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As for the last female in their class…

The murky goddess mopes every time she misses the bull’s-eye, then plugs her disappointment with a dismissive scoff.

She might be deceiving the others, but she’s not deceiving Envy.

***

Sorrow

At every target practice, and class lecture, and bonfire, and feast, he’s there. He’s there, there, there.

He’s there, harassing her whenever she misses a shot at the archery range. He’s there, pretending to be a scorekeeper as she competes against herself. He’s there, spoofing, and teasing, and jeering. He’s there, with his nose hiked to the sky, and his baritone voice oozing like caramel—sticky, addictive, bad for her.

He purrs and insinuates. He pops his head from behind the target marker, throwing her off balance. He drapes his arms lazily over the bull’s-eye and croons.

He bugs Love as well. But it’s not nearly this frequent.

Ignoring him or making snide remarks only refuels his tongue. What does he want from her?

By their eighteenth year, Sorrow’s had enough of Envy. She plots revenge quietly, because as much as he’s been watching her, she’s been watching him. And it’s obvious what will pierce him the most.

When the Fate Court hosts a class-wide demonstration, Sorrow makes her move. Every archer takes a turn to exhibit their skill. Envy hops from archer to archer, ribbing them like a comic, flirting with them like a courtesan.

He fancies himself a good luck charm. Except when it comes to her, because then he’s just a bad omen.

When Sorrow’s turn comes, she feels his shadow loom from behind. She fists her longbow as he strides past while muttering into her ear, “The wind is fickle today. Play nice with it.”

Her finger spasms on the weapon. Is this a prank? He can’t be tipping her off, can he?

As Envy saunters away, she catches the disparaging lift of his mouth, his black hair swinging behind him like a whip, and his pristine clothes molding to his muscles, and his polished weaponry shining like a trophy.

He winks at Nostalgia, who sniggers. Well, now Sorrow knows who Envy’s next flavor of the month will be.

She gulps, realizing she was right the first time. She’s a joke to him. Envy isn’t being a true classmate, only pretending to appear that way for the crowd, wearing his consideration like he touts other fake expressions—like a varnish. When in reality, he’s mocking her as usual.

More bully than classmate. More critic than ally.

Everyone waits. A legion of deities. Archers-in-training. Gods and goddesses. Her classmates.

Her Guide, Echo, stands on the sidelines. He nods at Sorrow with encouragement.

From a dais, the Fate Court presides over the event. A frosted goddess in snowy lace. Another goddess with hair the same shade as Sorrow’s. Another with ebony skin swathed in gossamer, the gown bearing resemblance to butterfly wings. A god with a hawkish nose and long braids. And a cloaked god with steeples for brows.

Each one of them had witnessed Envy strut past Sorrow like a parade float and coo, his breath causing goosebumps to flare like a disease. Under a dome of stars, Sorrow clenches her teeth.

Before he can take another step, she whips an ice arrow from her quiver. The projectile cleaves the air, lashing distance out of the way.

But it’s not flying toward the marker.

It plows towards Envy’s back. Maybe he senses its approach, because he turns an instant before the weapon slams into his chest and blows him off his feet. He cannons backward, the arrow punching him into the bull’s-eye. The impact pins him there for a second, then the arrow vanishes in a flash of light and reappears in Sorrow’s quiver.

A collective gasp resounds across the field.

Anger fumes. Wonder gapes. Love snorts.

Echo drops his face into his palms. Both he and the Court will give Sorrow grief for this later—lack of comportment, lack of dignity, lack of marksmanship, lack of respect, lack of camaraderie. A disgrace to her class and a far cry from the elite unit they’re supposed to be.

As Envy hits the ground, disorientated, a twinge of remorse gusts through Sorrow. She’d let him get to her, and yes, she’d debased her class and her mentor as a result. Not to mention, herself.