When most of the dancers lay sprawled around the Mother Goddess in defeat—not death, but rather their energies merely spent, or so the story went—the second to last stepped forward: Geoxus, the earth god, played by a tall boy covered in dust and sand. He lifted one foot before the Mother Goddess spun on him, blowing him a lethal kiss, and he fell. The crowd roared with laughter.
The only performers left standing were the Mother Goddess and Ash—who played the lead role. She wore a tight bodice with silk pants that hung low on her hips, both in a wine red that made her brown skin gleam. Sheer orange fabric spooled down her shoulders, ending at the tips in bursts of vibrant blue, and her hair hung in thick black ringlets to midback. Kohl rimmed her eyes and blue paint coated her lips, giving a frosty edge to her smile.
She loved this dance for the outfit she wore, for the connection she felt, for the swell of rapture that bubbled up from the core of theearth itself and filled her with power. This dance was a love letter to igneia, fire energy in its most beautiful, enchanting form.
But she hated this dance for the role she played: Ignitus, the god of fire.
Ash had a few more beats before her cue. Her eyes leaped to the arena’s grandest viewing box. On the right were a half dozen centurions from the western country of Deimos; they wore silver breastplates and short pleated skirts, bags at their waists holding stones they could control with geoeia. On the left, Kulan guards wore armor made of dried reeds that, when treated, proved as strong as leather and, better, fireproof.
Divine soldiers like centurions and guards enforced laws among mortals; the immortal, unkillable gods technically didn’t need them for protection, but having them was a display of power.
The Deiman centurions stood behind a plump man who had been chosen as Geoxus’s proxy for this fight, one of his many senators. The Kulan guards stood behind Ignitus.
Ash’s earliest memory of her god was at a feast following Char’s first win. Ignitus gave Ash a candy in the shape of a sunburst, doting on the daughter of his next prodigy.
The candy had been bitter, and Ignitus’s smile had been sickly sweet.
It always struck Ash how normal her god looked in his ageless physical form. At will, Ignitus could become an inferno, or dissolve into a blue-white flare, or appear as a candle flame on a table. Now, he was dressed in baggy silks dyed orange and scarlet, his brown chest bare, his black hair adorned with gold baubles and scarlet garnets that caught the sunlight.
Each of the six gods was the manifestation of their respective energies, the result of the Mother Goddess pushing her own soul energeia into fire, earth, air, water, animals, and plants. All the gods Ash had seen looked like their mortal descendants—save for that expression. The one Ignitus wore as he gripped the edge of the viewing box and ran his tongue over his lips: bloodlust.
He didn’t care that with each match he fought against his god- siblings, he wagered gold, crops, or stakes in Kula’s exports, such as their glass. He didn’t care that he risked his gladiators’ lives, or that even if they won, they stockpiled memories of murder. He didn’t care that out beyond this packed arena, the capital city of Kula was a mess of poverty and starvation because so many harvests were lost to other countries, and resources were stripped to pay Ignitus’s debts.
He just stared down at Ash portraying him and demanded glory.
The music crashed, cymbals banging hard and fast. Ash’s heart lurched and her limbs took her into the movements from memory, the thrill of dancing driving all else from her mind.
Three braziers spaced around the fighting sands thrashed with orange flames. Fire would give constantly if igneia was taken in steady, unselfish sips, one of the first tricks Ash had learned. But for this dance, she needed a great deal of power quickly—she called on the igneia, and all three braziers snuffed out, the fire energy darting into her heart. There, she could channel it into her body, make herself move faster or heal quicker—or she could shoot it back out in powerful flames.
Ash kicked a leg high, and as she twisted under it, she shot fire at the Mother Goddess. This dancer was Fire Divine, so the flameswouldn’t hurt her. Even if an esteemed position could be given to someone Undivine, the simple fact that they were descended from the fire god made all Kulans resistant to flame, no matter if they couldn’t control it.
The Mother Goddess dipped backward to mimic being struck.
Ash fed igneia out slowly, growing a whip until it coiled around the entire fighting pit. She whirled, twisting it in a high funnel that rose above the crowd. Arcs of orange cut through the powdered turquoise sky, each loop alive with dozens of sharp, stabbing tongues.
This was the pinnacle of igneia: life and vibrancy and passion. This was proof that Ash’s power could do more than kill.
The crowd gasped at the tornado of fire. Voices cheered, “Ignitus! Ignitus!”
Ash yanked the funnel of scarlet fire down around the Mother Goddess. The dancer toppled with a piercing wail, her body limp alongside the prone bodies of the other gods, her children.
Only Ash still stood, the god of fire, now the savior of humanity.
This was the boldest lie. That, centuries ago, Ignitus had been solely responsible for defeating Anathrasa, the Mother Goddess who had created her six god-children at the beginning of time—then tried to kill them and their mortal descendants when she realized she couldn’t control them. She had nearly succeeded in wiping out all mortals, drenching the world in blood and war, before the gods stopped her. Ash had heard variations of that story in every country she had been to—each god claimed thattheywere responsible for that final assault. The truth of how Anathrasa had been defeated had been lost to the ages, buried under each god’s need to declare themselves a hero.
The stands thundered with whistles and applause. Only Geoxus’s representatives scowled.
The dancers peeled themselves off the sands and bowed, grinning at the fanfare. They had done well; Ignitus would heap gold on them, enough to forget that once it ran out, their bellies would be empty until he called them to dance again. Even so, it was a preferable life to being born Undivine. They were the rabble, the workers, the people who suffered first—and most—when resources were scarce. For every ten children born to a Divine, one was likely to be Undivine; but children born to only Undivine parents were always powerless—and ignored.
Ash didn’t stay to bow for the audience or risk getting pulled into another conversation with the dancers. Performing as Ignitus was one thing; she could use igneia beautifully, show its other sides. But she’d rather live out the rest of her days slowly freezing to death in the icy northern mountains than wave to the crowd and pretend she was proud of playing her god.
Besides, an announcer had begun to speak. The main event was starting.
“Most Merciful Ignitus, god of all igneia, stands accused of encroaching on the fishing grounds of Deimos by Powerful Geoxus, god of all geoeia.”
Ash turned toward one of the arena’s tunnels. Sand trickled over her bare feet as her pace quickened, faster and faster until she slid into the hall.
Her vision blackened in the shadows, but lit sconces brought shapes into view. Tor, his towering form making his head brush theceiling, stood with his shoulders bent protectively around Char, who sat on a bench against the wall. She had her head tipped back, eyes closed, black hair in a sleek braid. Her armor, made to be as a second skin, rose and fell with her steady breaths.
