Prologue

The Trickster

Freedom tastes like starlight, bitter and electric on my tongue.

I skate across the cosmos, savoring the chill of the void beneath my feet, the way it bends and bows to my whims. For so long, I knew only darkness—an eternity locked away in some forgotten corner of the universe, the bars of my prison forged by hands more ancient than my own. But even the mightiest chains rust, and now here I am, trailing mischief across the stars. And just in time.

The others are waiting. I can feel their collective unease prickling against the edges of my awareness, sharp as the first breath of winter. They know I’m free. They know what that means. And it thrills me. I drag my hand through a stream of cosmic dust, scattering it behind me like ash, as the wide coyote grin spreads across my face.

They didn’t want me here. That’s why they caged me in the first place. Too unpredictable, they said. Too dangerous. As though they’ve ever been any better. Hypocrisy, thy name is godhood.

I mentally reach out using my awareness, feeling the presence of my brothers and sisters. I anchor my intent to their location, and then I unleash my Willpower, channeling my connection to concept of roads. One of my domains of power.

Ahead, a rift blooms in the nothingness, a jagged wound of light and shadow. I let it hang there for a moment, savoring the anticipation, before stepping through. The fabric of reality folds around me, warm and pliant, and I emerge into a room as mundane as it is absurd.

Glass and steel, sleek lines, soft lighting. A boardroom in one of those towering monuments to mortal ambition they call skyscrapers. The walls are glass, offering a panoramic view of the city below—Tokyo, I think. Or maybe New York. Does it matter? These mortals and their metropolises are all variations of the same tired theme. Lights glitter like trapped stars in the night below, and somewhere far off, a siren wails.

The air inside is stifling, heavy with the scent of polished mahogany and faint traces of coffee. It’s been styled to mimic the upcoming venue, I realize—a nod to the Game.

They’re all here, of course. My brothers and sisters. I take my time surveying them, letting the silence stretch. Twelve of them in total, sitting around a long table in highbacked, cushioned office chairs. And a thirteenth chair tucked away near the far end of the table. How nice of them to save me a seat at the table after all this time. It warms my heart, truly. The bastards.

We all have taken many names, many faces, over the course of time. I don’t think I remember my original form, if I ever had one. The others are all wearing mortal masks. But I see through each and every one.

The Lady of Chains sits ramrod straight, her silvered hair gleaming under the soft light. Spider-like fingers steepled in front of her. Her eyes are sharp and calculating, as though she’s already considering ways to bind me again.

The Silent One leans back in his chair, his massive bulk barely contained, the glow of his golden eyes fixed on me. And at the head of the table, the Arbiter—serene as ever, though I catch the faintest flicker of tension in her gaze as I enter.

“Nice little setup,” I say, strolling to my seat like I own the place. I trail my fingers along the edge of the table, tapping out a tune that no one here will be able to forget anytime soon. “Though I must admit, I prefer a bit more . . . flair.”

The Arbiter doesn’t rise to the bait, but I notice the faintest twitch of her lips—almost a frown. It’s enough to make my grin widen as I sink into my chair, kicking my feet up on the table. I cross one loafer-covered foot over the other. The footwear is black velvet, with silver wings emblazoned onto the heels.

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I’m not about to be polite. Not after what they did.

“So,” I say, lacing my fingers behind my head, “where do we begin? I assume we were just in middle of finalizing the details for the Game?”

They don’t answer. Not yet. But their tension is palpable, their irritation sharp enough to taste. It’s intoxicating. They’ve kept me locked away for millennia, but now I’m free, and the Game is about to begin.

The Arbiter clears her throat, the sound like the snap of a whip. “Now, onto the matter of onboarding the Participants in this Millennia’s Game. The System has already designated responsibility for Participant introductions.”

She gestures to the Forge Father, who shifts in his chair, the fiery glow of his eyes steady and unblinking. “It is your turn to take on this responsibility,” she says. “Ensure they’re made aware of the basic rules, the Stages, and the System’s integration. Keep it . . . efficient.”

I nearly choke on the laugh that rises in my throat. The Forge Father? Oh, this is too good. They were going to let that brooding mountain of metal and fire be the first point of contact with the Participants? What an amazing choice! I nearly summoned a bowl of grapes to go along with the show. But just then, an idea strikes me. A beautiful, glorious idea. No, no, no. This won’t do at all!

“Now hold on,” I say abruptly, raising a hand and lounging back in my chair with exaggerated laziness. “As you may recall dear sister, there is an order to these things that the Vestiges of Creation defined before ascending to the System. In each subsequent Game, the assignment of responsibilities rotates in a specific pattern.” I make a loop with my finger in the air, almost playfully. And, unless I lost track of time while I was away—and trust me, I counted every, single, second—then the Maw was in position to handle onboarding last Game. Wouldn’t that mean it’s technically my turn?”

Every head turns toward me. The Arbiter’s eyes narrow. Her face screams, ‘What game are you up to?’ Unfortunately for her, it will be too late once she finally pieces it together. “It was your turn,” she says, her tone clipped, “before your . . . absence.”

“Absence? Imprisonment is such an ugly word,” I say, flashing her a grin. “But now that I’m here, surely we can revisit the allocation and return to the proper sequencing.”

The Silent One rumbles, a sound so deep it feels like the room itself is vibrating. It might be a warning, or it might just be his way of reminding everyone he could snap my neck in an instant. Either way, I don’t care.

Then, I feel a turning, deep within my Core. One of the other Thirteen are calling upon the remaining Authority within the System, asking for it to intercede. The entire boardroom quaked with power.

“You?” the Lady of Chains snaps, her silver hair gleaming as she glares at me. “You want to handle onboarding? That’s the most tedious job in the entire process. How very uncharacteristic of you, brother.”

“Want is a strong word,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s boring, it’s beneath me, and frankly, I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do. But”—I let the word hang in the air, savoring the tension—“it is my turn. And I wouldn’t want to upset the delicate balance of fairness and order you all pretend to care about. Not in my first Game back in so, so long.”

The Arbiter leans forward, her gaze like a scalpel slicing through my words. “Why do you care, Trickster? You’ve never been one for responsibility.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” I say, feigning a yawn. “But the System cares, doesn’t it?” I look upwards, towards the heavens. Ironic, considering who I and the others surrounding me are.

And, right on queue, the power in the air shifts and something within all of our Cores snap into place, binding us to the silent laws that were written at the beginning of this Age. It is done, I think.

Yet, the Arbiter’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the gears turning behind her eyes. She doesn’t trust me—none of them do. But the System does operate on rules, and what’s settled is settled. And the Arbiter hates when I’m technically right, which just makes all of this so much sweeter.

“Fine,” she says at last, her voice cold as a winter gale. “The task is yours.”

“Thank you,” I say, flashing her my most disarming smile.

I rise from my chair and stretch, making a show of how much I’m not looking forward to this. “Well, if I must,” I sigh, stepping toward the portal I’ve already begun weaving into existence. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Be prepared to suffer defeat in this Game.”

The Lady of Chains mutters something under her breath—probably a curse. The Silent One just stares, his golden eyes as unreadable as ever. The Arbiter watches me with the kind of scrutiny that would make most beings squirm.

But I don’t squirm. I step through the portal, my back to them, and the instant I’m out of sight, a grin spreads across my face—a grin that feels sharp and wild, as though it could split the universe in two.

Unconventional? Oh, yes. They have no idea what they’ve just unleashed.

This is exactly the opportunity I wanted. The first move in the first stage of the first Game I’ve played in millennia. Victor so often goes to the combatant who makes the first move.

And I’m going to make it count.