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“The only issue was with stone warriors coming alive and attacking people.” He leans back in his chair with practiced ease. “Fighting living stone with water is not an easy task. I’m sure you’d encounter the same difficulties with your air magic. Everything worked just fine when we merged and added Agnar’s earth element.”

I bite my cheek, battling the urge to rush to Sterling’s defense. So far, I’m the only one who truly knows about his magic’s attempts to resist him.

We’re interrupted by new disturbances that waft through the open windows: the clatter of carts, shouts from merchants, and a passionate voice rising above the rest.

“Sacred springs run black in Westcliff! Only the faithful will be spared when⁠—”

“Fucking Devoted,” Rafe mutters, loud enough for me to hear.

I frown. “Devoted?”

Rafe scowls, his dark brown wings shifting with his irritation. “A cult-like group of religious zealots who’ve been crying about the end of the world and appeasing the gods. I’ve seen them in the coastal cities, but this is the first one I’ve heard in the capital. They must be growing in number.”

“Ah, so that’s what we’re calling them.” Ever since Tirene’s first encounter with the drachen, we’ve all noticed the gradual rise of street preachers. Kind of annoying sometimes, but considering we were fighting against the remnants of a dead god—Narc—who wanted to control the entire world’s population, the newfound devotion is understandable.

Strange times tend to prompt people to seek answers and help from a greater power. Even I prayed more during that time period than ever before.

In fact, I met several gods face-to-face. Those experiences still feel like fever dreams some days. “What do they want?”

“Fear.” Dalya isn’t one to mince words. “They spread fear and collect coin from the frightened masses.”

So, probably not an urgent concern compared to our other issues. Though I still intend to instruct the guards to find out why that idiot’s proselytizing so close to the palace.

I turn to Bastian, who remains by the window while quietly absorbing everything. “We need every historical record of similar divine manifestations.” Then I address the council. “And I want scouts positioned near all major temples in Tirene to report any unusual activity.”

The council members nod. Across the table, Sterling rises, striding to the window to speak to my brother in hushed tones. Bastian’s eyebrows lift, and then he nods.

When I try to catch Sterling’s attention, he gives me a brief shake of his head.

Another secret. Another thread I’ll need to pluck at later.

“There’s more, Your Majesty.” Bron tugs my focus back to the council. “Reports of other strange events happening across Tirene.”

“What kind of events?” I already dread the answer.

“Guardian cave cats spotted roaming beyond their usual territories.” Duchess Breann glances at the shadow in the corner, as if concerned she might find Nyc eavesdropping on our discussion about the goddess’s sacred animals.

Or who knows, maybe Breann’s hoping the goddess will respond.

“Northern villagers report that it seems more like prowling.” Nira points to little colored flags marking the map of Tirene on the wall. “Though none have complained of any attacks. Not even against livestock.”

Bron gestures to the papers in front of him. “Then there’s the matter of the lost items.”

“Lost items?” I cock my head.

“Yes.” The young duke scratches his chin. “A spate of long-lost objects, missing for years, have suddenly reappeared in their owners’ homes.”

I frown. “That seems odd but harmless. The return of missing items? Isn’t that a good thing?”

Duchess Breann dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. “They claim the God of Lost Things is including messages with the items. Divine messages.”

Sterling returns to his seat. “What kinds of messages?”

The council members exchange glances.

Bron sighs, impatience tightening his features. “One scholar reports that his quill now writes on its own when left unattended. Strange sayings like, ‘Even stars die.’ A merchant reports a valuable ledger where the numbers rearrange themselves to form words when moonlight hits the page. ‘Count your prayers as you do your coin. Riches await…or beggary.’”

Ziva’s flames, that’s bizarre.