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Barnaby grins. “I’m already composing.” He plucks out a series of notes, humming softly under his breath. “A song about hungry gods and the mortals who feed them…”

I nod, impressed despite myself. “And the match itself. We need as many witnesses as possible.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Barnaby waves me off. “A battle between Queen Lark and Prince Knox? Champions of the gods? Everyone will want to witness that unprecedented event.” His expression gleams with anticipation. “Especially when rumor has it that there’s more to the spectacle than meets the eye.”

Bastian rubs his palms together. “If the gods realize what we’re planning⁠—”

“I understand the stakes.” All traces of levity disappear from Barnaby’s demeanor. “I have children, as Her Majesty so pointedly reminded me, and no desire to see them become livestock for divine appetites, despite how they sometimes test my patience.”

Agnar snickers. “Oh, you’ll fit in just fine.”

“Then we’re in agreement.” Sterling extends his hand for the minstrel to shake. “You’ll help us spread the word, lure people to the match, and inspire them to question their divine devotion.”

Sterling’s proffered hand elicits a subtle widening of Barnaby’s eyes before the minstrel clasps the prince’s palm and shakes. “I’ll do more than that. By the time I’m finished, the gods will wish they’d never heard of Barnaby the Minstrel.”

As I watch them seal this pact, a rush of unidentifiable emotions floods my system. Maybe hope, or desperation, or madness.

Perhaps all three.

We’re gambling everything on this plan. Our lives, our kingdom, our futures. But for the first time since learning of the gods’ manipulations, I truly believe we have a fighting chance.

Ten days. Ten days to start a revolution that will shake the very heavens.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Trying to ignore my exhaustion, I weave through the palace hallways to the Royal Archives. Between this morning’s training session and too many late nights to count, I’m so tired that several minutes pass before I realize the weight dragging behind me is from my wings.

With a shrug, I banish them and reach for the handle of the heavy door that protects our kingdom’s history and knowledge.

Illumination glows from every chandelier, as well as the scattered ever-lights. A page naps in the corner on a little stool.

At the first desk between the rows of bookcases, I find the subject of my search.

Bastian’s hands tremble as he closes another ancient text, dust puffing from its pages in a tired cloud. Only a stub remains of the candle beside him, the wax pooling on the table like congealed blood.

Before I get a chance to speak, Leesa waves me over. “Earlier, Rose’s flame familiar showed us something. In the section of the archives we hadn’t reached yet.”

I straighten, my fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Tell me it’s good news.”

She hesitates, pushing her dark golden blond waves behind her ears as she leans closer. “It’s…interesting. But we’re running out of time.”

Leesa’s gaze shifts to the far wall where we use charcoal to mark the days with harsh, vertical slashes. Seven days remain until the wedding ceremonies begin and the world pours into Tirene. The day after is the Champions Match.

Because nothing says honeymoon quite like squaring off with your new spouse in a fight to the death. “What did Rose’s familiar show you?”

“Ancient binding protocol. The gods must follow certain rules when using champions.” She pushes a thin yellowed scroll toward Bastian. “We’re not sure what it means yet. Rose is with Knox, who’s trying to make sense of it.”

Bastian nods, pulling the scroll closer. “I’ll add it to the pile of ‘might save us, might not.’”

On any other occasion, Bastian’s attempt to lighten a shitty situation would draw a laugh, but I can only muster a weak smile.

The door creaks open again, admitting Agnar. His coppery hair is wind-tossed and sweat-dampened, his battle-scarred face lined with exhaustion. Dust coats his boots and the lower half of his trousers, evidence of his day’s work.

While Sterling and I spent the better part of the day training separately, Agnar helped to set up the arena for the match. We agreed on using the vast stretch of land on the West Coast near the Storm Cliffs, the most uninhabited section of Tirene. Nowhere near the palace or the dragons.

I squeeze his arm as he strolls by. “Everything went well?”

“It works, but I had to use every bit of my power.” Agnar drops into a chair, his broad shoulders slumping. “The earth magic barriers will hold during the match, but if there’s any sort of attack beforehand…”