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He swaggers up behind her, where she stands contemplating the blurry landscape beyond the waterfall. Encircling her middle, he flirts, “I’ve always liked purple hair.”

She tenses, then slumps into him. “I bet you have.”

Funny. He would’ve expected a snort, a caress of his forearms, something typical or intimate. Well, they’ll improve at this.

Envy confirms for Sorrow the details of their escape, including Echo’s help, Siren’s message, and that unnamed youth’s assistance. Then Envy wheels Sorrow around, securing her in his embrace. “What did they do to you?”

“You’ve seen it,” she says, referring stoically to the ladder of cuts. “They wanted to know how we got here, and who’s with us, and where they are.” She dissects his lack of reply. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I told them?”

“No,” is all he says, injecting trust into the word.

He doesn’t ask what her answer had been to the Court because he doesn’t need to. Incisions aside, Sorrow would never betray that information. Her friends mean too much to her, as does this campaign. That’s why she rescued Love’s iron weapons; she wouldn’t turn her back on any of them.

Had she done this for him, too? Flung herself into harm’s way, in order to protect him?

Yes, she had. He had felt it in the way she’d shared her body—in the primal arch of her back, her hands gripping him, her lips clinging to his. All of it has since dissipated, replaced by a strange sort of vulnerability. In fact, Sorrow flinches at the implication that he doesn’t need her to answer him.

On the other hand, this thing between them is new.

Extending his hand, Envy cradles her cheek and strokes his thumb across the surface, smoothing out the rough edges. “All I want to know is what happens next.”

“I want to know that, too.”

“I would say this is the sexiest truce in the history of truces.” He levels her with a serious expression. “I’m all in, if you are.”

She wavers. “Envy, I—”

“Well, I’ll be fate-fucked.”

They spring apart. Swiveling toward the impish voice, they come face-to-face with six astounded archers who stand there goggling at the scene.

Love, her white dress smudged with dirt, her mouth agape.

Andrew, his white hair a beacon as he expels a ragged breath.

Anger, his turbulent features slack for once.

Merry, in her bedraggled tulle frock and beaming as if just discovering that faeries exist.

Wonder, her cherub features lifting into a grin.

Malice, trussed up in devilish leather and smirking as if he knows exactly what shenanigans Envy and Sorrow have been up to. “Look at you two, doing the immortal walk of shame,” the demon god congratulates them.

“Kindreds!” Merry chirps, dropping her skateboard and hopping across the divide, her pink ponytail bouncing. She flings her arms around Envy and Sorrow, squishing them against her. “I’m positively dizzy with glee.” Flouncing back to give them air, Merry seizes their hands. “How we’ve searched for you high and low, after being torn asunder!”

“You guys are one hell of a sight for sore eyes,” Andrew says, while the rest of the group exhibit varying degrees of relief.

“How did you know where we were?” Sorrow asks.

“Can’t you guess?” Envy quips with a smug flash of teeth. “My charm and animal magnetism lured them here. The frequency is just that strong. All they had to do was follow the path to greatness.”

Beside him, Sorrow hedges. She seems daunted as well as comforted to see them, which can’t be right. It must be due to her recent ordeal and everything that’s happened since the separation. She’s frazzled, that’s all.

The reunion begins, with everyone embracing, their voices overlapping with inquiries and exclamations. During a rift in the conversation, Sorrow hustles to retrieve the iron archery. She hands it to Love, who accepts the weapons with reverent astonishment. Since it’s clear that Sorrow isn’t going to say anything, Envy takes it upon himself to fill in the blanks about what Sorrow went through to get the longbow and quiver.

Meanwhile, Sorrow and Love stare at each other. The latter goddess gives Sorrow a wobbly smile as she tucks the archery against her, then kisses Sorrow’s cheek.

Once the shock of the story subsides, Anger interjects. “How about a trade?” He produces Sorrow’s archery with a mild grin. “Just like you, they don’t go down easily.”