragoncaller, you certainly have more than they expected, since they claim you destroying Narc set all this in motion.” Sterling edges close enough that the cool aura of his magic mingles with the warmth of mine. “It means we’re not just pawns. We’re players.”
My mind races. “So we pretend to play by their rules while actually—”
“Writing new ones.” He tips up my chin. “What was it the God of Lost Things said to you?”
I immediately recall that conversation with Orin. “The gods love tricky things.”
Sterling releases my chin and seizes my hand, bringing it to his mouth. “Wanna get tricky with me?” His lips warm my skin where they brush over my knuckles.
“Yes.” I peer into his eyes and discover my hope reflected back at me. “I absolutely do.”
The game has changed. The gods may have written the opener, but Sterling and I will write our own ending.
Chapter Forty-Three
Barely restrained rage courses through me as Lark shares our discoveries with our small circle of allies. Agnar, Rafe, Leesa, and Bastian grow grimmer with every sentence. The breakfast splayed out in our sitting room sits mostly untouched, with fruit turning brown at the edges, pastries cooling in their baskets, and sausages abandoned in congealed puddles of grease.
No one retained much of an appetite after hearing that the gods arranged for us to fight each other to the death. Not that I can fault them for that.
The gods have manipulated us, giving with one hand while taking with the other. Despite how the priests try to spin things, that’s what deities do.
Lark finishes speaking, and the silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Let me get this straight.” A leather band holds Agnar’s coppery hair back today, emphasizing the angles of his battle-scarred face. “The gods want you two to fight to the death as their champions, and if you refuse, Rivlan will sink Tirene beneath the sea? But if Lark refuses, the kingdom will burn?”
Another wave of fury rolls through me when I consider Agnar’s words. “That’s about the size of it.”
From her seat beside Bastian, Leesa raises a hand to her throat as if trying not to vomit. “But that’s…monstrous! They can’t expect you to—”
“They’re gods.” Bastian grabs her hand and draws soothing circles with his thumb. “They can expect whatever they want.”
With both his and Lark’s jaws set at that same stubborn angle, the resemblance between them is especially pronounced.
Rafe props an elbow on his leg and rests his chin into his open palm. “So what you’re saying is, we’re fucked.” His eyebrows push together in a single bristling line.
My gaze slides to Lark, and I draw hope from the sheer resolve in her beautiful profile. Instead of defeat, she hums with an air of almost palpable energy.
