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“Both are flawed,” Wonder professes. “And we’re stronger for it.”

One by one, eight rebels link hands with five rulers.

“At last, we have reached the brink of renewal,” the butterfly ruler says. “To see a disparate band of immortals prove that love not only exists amongst our people, as it does in humans, but that it empowers them, we must conclude that deities and mortals are equal.”

“We have our faults and strengths, our sentiments and resilience,” Sorrow ventures. “And we’re still standing.”

“Not to mention, still pretty,” Envy says with a wink, inciting mirth from the crowd. “Humanity will endure without our intervention.”

“A mortal boy once taught me not to underestimate his kind,” Love says, smiling at Andrew. “If left to its own devices, the human realm won’t fall apart any less than ours will. If we are equal, we forfeit the magic of our bows, the magic of control, in favor of a new mythology.”

“One that inspires instead of controls,” Anger finishes.

More talking, more speeches, more debates. What will this new mythology be? If fate and free will are not separate but the same, and if embracing that fact is the key to a balance, how must they treat their powers? How do they wield human emotions without actually controlling humans? And how will that preserve the life cycle of both humanity and the Peaks?

Envy recalls one of his talks with Sorrow in the cavern.

What does it mean to be a god or goddess?

Maybe it’s a blessing. The clincher is, we’ve misinterpreted what that blessing entails. Maybe it’s about embodying magic instead of forcing it on others? I don’t know, maybe we need to wield that blessing from a different angle. Then maybe we need to trust it, have a little more faith in it.

He makes a suggestion: a blessing. The same magic from another angle. A new way to bond with humanity instead of command it.

Heads bank left and right, intrigued by the notion.

Merry hops in place. “Gracious, how divine. A dedication.”

“A ritual,” Anger interprets.

Murmurs grow louder as deities discuss the possibilities. They were never given a choice of which root emotions to represent. And if they still cannot determine which to wield—for that cannot be altered, even by the stars—deities can at least decidehowto wield them.

Instead of forcing emotions into mortals, what if each strike of an arrow serves as a blessing? A benediction that grants humans the ability to feel that emotion—to embrace the malevolent, precious ones and to endure the harsh, cluttered ones.

Just a blessing.

How every mortal chooses to absorb, and act on, that emotion throughout life…well, that’s up to the individual.

And it will be up to deities to relearn their bows. Each of them possesses the power to infuse as much, or as little, emotion as necessary. For ages, they’ve learned the varying intensities of a single strike. Barely any magic produces a mere puff, the mere essence of a feeling. So if immortals can imbue that minimal amount into his or her archery, it will be so faint as to yield a dedication rather than a command.

They’ll need more practice, more training in order to master this without fail. But that’s fine. None of them are going anywhere.

The attendants weave their fingers together and use the stargazer to beseech the celestials. Together, they ask for approval, for a blessing. And when they do, the constellations shimmer, tolling like bells.

Like an old tale. Like a legend. Like a myth.

Afterward, the room fills with a renewed sense of honor. There’s much to consider, much to try, and much to learn. But it’s a start.

It will probably always be a start.

The throng disperses, gods and goddesses departing to their homes throughout the Peaks and the mortal realm. The Court and Envy’s friends stay behind to address another decision. This new beginning calls for an officiation—a vow.

But in what form?

They debate this. Opinions spring forth while the stars wink, and the dragonflies whirl outside the dome. Everybody participates, contributing their experiences and perceptions.

Actually, not everybody.

A crucial detail occurs to the assembly: Malice has been silent this entire time.