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To continue the ruse, I head for the god-fashioned weapons despite the sword, daggers, and bow already in my possession. I force myself to breathe, pushing aside the tide of noise and the swirling anxieties that threaten to drown me.
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm, yet I focus only on him, my tether amidst the chaos, as I cross the field.
Sterling’s gaze never falters.
It’s as if the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of us against the spectacle the gods have orchestrated.
His magic swells, infusing the air with cool anticipation. His intense eyes lock onto mine, piercing through the noise and doubt and igniting warmth in my chest.
There’s something feral about him. Primal.
His magic, his very essence, calls to me even as terror constricts my lungs.
The crowd’s chanting begins to rise again. It grows louder and louder as they holler his name and mine with thunderous fervor. People I’ve never met are taking sides in this debacle. Do they even know what they’re cheering for?
Probably not.
But they will.
Soon.
The question is, will they still choose a side when they learn the stakes?
Between us, at the center of the field, the godly weapons in the rack gleam. Swords, axes, spears, bows…blue and red of each to indicate the element it was created from. Offerings from Ziva and Rivlan. My eyes land on the elegant fire blade meant for me, its hilt wrapped with intricate motifs of phoenix feathers.
A beautiful trap.
I clench my jaw before returning my attention to the gods.
Zeru lounges in his seat while stars eddy around him like a dazzling but dangerous mantle of power.
He’s toned down his appearance to better pass as human. Bronze gold skin, sparkling white teeth, square jawline. A swirling design of deep purples and blacks and streaks of yellow, blue, and pink adorn his robes, as if the seamstress captured the cosmos and manipulated it into fabric.
Nyc sits on Zeru’s left. The goddess has smooth dark skin, and an aura of darkness surrounds her. It’s difficult to discern her features until she turns and I catch a glimpse of her profile.
Ziva’s scarlet robe is a flickering flame, dancing up and down her body, lashing out at any who come too close. Hallr, seated next to her, doesn’t seem to care. The God of Mountains ignores her flame, his caramel skin covered in granite gray robes.
Other gods fill the stands, some who I recognize and others I don’t.
The Devoted, seated along the bottom row as close as they can get to the gods, touch their star-marks with reverence. Nobles and commoners alike crane their necks to witness the unfolding drama, waiting to hear from their gods most likely for the first time in their lives.
The gods we’re defying.
Fear rushes through me like wind over a drought-stricken field. Yet amidst the terror, within the storm of my uncertainty, a flicker of excitement ignites.
Sterling strides closer.
A feral grin breaks across his face.
The raw power radiating from him steals my breath. Tiny hairs prickle on the back of my neck. Even the roar of the crowd—an irrelevant backdrop to the connection we share—fades as I approach him.
Time distorts around us, drawing out the moment.
Heart thundering inside my chest, wings raised with anticipation, we wait. As champions, we face the gods and the desperate hopes of our people. Our magic billows, fire meeting water in the heart of this arena, poised to defy the predatory whims of the deities who dare to manipulate us.
The chanting resumes as people shout our names and cry out to the gods. I remember standing before my people during my coronation. How they reacted to my words, to my speech. But now isn’t the time for words.
A hushed silence descends over the crowd.
