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Sterling’s brow furrows. Dried blood smears his forehead, and he waves away my concern when I reach for the already-clotting gash. “I thought they couldn’t fight each other so long as we’re still their champions.”

Another tremor, stronger this time, nearly knocks me back down.

“Supposedly, they can’t.” Bastian passes the tea to Rafe. “Not with each other. If they’re fighting something, it has to be something outside the pantheon.”

Fantastic.

“Fuck.” Agnar rises from where he’d been silently catching his breath. “So we stopped one war just for them to start another? Bastards.”

Several rifts form across the field as the air warps and bends.

Creatures with too many eyes and limbs poke their heads out and peer around. Their grotesque features tilt upward as if listening to voices only they can hear.

Movement at the far edge of the arena catches my eye.

A figure striding calmly through the devastation as if taking a pleasant morning stroll. Tall, muscular, with golden hair that glows with its own light and eyes the color of distant stars.

The Guardian.

He struts past creatures and humans alike, and none of them seem to notice him. As if he’s not really here.

Just like when he appeared to us at the masquerade.

My heart stutters in my chest. His appearance can only mean one thing. The gods have sent reinforcements.

Whatever temporary advantage the dragons gave us is about to be obliterated. “Sterling!”

He whips around, his bloodied face a mask of exhaustion and pain. His gaze tracks mine, landing on the approaching figure. His shoulders slump for just a moment, like he’s recognizing that the battle is truly lost.

Then, with a fierceness in his eyes and stubborn defiance, he straightens again.

I push through the fatigue, through the pain, and force my legs to move. My wings strain against my back, aching to extend fully but too weak to do so. I stand a few paces from Sterling, ready to defend him and the others with whatever magic I can muster.

Bastian appears at my other side, Leesa just behind him. Rafe and Agnar move to complete our defensive circle, the civilians they were protecting running to huddle in our center.

The Guardian continues his unhurried advance, his perfect features arranged in an expression of mild interest, as if we’re an experiment with unexpected results. He carries a gleaming lance in one hand and a sword that pulses with strange light in the other.

“Seriously?” A drop of fresh blood trickles from the wound on Sterling’s forehead. “Now?”

“Now.” The Guardian hefts the lance, muscles rippling beneath his flawless skin.

In one fluid motion, he hurls the weapon directly at Sterling.

Pure terror wraps around my heart and squeezes. I forget how to breathe.

My husband is going to die.

Chapter Sixty

I try to move, to throw myself in the weapon’s path, to burn it to ash. But my exhausted body betrays me.

The lance soars over Sterling’s shoulder—missing him by a hair—and continues its deadly flight.

It strikes a massive tentacled creature that had been crawling out of a portal behind us, piercing straight through its chest. The monster convulses once, twice, then collapses into a heap of twitching limbs.

Sterling staggers, knees buckling.

The Guardian crosses the remaining distance in three long strides, seizing Sterling’s arm and hauling him upright with supernatural strength. “On your feet, son. It’s not over.”