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She’s mine.

For several mortal lifetimes and then some.

Hard to believe it’s been three days since we faced the gods in the arena. Three days since Rose somehow summoned phoenixes back into our world. Three days since we learned that Lark and I are both guardians, neither fully mortal nor divine, but something in between, with centuries stretching before us instead of decades.

Two days since we started working on drawing up a new covenant with the gods. Something we only finished last night and still haven’t signed. That will happen later today.

Meaning the gods will be attending my coronation in person.

Not the most thrilling thought after all the shit they put us through.

The door swings open with unnecessary force, banging against the wall and sending the attendants scurrying away like startled birds.

Agnar strides in, his uniform pristine for once, his battle-scarred face split by a grin that’s equal parts up-to-no-good and proud. “Look at you!” He circles me with an exaggerated appraising eye. “All dressed up like a proper royal instead of the dirt-covered recruit I had to teach which end of a sword to hold.”

“You never taught me which end of a sword to hold.” I’m grateful for the familiar rhythm of our banter. “If I’d relied on your instruction, I’d have been stabbing people with the pommel.”

“Effective in certain situations.” Agnar reaches up to adjust my collar, somehow managing to make it more crooked in the process. “Your hair looks like someone’s been threading their fingers through it. The queen, perhaps?”

Oh, she’d done more than that. She’d pulled it, raked her nails over my scalp, over my back. Wrapped her perfect legs around my waist and screamed my name as I fucked her against the wall.

My blood heats, and I run my tongue over my teeth before deflecting the question. “She’s been preoccupied with her own preparations.”

“Preparations, hmm? Whatever you say.” He pats my cheek, smirking while continuing to orbit me, pretending to help while actually creating more work for the hovering attendants. “At least you’ll only have to change once. Lark has to do this twice today.”

“Three times.” I smooth down a fold in my sleeve that Agnar has just crumpled. “She’s insisting on armor for the covenant signing.”

Agnar’s eyebrows lift, and then he nods approvingly. “Smart woman. Never negotiate without armor, literal or figurative.” His expression softens. “You got lucky there, my friend.”

“I know.” I know this with a certainty that runs bone-deep. Finding Lark in the middle of war and chaos, falling in love despite every obstacle placed in our path…it feels like the one miracle I never thought to pray for.

Agnar moves to the window, leaning against the ornate frame as he surveys the gathering crowds below. “Speaking of which…” He nods toward a cluster of cloaked figures drifting through the throng.

My coronation has drawn people from every corner of Tirene and beyond. Nobles in finery that could feed a village for a year, merchants hoping to capitalize on the festivities, ordinary citizens wanting to glimpse their new monarchs.

But woven among them, meandering with a strange awkwardness that catches the eye, are many of the gods.

“Gods trying to be subtle.” I join him at the window, watching the divine beings attempt to blend with their mortal counterparts. “Failing magnificently. Rivlan’s idea of blending in needs work. You’d think the God of Water would blend like it was second nature.”

I point to the god’s familiar form. His cloak ripples even when there’s no breeze, the fabric occasionally becoming transparent at the edges.

The gods’ movements are too fluid in some ways, too stiff in others, as if they’re unused to navigating dense crowds.

Or walking. I can’t believe Ziva is so bad at it. She keeps forgetting to shuffle her “feet” and just moves her body forward instead. Even Nyc is better than that.

“Still, he’s better than Zeru.” Agnar points to a tall figure leaving a literal trail of stardust in his wake. The glittering motes hang in the air for several seconds before fading. “He’s literally trailing stardust. Subtle as a siege weapon.”

Behind the God of the Heavens, men and women step into the motes, trying to catch them on their hair, wings, and clothing.

How easily humans adapt to the impossible. Just days ago, we were fighting for our lives against divine wrath. Now we’re critiquing gods’ disguises as if commenting on a poorly chosen hat at a social gathering.

The door opens again, more gently this time. Bastian enters, his arms laden with scrolls. His formal attire looks rumpled, as though he’s been wearing it while hunched over a desk all night. “Final draft of the covenant. Thought you’d want to see it before⁠—”

As he attempts to deposit the scrolls on a side table, his foot catches on the rug’s edge and pitches him forward. The scrolls tumble from his grasp in a cascade of parchment.

“Careful there.” Agnar’s hand shoots out, steadying Bastian before he can complete his fall. The scrolls aren’t so lucky. They scatter across the floor in every direction. “How’s my favorite scholar holding up?”

Bastian blinks, his gaze still distant as he bends to retrieve the fallen documents. “Leesa’s fine. Still a little nauseous at times, but good otherwise.”