Less than an hour ago, the Court battlements were in chaos.

Soldiers scrambled to get into position, last-minute spars took place wherever there was room, and crates of supplies were hauled in various directions, often pushing past groups of soldiers to get through. It had been a good distraction, but as the sun crept lower in the sky and washed the white-gray walls in an orange glow, the Court of Balance fell silent.

Fear.

The air was so thick with it that the God of Peace had to clear his throat. All around him, soldiers' hands were tensed on their blades. Like him, they had grown up in peaceful times. The godlands had not seen war in over a hundred years, and most Altans had never considered it a possibility. If Hartley was being honest with himself, that same unease had settled deep in his bones. A few soldiers in his unit gave him a sidelong look but said nothing.

Next to him, a goddess fiddled with a hemp bracelet around her wrist. Her cheeks were flushed, but the expression on her face was almost bored. Hartley opened his mouth to say something, perhaps offer some encouraging words, but nothing came out. He wasn't a leader, not really— not in the ways that counted.

Instead, he looked behind him.

Even from his high position on the wall, the Court of Balance was towering. A strong wind filtered through the soldiers, and a sense of calm washed over Hartley as he tried to commit the building to memory. He took in the stone bricks that held slices of geodes and crystals as they danced in the last light of the day. It was the place that raised him— the place that had taken him in and shaped him into someone who mattered. He gazed at the tallest tower and savored it for a few moments, then turned back to the battlefield.

He hoped desperately that the Court would still be standing tomorrow. More than that, he hoped the people he had come to consider his friends and family would still be alive when the morning came. Yes, Hartley was afraid— the soldiers under his command could feel it, too. But he would lead them to the best of his ability. As the sun's orange glow dipped to red, Hartley raised his chin a little higher. Even as the red light fell over the battlefield and washed it in the color of blood, he made a promise to himself.

Soldiers would die. That was what it meant to fight in a war. But these soldiers had promised to protect the Court of Balance, his home, until their last breath. Even if he felt sick to his stomach, he owed them his confidence as a leader. He would do everything possible to keep them alive.

Hartley eyed the other Court members.

While he had been assigned soldiers specializing in defense, such as the Goddess of Shields and the God of Fortitude, Justice had been given a unit that shined in close-quarter combat. The Wings of the Court surrounding him looked hardened, like they were from the barbaric lands of Druge. Hartley studied them appreciatively. Even though they looked like trouble, he was glad that they had experienced fighters on their side. They wouldn't be able to do much unless the wall was taken, but they were detrimental to ensuring it didn't stay that way.

Further down, Athema stood behind a row of long-range fighters. Most of them were lesser gods who had been trained in archery from a young age. Her unit had very little power regarding their godship, but they were skilled enough to land a shot over a hundred meters away. The unit had only been given to the Goddess of Sight after she agreed to retreat if Death's army took the battlements. With her worsening visions, it was too dangerous to put her in a more hands-on position.

On his other side, the Goddess of Grief had her back to the horizon and looked over her soldiers quietly. In some ways, the goddess commanded the most powerful group on the battlefield: the gods who could influence the battle itself, varying from talented tacticians to auras that could directly affect Death's army. It may have been just a rumor, but Hartley heard of a god in her unit that could stop time— but only once daily for three seconds. If that was true, her unit could easily be the difference between victory and defeat.

And yet, even with their specialized soldiers, Belthore had the most vital unit of them all. His group held the Wings of the Court's elite, varying from warriors built like walls to archers who could take out twenty targets at once. Lucky for them, Belthore hadn't argued when they insisted on forming their team, and it made Hartley feel a tiny bit better seeing him surrounded by experienced fighters.

There was only one face missing from the battlefield.

The God of Meditations had been stationed on the first level with soldiers who were best at hand-to-hand combat, and while many of these gods and goddesses relied on power alone, a surprising number of them were trained fighters. Hartley held back a grimace as he thought of Death's army breaking through the doors they guarded. Not only would they be fighting enemies climbing the battlements, but they would have to defend their backs as well. It would be difficult to recover from something like that.

He sighed in annoyance as he thought of Meditations's nonchalant attitude. On the surface, the god seemed lazy and unreliable, but Hartley knew there was more to him than met the eye. When the situation called for it, Meditations could be quiet and cunning— not to mention as quick as a shadow. When the god was assigned his unit of soldiers, he commanded them with the air of a cut-throat assassin, and even though the sight had sent chills down his spine, he knew Belthore had picked the right man to watch their backs.

And yet, there was still one god that was left unaccounted for. Outside of those who had allied with Death, such as the Goddess of Memory, there was one more. A god that could easily change the tide of the battlefield with a snap of his fingers.

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The God of Volcanics.

After his falling out with his wife Athema, when she learned of his secret relationship with Memory, Theon had disappeared. No one had seen or heard from the god in months— and not for lack of trying. Hartley himself had stopped by his mountain multiple times, but even the lesser gods under his command claimed they hadn't seen him, which felt unusual. Volcanics was prideful, but for him to abandon the Court when they needed him most... He had a bad feeling.

A gasp broke Hartley from his thoughts. Next to him, the flushed goddess pointed to the horizon, where the sun was a blinding sliver of red. He squinted.

"Ready yourselves," roared the God of Balance to his right.

Gone was the old man from earlier. Every soldier around him straightened, but a few still looked around in confusion. The sun was in their eyes, but after a moment of hesitation, the Wings of the Court pulled their swords from their sheaths and raised their shields. The sound of steel clanged down the battlements.

"Hold your fire until my signal. Maintain your positions, and be brave. Noctavius is the God of Death, but he is not invincible. You are my beloved Court— fight like it! Show Death's army that he can die like any man." Belthore looked back at them all, and for a moment, the sun's glow flickered like fire in his eyes. "No matter what happens, you are all heroes of Alta. The Wings of the Court!"

Cheers broke out over the battlements. Gods that seemed so uncertain before raised their swords higher and pounded on their chest plates. Belthore smiled at them, but as he turned to face the horizon, Hartley saw his look falter. It was replaced by something distant— the exhaustion from death and bloodshed written all over his face before the war even began. A god who doubted his own words. Shaken by the sight, Hartley exhaled slowly and forced his gaze back to the horizon.

Right before the sun sank behind the far-off mountains, thousands upon thousands of soldiers on horseback crested the hill. Their silhouettes trembled against the setting sun like ghosts, and the God of Peace had to catch himself before his legs fell out beneath him. They stood there until the sun disappeared and covered them all in darkness.

Immediately, a goddess lifted her hand, and the air was filled with glowing orbs of light. In the distance, Death's army lit torches one by one. Their small fires looked like eyes staring at them from the night. Even though he couldn't see him, Hartley knew that Death was somewhere among them.

Noctavius. The god who had changed everything.

"Shields," called Hartley, and a goddess was pushed to the front. "I need a barrier over the soldiers on the frontlines."

The Goddess of Shields was young, with long black hair and round eyes that widened at his words, but she didn't hesitate. She raised her arms, and silvery light flowed from her hands, shimmering like a mirage as it coated the air in front of them. Releasing a quick breath, she stretched the barrier until it wrapped around the battlements. When the goddess finally lowered her hands, a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead.

"Nice work," he said.

Shields managed a shaky smile before returning to her position. As Hartley turned back around, another voice broke through the night, but it didn't come from the walls. It came from Death's army on the hilltop. Cupping his ears, he tried to make out the words to no avail.

The Goddess of Grief, her voice somehow still soft and gentle, shouted, "Belthore, my soldier tells me that Death is readying the archers."

"You hear her. Raise those shields!" bellowed Justice. "The first one hit has to buy the first round of elixir."

His soldiers raised their shields higher, chuckling. The Drugans seemed unbothered by the thought of arrows being fired at them.

"Bows ready. Wait for my signal." Athema spoke fast. Even though the archers had their backs to her, Hartley could tell they drank in every word. "The barrier will protect you. Stay in position and remember your training."

The soldiers didn't respond. Her unit would be the first to attack, and as such, their eyes remained focused on the horizon. Hartley's eyes lingered on Athema before turning back to his soldiers. More specifically, the girl with the red face.

"How many arrows can you slow?"

The girl shrugged in response, but her eyes roamed over Death's army. She watched them quietly for a few seconds and then shrugged again.

"Hard to say," she admitted gruffly. "It'll be at least forty, but I won't be able to tell until the arrows get close."

He nodded to himself thoughtfully. If the Goddess of Momentum could slow half of the first attack, the barrier would stay intact. They needed to preserve Shields energy for as long as possible. Depending on what Death had in store, it could prove vital to holding the wall.

Grief screamed, "First volley!"

"Brace!" shouted Belthore. "Shields!"

Hartley swung his shield up, and the soldiers around him did the same. He took a shuddering breath. At once, the first thuds hit the shields.

"Two-thirds," panted the Goddess of Momentum beside him. "It'll be about half next time."

Hartley turned to Shields. "And the barrier?"

"It's holding for now." She wiped her forehead. "I've repaired the spots with the worst damage."

Fast.

Hartley waved at a god with a strong chin. He stormed over, towering over everyone he passed. His armor only added to that effect.

"How are the walls?" he asked.

"Minimal damage." The God of Fortitude huffed and added, "Arrows are easy. It's the elementals I'm worried about."

Again, Noctavius's voice rang out in the distance. The next volleys thumped against Shield's barrier, and after a moment, it was followed by two more. On the fourth round, the first arrows broke through and cracked against the shields. The sound rang out on the battlements. Hartley kept his position and called for his soldiers to do the same, but the sound shook him to his core.

On the fifth volley, two soldiers fell.

It didn't happen to anyone in his group, and Hartley didn't see the arrows make contact, but he caught a glance of an archer being dragged away with an arrow lodged in his eye. Hartley swallowed the bile threatening to rise in his throat. He turned away quickly, focusing his attention on the soldiers.

Hartley called, "Bring Shields to me."

She hobbled forward, leaning on two soldiers for support. The Goddess of Shields's face was pale, and there was so much sweat covering her head that her long hair stuck to it. Despite her exhaustion, she stood to attention and met his eyes.

"You called?"

"Rest in the barracks and try to get some sleep." Before she could object, he snapped, "That's an order. We need you, but you'll be useless if you burn yourself out, understand?"

Her eyes watered, and the goddess's head drooped. "I understand."

Hartley waited until she entered the barracks. Now that the barrier was fading, things were about to get bloody.

He turned back to the hill, where Death moved his procession forward, galloping thousands and thousands of soldiers on horseback toward the Court of Balance. His breath caught in his throat, but the God of Peace didn't look away. Instead, Hartley raised his sword higher and cursed himself for having such a useless power.

There was no place for peace on a battlefield.