Hartley's breath came out short. Try as he did to soothe his hammering heart, his fingers shook as he ran a hand through his hair. He felt like a phony—like he didn't deserve to be called the God of Peace. He shook his head again and said, "Am I really cut out for this war?"

Belthore, who had been stirring his tea slowly, sat down his spoon. "Even a Drugan god would be hesitant to take part in a war, Hartley. That's no reason to be ashamed of how you feel."

"I can't lead them," he breathed. "You know I can't."

Waving him off, Belthore said, "We'll talk about that later."

Hartley blinked as the God of Balance turned away. They were the only ones left in the council room, and perhaps the absence of the Court's motivation had set him on edge. Once the initial adrenaline of their meeting had worn off, the only things remaining were fear and regret.

"I have one more request," said Belthore quietly, "but you're not going to like it."

"Tell me."

Hartley held his breath. Too many things were happening at once—there was no time to process them all. Even though he had an idea of what Balance wanted from him, he didn't feel ready to hear it—not yet.

"You and Noctavius were friends as godlings, were you not?" Hartley closed his eyes as Belthore continued, "If there's any chance remaining that he might listen to reason, then you're our only hope."

"That was a long time ago."

Balance nodded. "And yet, you're possibly the only god on Alta he would listen to."

Hartley's shoulders sagged. Memories threatened to overtake him—memories he had shoved down long ago. Adjusting his scarf, he opened his eyes and faced the god before him, trying not to let the frustration show on his face. All he managed was, "I'll do my best."

"I've had your uniform placed in your chambers," said Belthore, almost apologetically. "You should try it on."

"Are you worried it won't fit?"

Belthore took a long sip of his tea and sat it down gently. "I'm worried you won't try it on until the war, and it will be too late to make any adjustments. You don't need an uncomfortable uniform distracting you on the battlefield."

War. Battlefield. Was this really the man who had taken him in and raised him?

"I'll consider it," he said quietly.

There were no tears in the God of Balance's eyes—not like there had been for Maruble. With that in mind, Hartley left the council room and made his way down the hall. Lesser gods bustled passed him, carrying fresh sheets for the Court members who had taken up lodgings, but he ignored them. Even here, it seemed he wouldn't have the pleasure of silence for a long time. Perhaps that was a good thing. Sighing to himself, he trudged down the stairs until he reached the door of his chamber.

As promised, his battle garb was neatly arranged on the bed. He closed his door slowly and eyed it from afar. It was white with golden clasps up to the neckline, and with light streaming in from his window, the fabric shimmered. Belthore had chosen white—he knew—because he believed that blood was a sign of victory. That it was meant to be worn proudly. Hartley frowned and stepped toward it cautiously.

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It was nice—some would even call it beautiful. When he picked it up, the fabric was light in his hands, but he knew that it was stitched with near-impenetrable Atlan steel. Yet, despite its beauty, all he could imagine was someone else's blood smeared across the front. The screaming, the violence, the death...

Hartley unwound his scarf and changed into the uniform. As he snapped the buttons into place one by one, a cloud hung over his every move. The war hadn't even started, and already he felt hopeless and drained. How could he ever claim to be the God of Peace again after this? Taking part in a war against his old friend? Part of him wanted to be angry with himself for being a coward, but the other part—the louder part—knew that he never wanted to see the light leave someone's eyes. Especially not by his own hand.

Was that really so wrong?

When he snapped the last button into place, a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. Looking in the mirror, he shook his head sadly. Would Noctavius even recognize the man looking back at him through the mirror? Even the idea of talking with the God of Death made him feel nauseous—like his throat was filled with cotton.

Someone knocked on his door. Sighing, he mumbled, "Come in."

"I already have," said Athema, making him flinch. Her face was uncovered today, and her hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders. Something in his heart steadied at the sight of her. She smiled softly. "You look nice. Is Belthore having you try on your uniform as well? I heard Meditations complaining."

"Something like that," he murmured. Despite the teasing in her voice, his shoulders slumped slightly.

Her eyes searched him. The realization fell over her features as she said, "You don't want to fight."

"I am the God of Peace." His face flushed as he turned away from her. "Is that really so surprising?"

Athema stepped forward and gently turned his face back to her. Adjusting his collar, she tilted her head down. "I spoke without thinking. Truthfully, I told a lie."

"A lie?"

"This uniform looks ghastly on you," she said, eyes twinkling. "I think I prefer the sweater."

Hartley's arm moved on its own. He placed a hand on her cheek and waited for Athema to swat him away—expected it—but she never did. Instead, she leaned into it and closed her eyes. Heart hammering, he ran a thumb along the line of her chin and said, "Is there any hope for us at all, Goddess of Sight?"

"I cannot say." She opened her eyes and stared at him sternly. "Since the orb was taken, the future has become murky to me. All I see is a bloody horizon filled with hatred and anger. There are fields of gods that have been left alone to rot, and they fester under the setting sun. That is all."

He hesitated. "Will we lose everything?"

"Not everything." She smiled slightly and added, "There is hope, Hartley. Even when no one comes for us, even when we feel stranded alone in the dark—hope is still out there. We just have to look for it."

"I'm afraid," he admitted. "I'm so afraid that I can't sleep at night."

Athema kissed him.

Suddenly, his head spun, and his heart hammered wildly in his chest. Hartley kissed her back fully, pulling her closer to him. There was a chance neither of them would survive this war. Brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, Hartley leaned back and looked at her. For a moment, he wished that they could run away from it all. Just for a moment.

A voice rang in his head, and Hartley stepped back abruptly.

Athema faltered. "Is something wrong?"

"Maruble is trying to contact me," he breathed. He tilted his head up, listening to the boy's call. Part of him was in a good mind to wave him off and focus on the goddess, but the other part was worried and still brimming with anxiety. Hartley pulled away from her gently. "I should go."

"My son has impeccable timing." She smirked. "Be careful, God of Peace. I'm not sure where Maruble stands in this war."

Grabbing her hand, he held it to his chest and asked, "Will you be here when I get back?"

"Not here," she said, sporting the most beautiful smile he had ever seen, "but I'll keep the doors of my chamber unlocked."

Hartley cleared his throat. "I'll—I'll see you soon, then."

His ears turned red, but Athema had already left. Hartley rubbed a hand over his face. He wanted to laugh, cry uncontrollably, and fall to his knees. More than anything, he wanted to beg the Altan skies for more time—just a little more.

Turning to the mirror one last time, the battledress's reflection was almost blinding in the sunlight. He exhaled a long breath and flickered to the docks. Far away from Alta and the Court of Balance and far away from where Athema waited for him in her chambers. And yet, as his feet landed gracefully in front of Maruble, Athema's words came back to him.

There is hope, Hartley.

Perhaps—if they were really lucky—there just might be.