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Where? To purgatory? To certain death?

With a nudge of his chin, Envy indicates the landmass in the distance. A blooming summit topped by a fortification that surrounds a glass dome, similar in shape to a mortal observatory. Inside that transparent dome stands an ethereal telescope—what their kind call a great stargazer. A glimmering film encircles the facade, which soaks up the stars’ radiance.

Fortune’s Crest.

The stargazer marks the center of this world, the instrument craning its neck toward the firmament. When the stars created gods and goddesses, those stars denied immortals the ability to procreate, but not the ability to re-create. The stars gave deities a tool, a funnel through which to channel the magic of rebirth.

Every star is a womb that carries the life force of future deities. So to speak, the telescope is the umbilical cord, drawing new immortals from the sky and bringing them to life.

The stargazer is the gateway to the life cycle of her people. That, and humanity’s cluelessness about the true mythology.

Sorrow assesses the landscape’s craggy, glistening outline. Her friends plan to journey to Fortune’s Crest and seize it as their outpost, should this crusade end in a battle. Over the past few months, they’ve attempted several conferences to debate fate versus free will with the Court. They’d met in the human realm, with Anger and Wonder’s Guide, Harmony, in attendance.

In advance, their band had prepared examples of humanity uncontrolled. Anger and Harmony had cited people their class hadn’t targeted over the centuries, to illustrate that mortals can handle more than they’ve been given credit for. Their campaign made a case that the mortal world won’t collapse without the intervention of destiny.

The meetings had proceeded to no avail. They’d gone in circles and been unable to reach a dignified compromise with the Court. The rulers hadn’t budged, reiterating a major principle of their kin: The power of choice is an illusion.

Serendipity can never be outrun. Even if deities can’t strike every mortal, the ones who do get targeted incite a domino effect, rigorous enough to influence many. As for the ones not triggered by arrows, the stars must have other plans for them, agendas that don’t require immortal intervention.

The Court had deemed this subject non-negotiable. And what had their band really expected? Customarily, it takes years, or decades, or centuries for mortal nations to figure themselves out and draft resolutions. Why shouldn’t it take the Fates infinitely longer just to broach the subject?

Nonetheless, how have events progressed this swiftly? Beyond anything they could have fathomed?

In any event, Sorrow and her friends have exhausted their intellectual efforts. Their campaign has become a military affair.

At the start of this quest, their group would have transported to Fortune’s Crest directly, but it can be a highly populated area, especially during deity births. They might have landed in the arms of the Court or a huddle of Guides drawing new gods and goddesses from the stars.

That’s why their band had collaborated on an inconspicuous route, combining what each of them knows about the Peaks’ terrain. Once at the summit and deeming it safe, they’d intended to summon the cavalry.

To say the least, getting derailed and separated has thrown a wrench into the proceedings. The hope Sorrow had felt dries up. “We’re almost there?” she repeats. “Are you serious?”

Envy spritzes water as he labors. “I don’t know.” He addresses the hemisphere. “Am I serious, oh, divine creators?”

“We’re in the middle of the Astral Sea. In order to reach an unexposed trail, we’ll have to swim far out of range.”

“Again, shh.”

Sorrow snarls but bites her tongue. Being overheard is the last thing they need.

And crap, double crap, triple crap. If magic weren’t so finicky, life would be much simpler. Unfortunately, traveling instantaneously requires a vast distance. The bluff is too close for them to reach in a flash, yet from this community, the nearest options comprise of conspicuous hiking paths.

So what now? And again, what about their friends?

She’s hardly a lightarrow, yet images cycle through her mind.

Love’s mischievous smile. Merry’s theatrical beam. Wonder’s meandering gaze.

Andrew’s selflessness. Anger’s passion. Malice’s resilience.

“When I told you to shush, I had no idea it would work,” Envy marvels under his breath.

Sorrow gulps, dwelling on their peers. “They’re all I have.”

She senses him absorb that statement. A few leagues pass in which he forges ahead, the silence interrupted by lapping ripples and throbbing puffs of air. More and more, Envy sounds off-kilter. Either the breaststrokes are getting to him, or his skewed exhalations have to do with something else. Something physical?

“If they’re alive, they’ll be waiting,” he whispers.

Sorrow pulls herself together. “So will we.”