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“The kind that garbles messages from other gods?” Lark presses.
“Is that your second question?”
“Shit. No, sorry.” Lark’s hand tightens on her sword as she bites her lower lip.
The Guardian detects the motion, and his own lips curve in mild amusement. “That puny weapon will be of no use in the godly realm, mortal. Certainly not in a divine war.”
Tension rolls through my body. Now the bastard’s toying with us.
Lark’s eyes meet mine in silent communication. I incline my chin in the slightest nod, acknowledging her restraint. We both glance at Agnar. He gives the tiniest shake of his head, though I swear he mumbles something under his breath.
“I meant no offense or threat. I was simply shaken by the thought of a civil war among the gods.” Lark’s careful not to ask a question. “That they’re fighting at all seems odd. Fighting among themselves is unheard of.”
The Guardian tilts his head, neither confirming nor denying. “You should be glad they fight among themselves here. If they did so in your realm, you’d be razed to the ground before you even realized what was happening.” His voice holds no malice, only cold certainty. “Some mortals understand that. Your Devoted have chosen sides early. Wise of them.”
“Not my Devoted.” Lark’s diplomacy slips from her grasp.
“They are mortal. That means they are yours. You are all the same.” He taps a finger on the hilt of one of his weapons, the casual gesture an unmistakable threat.
I debate our remaining questions cautiously. We need specifics. What’s happening, who’s involved, and most importantly, how this affects our realm.
I inhale a measured breath. “Who is fighting in this war?”
“Second question.” He taps two fingers on his hilt. “The fight is between those who understand the rightful hierarchy and those who are too afraid to seize that truth.”
Rightful hierarchy.
I store the phrase away to unpack later. An ideological war about the proper order of things. About power. About who reigns over who.
The oldest conflict in the world, divine or mortal.
The God of the Heavens himself is being challenged. By whom? And what does that have to do with the Devoted? They’re clearly on Zeru’s side. But do they realize their allegiance pits them against other gods?
Lark remains rigid beside me, some of the same questions no doubt racing through her mind. But neither of us can voice our thoughts for fear of letting a question slip.
I snap my gaze to Agnar to forestall whatever action he might be considering. For all his steadfastness, the man possesses a tongue sharper than any damn blade I’ve ever wielded.
He holds his palms up and shrugs, as if to say, “What did I do?” But the tightness around his mouth confirms he’s biting back some retort.
The Guardian watches our silent exchange with detached curiosity, like a scientist-priest trying to divine the hidden meaning of spiderwebs.
Then his star-infused gaze slides from Agnar to me. “Why do you hang around with those of lesser station?”
Surprise catches me off-balance. He aimed the question at me specifically, as though the others aren’t worth addressing. His phrasing strikes me as familiar, formal yet also casual in a way that doesn’t fit a celestial power.
Before I can formulate a response, Agnar bristles. “Because some of us understand loyalty isn’t just a word to throw around.”
The Guardian’s attention whips to Agnar. The temperature plummets so suddenly that frost forms on my eyelashes. “Careful, earth wielder. Some remember when mortals knew their place.”
I fling my arm in front of Agnar’s chest, physically restraining him even as Lark clamps a hand over his mouth.
The three of us share a look. The weight of our situation presses down on us like a physical force.
One question left.
My brow wrinkles
When mortals knew…
