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For some reason, the goddess in butterfly gossamer regards Sorrow with a satisfied twinkle.

“Convinced yet?” Sorrow asks.

The female inclines her head. “I think we’re about to be.”

***

The constellations have returned to the sky, having spoken their truth.

It’s time for their subjects to do the same.

Every soul bears the hardship of gathering the fallen and setting the bodies within beams of starlight, where the souls fade peacefully. Some weep for their lost classmates, some cannot muster a sound. Many deities take it in stride, while others don’t.

After an hour of silence, the throng retires for a period of recovery and reflection. Whatever needs to be said deserves time.

Plus, Anger can barely stand any longer.

Envy and Sorrow trade a silent glance. Should he ask her to stay with him? To go home with him? Or should they wait, just for a little while?

Presumably, the tradition between dragonflies and immortals changes for tonight. Or else the creatures have taken pity, because they welcome all riders.

After Sorrow flies off with her Guide, Envy engages in a stream of farewells. His friends return via dragonflies to the Astral Sea, he reunites with Siren, and then he embarks on his own aerial trip home, where he collapses in bed. What follows is the longest sleep in his life, fleeting moments of wakefulness filled with thoughts of purple hair and a wry mouth sipping currant nectar.

When their people have refreshed themselves, they return to the site of combat and the place where deities come into being. They congregate around the stargazer, crowding the telescope’s dais. Envy has donned charcoal trousers, a loose ivory shirt of woven silk, and a gray ankle-length coat accented with a pattern of currants around the cuffs. His heart hammers at the prospect of seeing Sorrow.

The instant she appears, their eyes lock. Envy’s cheeks prickle, just as a flush surges to her own complexion. Their feet carry them, until they meet on the platform. He struggles to contain himself, wanting to bumble a hundred endearments, but they have other matters to address.

The Court summons the children, who weren’t allowed to participate in the fighting. This includes that nameless moppet with the dark sprig of curls, who materializes beside Siren and Echo. The child’s cramped face exhibits frustration beneath those glossed eyelashes, but the peeved expression dwindles when he spots Envy and Sorrow.

Envy nods. By comparison, Sorrow and the moppet wave at one another with enthusiasm. They must have bonded during her time on the dark side.

Envy finds his voice and leans over to murmur, “You’ve made a friend.”

“What can I say?” Sorrow whispers back while staring at the crowd. “Faith and I have the same taste in makeup.”

“His name is Faith?” Envy feigns insult. “I’m jealous. He told you but not me?”

Perhaps it’s too soon for teasing. His attempt falls flat, because Sorrow gives a noncommittal shrug. Although she stands beside him as their band aligns with the Court, a splash of doubt leaks in. What happened on the battleground…had that been temporary? Has this period of rest given her second thoughts?

Where do they go from here?

Siren catches his eye and gives him a dry look, coaching Envy not to get ahead of himself, nor to jump to conclusions. One thing at a time.

Anger’s gash is slower than usual to heal, but the wound has at least closed, and one can never call the stubborn archer feeble. The opportunity for rest has done him well, restoring his complexion, as well as providing him with the energy to attend this meeting. He shuffles forward, bolstered by Merry and Malice.

The goddess in butterfly gossamer addresses the mélange of deities on the Court’s behalf. It astounds Envy that none of their subjects can rightly pronounce the five sovereigns’ names, so ancient are their chosen monikers. They are simply identified as the Court and formally referred to by the materials of their archery.

Azurite. Crystal. Lava. Pearl. Agate.

“In the lifetime of an immortal,” the ruler begins, “this quarrel between celestials and rebels has been ephemeral. Yet for many of us, it feels as though it has latest an age.” She spreads her arms. “Perhaps it has. This conflict might have ignited long ago, since our very inception. It is a slow culmination of our destinies, as well as our choices. Yet finally, all sides have spoken, as have the stars.”

Anger straightens as best as he can. “This is the route we needed to take, born of circumstance and action.”

“Fate and free will are matched,” Love says. “Neither can exist without the other.”

“Neither is perfect,” Merry trumpets, lacing her free hand with Love’s.

“Both are messy,” Andrew adds, taking Love’s other hand.