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Barnaby glances at the manuscript warily, as if he expects the book to attack. “And you expect me to believe this…why, exactly?”

Bastian ignores the question. “Do you know how that war ended?”

The minstrel’s mouth curls. “Badly?”

“With a covenant.” Sterling’s voice holds the calm certainty of a man who’s confronted unbelievable challenges and survived. “One that gave an off-ramp to divine war. Mortal champions fighting as the gods’ proxies.”

Barnaby’s brows pull together, but I can see his mind working to process everything. Which is good considering Helene explained how much he distrusts nobles, royals, and basically any authority figure. While I might be the queen and Sterling the prince, we’re minor players when compared to the gods. A point in our favor.

“But the horror doesn’t end here,” I say. “It’s the ‘why’ of their war that truly matters.”

“So, why are they at war?” Seems that Barnaby’s curiosity is beginning to override his suspicion.

Sterling’s icy grin elicits a wary glance from Barnaby. “The gods need us more than we knew. Even more than we need them.”

“For what?”

“Fuel.” A few seconds pass before Agnar clarifies. “Food.”

Barnaby’s features twist in confusion. “Food? What are you talking about?”

I smooth a hand over my skirt and raise my chin. This next part sounds the most insane. “The gods harvest and feed on devotion. Our prayers are food to them.”

His expression lends credence to my fear. This man believes we’ve lost our ever-loving minds.

“Have you ever noticed the crystalline formations in the temples? They’ve been growing and moving. Almost as if they’re sentient.” Bastian waits for Barnaby’s nod. “The scientist-priests discovered that they grow during prayers, during moments of heightened devotion. They serve as storage devices, capturing and preserving the energy they use.”

Barnaby appears unconvinced, but at least he hasn’t stormed out yet. That’s something. “And what role do the Devoted play in this?” He’s connecting dots faster than I expected.

Agnar bares his teeth. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“The Devoted spread select news to foment specific reactions.” Helene toys with the pendant on her thin gold necklace. “They disseminate false news, rumors, tales of doom and gloom, and⁠—”

“And the only source of protection is fervent prayer to the gods.” The muscles in Barnaby’s jaw and neck work as he clenches his teeth. “I hate fanatics.”

“Most reasonable people do.” I motion to the rest of the group. “Which is why we need your help.”

His eyebrows rise again. “My help? With what, exactly? Overthrowing the heavens?” Underneath the sarcasm that thickens his voice, I catch a spark of defiance.

“In a manner of speaking.” Sterling rubs his jaw. “We need to undermine their power source. We need people to turn away from the gods.”

Barnaby tilts his head. “Sort of like a mass prayer strike?”

I move closer to our visitor, my voice dropping to ensure no servants passing in the hall will overhear. “We need to convince people to ask questions. Lead them to doubt the gods themselves.” I pause to ensure he understands the final, crucial piece. “And persuade them to come to the match.”

Barnaby fingers the gittern’s strings, his gaze distant as he plucks out a soft melody. I can almost see the trademark satire at work in his mind. “Always fancied being part of a revolution.”

Agnar pumps his fist in the air. “Yes! Bring your friends. The gods hate that we have friends and loved ones.”

“Well, they must really hate me then, because I have many friends. Minstrels, actors, storytellers.” Barnaby’s fingers prance across the strings. “People who earn their living by making others listen.”

Hope flares in my chest. This could actually work. “We have ten days until the match. Ten days to turn as many people as possible away from the gods.”

Barnaby nods, eyes calculating. “Ten days to start a revolution.” He gestures at each of us. “I’ll need details. Specific incidents. Evidence I can point to that will incite questions.”

“We have plenty. Backed by facts and trusted sources.” Bastian points to the papers on the table. “The scientist-priests documented everything. Until the Devoted slaughtered them.”

“And we’ll need songs.” Helene waves at his gittern. When we shift as one in her direction, she meets our surprise with her usual cool detachment. “What? Songs circulate faster than rumors, and they’re remembered longer.”