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It’s all she’d once known, too.

“What qualifies you to speak on humanity’s behalf?” the cloaked god demands.

That’s rich. Mortals can’t speak for themselves because they don’t know deities exist!

Sorrow really, really, really wants to stand, but she stays put. “Our jolly little band of mischief makers include immortals, humans who became immortals, immortals who became humans, misfit immortals who grew up near humans, and humans resurrected into devils. And the rest of us have either loved humans or befriended them. That’s what makes us the most elite class of archers. Not just because it includes Love, but because we’re diverse. It has to start with us.”

“Has to?” the cloaked god repeats. “And you say fate has no place in the universe.”

“I never said that,” Sorrow parries. “I said there’s room for every possibility, for everyone. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a big fucking sky up there. You’re just afraid of what you don’t know.”

The butterfly goddess steps nearer. “And what are you afraid of?”

“Tweed blazers. Alien invasions. Romantic comedies.”

“Oh, I can imagine such triggers would distress anyone.” She cants her head, bringing those high cheekbones into stark relief beneath the constellations. “Or does the answer have to do with the archer you left behind?”

When Sorrow narrows her eyes, the goddess clarifies. “Envy.”

The name produces a cramp in Sorrow’s gut. They don’t know about the legend meant to empower this campaign. The one that sticks her and him together like a pair of barnacles. Yet this female expects the shape of his name to affect Sorrow.

An aurora of color surrounds the female, the spectrum coming from the waterfalls crashing into the garden. “You say you have no idea where your friends are, yet you weren’t alone. Or do you not consider the God of Envy a friend? That would be odd, since according to our informants, you flung yourself into the fray so that he could escape. One would think you were petrified of his capture.”

Sorrow scoffs. “I was petrified that if he got shackled, we’d have one less fighter on our roster.”

“So your mutual history is intact. You were being practical. He’s merely an ally, a classmate who routinely antagonizes you but has excellent aim. Certainly not a friend but nevertheless a comrade in your campaign—a valuable one, if you’ve chose him over yourself. Thus, you must know where he’s headed.”

Who died and made this female cleverer than she deserves? And what’s with the benign tone? It doesn’t match the insulted, uppity expressions her companions wear, having done away with weariness the moment Sorrow got used to talking back.

There’s only one response she’s in the mood to give. Because her hands are bound, she bobs her head each ruler, going down the line. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—” to the butterfly ruler, “andfuck you.”

As a deliberate afterthought, Sorrow finishes with, “Your Luminaries.”

“That tongue of yours is quite the coping mechanism,” the god with winged brows snarls.

“You can do what you like to me. I’m used to pain.”

“Immortality 101,” the goddess with the agate archery finally speaks up, rising from her chair. “There’s a difference between pain that’s fleeting and pain that lasts. And with us, it can last a very long time.”

“Why not ask your classmate?” the crystal-wielding goddess adds.

Wonder. The memory causes Sorrow’s moxie to suffer a quick death. In its place, a charred scent fills her nostrils. Yes, she’d looked up to these figures once, but that fateful day tainted the admiration. The downward slope has continued ever since.

“Would you care for a sample of what she endured?” the agate ruler invites.

“Like I said,” is all Sorrow replies.

But it’s the butterfly ruler who Sorrow has bigger trouble facing, especially when the female observes her intuitively, like a former Goddess of Wonder would. “The description of your botched escape was rather explicit. Our archers painted a vivid picture of the look Envy gave you before he blocked that arrow on the pier.”

The cramp in Sorrow’s gut intensifies.

The ruler continues. “Such a description brings to mind other looks. The one Love bestowed upon Andrew as we targeted him. The one Anger directed to Merry when we charged at them in a carnival. The one Malice gave Wonder in the Archives, before he took a shot to the chest for her.”

“About that,” Sorrow jumps in. “Are you sorry?”

Shadows of remorse cross their respective faces. “Ashamed is a better word,” the cloaked god with pitched brows acknowledges, since he’s the one who’d targeted Malice. “Ashamed to have struck down an unarmed archer in the back.”

“That is why we did not bear arms on your group shortly after Malice and Wonder’s destructive actions,” the hawkish god adds. “We called a ceasefire and sought to explain the situation to our subjects, only to lose a number of archers to your side, then discover that Malice lived through the injury and that you’d persisted in your plot against us, shortly after his scar healed.”