Being the God of Peace was troublesome in normal times. Gods, by nature, were better suited for war and chaos than they were for handshakes. Even if Hartley used his power to make them feel calm, they would often shift their blame onto him—in a more collected way. Sometimes, that was worse.

Yet, all of that did not hold a candle to war. As he looked over the faces in the council room—at the gods he had known for most of his life—his heart pounded wildly in his chest. He could almost see their faces on the battlefield, contorted with rage and covered with gore. It was a sight he never wanted to see. Even imagining such a thing went against his very nature as a god and made him feel dizzy.

Athema shifted in her spot by the window. After their discussion, she wandered back to her original place, eyes roaming over the waves of Port Vontil. This time, her frail look was gone and replaced with something harder—as if the reality of what had happened had finally set in, and she understood that there was no escape from the current. She would have to accept the embrace of the waves or drown. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but the thought made him uneasy.

Hartley rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear his head. After spending time at Athema's temple, it had been harder and harder to think clearly about such things. He had started to care for the goddess: the sound of her soothing words, the way her people looked at her in admiration, and the way her smile radiated against the endless backdrop of sand. While he knew she had a husband, and it was unlikely that he—of all people—could hold a candle to the God of Volcanics, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab her hand. To comfort her in these difficult times.

He was so lost in thought that when the door to the council room swung open, he flinched. Every head turned to the door and frowned at once. The God of Volcanics, the reason they were sitting in the room discussing war, panted at the doorway. His eyes wild with realization.

"Athema," he breathed, stumbling into the room. His clothes were in disarray as if he had thrown them on in a panic. I didn't know that Dalla was working for the God of Death. You have to believe me—I had no idea. The Goddess of Memory tricked me."

Meditation, leaning back in his chair, chuckled and asked, "Did the tricks happen in bed or after?"

Theon's face flushed, but he ignored him. "There was nothing serious between us, my wife. I'm telling the truth."

"The truth?" Athema turned to him slowly. Outside, a wave crashed against the shore. "You gave away my secrets freely, Theon. I didn't know I married such a reckless god."

He blurted, "I didn't know she was working for him. How could I have known they would try and steal it?" There was such fire in her eyes that even the God of Volcanics took a step back, a bead of sweat running down his temple. "I trusted her with my life."

"With your life?" This time, the goddess laughed and took a step toward him. She growled, "It's because of you that Nile is dead."

"I didn't know—"

"It's because of you that I have lost everything," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Now, if you'll excuse us, the Court has more important matters to discuss. I don't have time for your excuses, God of Volcanics. You have given Noctavius the upper hand, and now we must deal with the consequences."

Hartley held his breath. Never had he heard such vicious words from the Goddess of Sight. Since he had known her, she had always had such a light and gentle demeanor, the aura of a savior. Now, she was quiet and full of rage. Looking between them, he suddenly hated Theon for taking that away.

"You're not being reasonable," Theon murmured.

"Leave me."

"Athema, you have to believe me," he sputtered. Theon approached and grabbed her sleeve. "I won't leave until you listen calmly."

Irritation flared inside the God of Peace. One moment, he had been watching the conversation play out; the next, he was struggling to breathe—struggling not to pummel the god where he stood. Hartley was furious for the first time since he received his godship all those years ago. He stood quietly from his chair, hands shaking, and put himself between the two of them. Theon did not deserve her forgiveness, he decided.

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"Athema is in a private meeting with the council. Seeing as your place in the Court of Balance is currently undecided, I suggest you leave." Hartley balled his hands into a fist. "If the goddess wishes to speak with you again, that will be her choice, but—for now—I suggest you heed her words and leave."

The room's temperature rose ten degrees. Theon's eyes bore into him—an abyss of liquid fire, smoke, and death—but still, he refused to budge. From the other side of the room, Balance stared at him incredulously. Grief shook her head at the commotion, but Meditation smirked as if pleased with the situation. Hartley held his ground. Even if the god melted the floor with lava, he wouldn't move, he decided.

"If you wish to leave things like this without hearing my side of the story, then so be it." Suddenly, the God of Volcanics looked between them and laughed. "Grudges don't suit you, my heart. It wouldn't be a good look for the Court of Balance to turn its back on me in such troubling times, would it? After all I've done for Alta?" He and Balance shared a hard look. "I'm sure you'll need my help soon enough."

Balance, who had been quietly watching the argument unfold, cleared his throat and said, "The Court appreciates the work you have done for us so far. As requested, we will call for you when needed."

Theon jerked open the door and slammed it behind him. The gods in the council room remained quiet for a long time, digesting all that had happened. Shakily, Hartley heaved a long sigh and relaxed his shoulders. Athema touched his back gently. For a moment, she kept her hand there like the brush of a fallen leaf.

She whispered, "Thank you."

Hartley nodded once. Even as his heart pounded—even as his instincts raged inside of him for peace—he did not regret it. Not for a moment.

"Before anyone else interrupts," said Balance, clearing his throat, "let's return to our meeting."

Hartely and Athema shuffled back to the table. This time, the goddess took up a seat next to him without a word. He fought the urge to smile. Even though he was not sure what his intrusion would entail for the future, he would do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping her happy.

"We have no more intel on Death's army, but we must assume they are strong and capable and that their number is larger than before." Belthore's shoulders drooped. For a moment, Hartley was reminded of the fragile god who had cried in his room after Maruble's sentencing. "That means we are facing more than three thousand strong, presumably combat-ready. Gods who have been training for an indiscernible amount of time." Balance hesitated and pulled at the sleeve of his robe. Frowning, he said, "There has been word of movement on Nira's Path. Godlings returning from The Sea are being brought to Frost Holm—promised freedom from the law."

"Does he expect them to fight?" asked Grief, eyebrows knitted together.

Belthore admitted, "I am not sure."

"Recruiting godlings on the Path?" Meditations frowned. "The God of Death must be desperate, indeed."

"Indeed," Hartley murmured thoughtfully. It was said that anyone who interrupted a godlings pilgrimage on Nira's Path would face the foulest of deaths. Since The Sea was older than Alta itself, not many were brave enough to test fate. Had Noctavius really grown so desperate?

"That concludes everything we know so far." Belthore looked over each of them slowly with a glimmer of pride. "You are my beloved Court. Even so, I will offer you the freedom of choice. Will you assist me in upholding the Court of Balance and all our ideals? Would you be willing to lay down your lives to stop the Castle of Death? To take part in a divine war?"

A hush fell over the room.

Even though their army outnumbered Deaths—for now—there was no telling how strong they would be. In a week's time, every single one of them could be dead if they chose to fight. Death very well could take the court for himself.

Hartley shook the thought. No, he would not let Noctavius destroy Alta. Even though it went against his very nature, he would fight for his home until the very end, and he would get justice for Athema Peace was no longer an option. He released a long breath and said, "I'm ready."

"As am I," agreed Athema.

"I was not made for war," said Grief, "but I will fight if there is no other way."

Meditations snorted. He leaned forward, the front legs of his chair snapping against the floor. "Whatever, count me in."

Hartley looked over them all. Even as they looked and sounded confident, fear clouded their eyes, haunting their very thoughts. For a moment, he was reminded of why he wanted to be part of the Court as a boy. He had always admired their hearts and bravery in the face of injustice. Over time, they had become his family.

The door burst open.

This time, Justice walked through, wearing a smirk. Balance eyed him warily, but the god batted him off and said, "I've cooled off, don't worry." He turned to the rest of them. "But don't think you're going to war without me. It was my idea, after all."

Balance rolled his eyes, but there was the ghost of a smile on his face. Hartley wondered how soon that would fade. How long would it be before the gods of Alta could smile again? They had lived in such luxury for so long and had never known the troubles of war. Would they be able to survive it? Hartley wasn't sure. All he knew was that war had come, and he had agreed to fight.

Now, there was no turning back.