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“Why? What’s your problem?”

“Be quiet, my nymph. Or they’ll hear us.”

Sorrow’s eyes blast open. The universe floods her vision with the silvery white of morning stars. Her gaze darts from the glossy sea enveloping them, to the wet black of Envy’s hair, to the landscape at their right.

Fear splashes into her chest. Tension stretches the bandage across her nose, which has managed to survive the torrent. “What the fuc—”

Envy reaches behind, his flat palm clapping over her mouth. Quick thinking but suddenly unnecessary. She’s not about to protest when she’s indisposed, hyperventilating into his hand.

Parallel to them is a smooth coin of water. A network of boardwalks, and walkways, and piers stretch like necks from the shoreline. From there, they crisscross into various paths while fringed trees sprout from the water, their roots feeding off the sand.

At the ends of each pier, circular homes perch on stilts, their walls forged of intricately inlaid wood. Curtains woven of moonlight buffet the breeze. The rooftops glow, their shingles pulsating beneath a dome of dawn constellations and planets.

Muffled voices drift from inside. Windows glint with life.

They’ve drifted into the Astral Sea.

Sorrow and Envy know this haven well, because this is where they grew up. This is where they used to live, along with the enemies who still do, who can stride from their homes at any moment.

In addition to fear, wistfulness mists in her eyes. Yet she can’t tell if it’s from sorrow, or anger, or wonder, or love, or envy. She’s pissed off and homesick. She hates this place and wants it back.

This is what it means to come home and not belong there.

A fruity aroma wafts from inside one of the dwellings, akin to the cherry tartness of Envy’s ego, only more potent. Sorrow’s earlobes perk, detecting a friendly chuckle, and a rapturous gasp, and a baleful sigh.

She hears the twang of a bowstring. The slice of a blade being sharpened.

Armed archers. Countless deities. Gods and goddesses.

If caught, Sorrow and Envy will be taken prisoner.

Where are their friends? Where is their band?

Did they survive the rapids? Are they captives? Have the ambushing archers caught up to them?

Via the stars, she tries calling out to their band, but she receives no reply. It can happen, especially if deities tune their attentions elsewhere, if they have other problems to contend with. And who knows if they’ve called out to Sorrow or Envy? She was unconscious, and Envy has been otherwise engaged.

She tries again, then again. Presumably, Envy must have as well.

Sorrow licks her lips, desperate to ask what the plan is, but she can’t ask. Not here, not now. If she’s able to detect the slightest echo from this vantage point, their people may hear Sorrow and Envy skimming through the water.

They’re weaponless. Her ice archery is potentially at the bottom of the river, and Envy’s glass weapons are nowhere in sight, which means they’re either adrift on the boat or have suffered the same fate.

Sorrow breathes, breathes, breathes. It’s no use. Her pulse reaches critical mass, slamming into her breastbone.

Envy must feel the inner chaos against his spine. Or if he doesn’t, he definitely notices her chokehold on his throat. “It’ll be all right,” he says, the words as thin as strings.

She clings to that minor comfort and whispers, “I can swim.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he remarks while pitching through the sea.

“You’re wincing and grunting.”

“Hush. It’s nothing.”

“I’m slowing us down, you stubborn ox.”

“You’re as light as organza.” He hisses, his abdomen seizing up for a second. “Besides, we’re almost there.”