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A man with a riot of loose brown curls atop his head, who’s dressed in colors so vivid they seem to vibrate against the subdued elegance of the palace, trails behind her. He wears a crimson tunic embroidered with gold thread, azure leggings, and a cape of deep emerald that swirls with each movement. His steel gray eyes, deep-set and knowing, scan the room with quick assessment.

This must be Barnaby.

I’ve heard of him, of course. Everyone has. His songs are performed in every tavern across Tirene, and his pointed critiques of nobility have earned him as many enemies in high places as admirers among the common folk. Not a single trace of servility shows in his posture as he saunters into the chamber with the easy confidence of a man who believes himself equal to anyone, royal or not.

Based on this gives-no-fucks first impression, I like him.

“Your Majesty. Your Highness.” Helene gestures to the wild peacock of a man. “May I present Barnaby Paloma.”

The minstrel offers a bow that hovers at the border between respectful and mocking. “Queen Lark.” Even in those two simple words, his melodious voice shines. “I hear you’ve asked for me specifically. I’m flattered. Or perhaps I should be concerned?”

“Barnaby’s father was my father’s minstrel.” Helene’s tone suggests this connection is reason enough for us to trust him.

“And I am no one’s.” He plucks idly at the small gittern hanging from his belt, producing a discordant note that somehow emphasizes his point. “I travel across the kingdoms and perform for no one but the people.”

“There’s no need for concern.” Sterling smiles his court smile, the one he uses to put people at ease. “Please, come in, have a seat. We have an important matter to discuss with you.”

I study him. Intelligence sparkles in those eyes, along with a healthy dose of skepticism.

Good. We need someone who questions everything. Even us.

Especially us.

“Do you have children, Barnaby?” I cringe, worrying that I already managed to stick my foot in my mouth.

The minstrel’s stance shifts. A barely perceptible tensing. His eyes narrow as they lock onto mine, searching for the threat behind my words. “I do. What of them?” Steel replaces the melody in his voice. “Did you invite me here just to threaten me?”

The change in demeanor draws Sterling forward, his affability gone. “No one is threatening anyone.”

Oof. I probably should have phrased that better. “Just the opposite. Our discussion is for the sake of your children. For everyone’s children. Not just those living in Tirene’s capital. I want you to know that beforehand.”

Barnaby considers me for a long moment with a slight furrow between his brows. “And why exactly am I here? Shouldn’t the soon-to-be king focus on training for his upcoming Champions Match?”

Sterling gives me an imperceptible nod, encouraging me to continue. The minstrel catches the gesture, and his eyes narrow further.

“Good.” Bastian ignores the tension radiating from Barnaby. “Word is spreading through the kingdoms.”

“Whether through our efforts or the Devoted’s. Either way, it works.” Smiling grimly, Agnar shrugs. “Still feels weird to help them and their leader out, but the world has gotten really strange recently.”

Barnaby’s assessing gaze travels from face to face. “You people are exceptionally cryptic for a group that invited me here.” The sharpness in his eyes belies his light tone as he addresses me. “So who is it? Who will your betrothed be fighting in this great spectacle? Some fearsome warrior from across the sea? A mighty sorcerer?”

A beat passes while familiar dread writhes in my gut. “Me.”

That reply cracks his composed facade. He recoils, his eyebrows shooting up and his mouth gaping open. “You? Tirene’s queen will fight the crown prince? Her own fiancé?” He glances between us, searching for the joke or political strategy that explains such madness.

My stomach twists. “Yes.”

He shakes his head, and his expression hardens. “What game are you playing?”

“We’re not the ones playing a game.” Sterling presses a fist against the table. “The gods have pitted us against each other to rip apart the mortal world.”

Barnaby releases a short, bitter laugh. “Right. The gods. Of course.” He fiddles with his gittern again, as if debating whether to simply take his leave. “Why would the gods do such a thing?”

“Because they’re at war.” I gesture to Sterling and myself. “And they’ve chosen human champions to fight for them instead. And I must ask you to not refer to any of them by name, lest we risk drawing their attention to us. We have far too much of that already.”

The minstrel’s skepticism is palpable, his expression clearly questioning our sanity.

Bastian rises from his chair to approach the table with the ancient texts. He flips open a worn manuscript, its pages yellowed with age, the ink faded to a rusty brown. “The archives hold accounts of the last civil war among the gods. The descriptions match exactly what we’re seeing. Corrupted sacred sites, rogue divine animals, transformed devotional objects, splintering reality.”