on her hips, held in place by a gold band set with garnets, while the fabric that fell to her sandaled feet was a few layers of sheer crimson. The top cut deep across her collarbone and stopped in a point above her navel, more crimson set with gold-rimmed garnets. The straps holding it in place drooped around her shoulders, all else bare, showing off the gold bangles on her wrists, the thick gold necklace that rose and fell with each breath, her unbound waves of black curls, the way her skin glistened, the gold paint on her lips and the kohl around her eyes.
Tor was the hottest part of a flame, but Ash was the wildest. The red, pulsing fingers that sought and destroyed, grabbed and burned.
The moment Ash had put on this outfit, she’d looked at herself in the mirror and known she could get whatever information she wanted out of Madoc with one sway of her hips. She could draw a confession out of Ignitus with a spin and an arch. She would get to dance tonight, and the hum of the music mixed with the sway of other people would fill up the void of loneliness that Ash constantly teetered on the edge of.
She felt more herself in this gown than she had since Char died.
As they continued to walk, Ash turned away from Tor, her eyes skimming over the terrace. She spotted Geoxus at the edge on a cushioned chair. Ignitus stood at the banquet table with his two other remaining champions: Brand, a year older than Ash but five times as cocky; and Raya, who had traveled here from a fight in Lakhu with her own lavish entourage.
Brand wore orange; Raya wore white. Ash saw the connection between the outfits when she looked back at Ignitus, who was dressed in a flowing tunic of all those colors. Blue. Red. Orange. White. The kaleidoscopic hues all found in fire.
Suddenly, her red gown felt more restrictive.
She and Tor were nearly to the banquet table. Tor lifted his hand. “Great Ignitus,” he called.
Ignitus spotted them and turned his back on Brand and Raya.
“Steady, love,” Tor whispered.
The crowd continued their conversations, and that kept tempo with Ash’s vibrating pulse. She stopped before Ignitus and forced herself to look into his glittering eyes.
It was the first time she had seen her god since Rook’s death. That realization chased away her all-too-feeble confidence, and her mind blurred with the memory of Ignitus’s hands splayed before him. The fire blasting out. Rook falling, choking in her arms.
“What a tragedy your fight was, Ash,” Ignitus said. She was shaking. “I hope you two have had time to collect yourselves? I know you were friendly with Rook Akela.”
Ash had to wrestle the disgust off her face. “Yes. We were friendly with him.”
Tor squeezed her arm. “His betrayal shocked us, Great Ignitus.”
Ignitus kept his gaze on Ash. “You are angry,” he guessed. “Angry that he failed to kill me?”
Ash gawked and Tor stiffened next to her.
The musicians’ volume rose. Couples took to the floor, whirls of colorful fabrics and jewelry that glinted in the phosphorescent stone light. Deiman music mimicked its god in its force; even the flutes assaulted Ash’s ears, and the moves she saw were all hard stomps and cutting lurches. The instruments caught up with each other and formed a rollicking melody that made Ash’s heart crackle like a forest fire. Her soul ached to sweep onto the floor, to join the dancers, to feel like a part of something, if only for a single song.
“Great Ignitus,” Tor started, “Ash is merely—”
“Angry,” she said. She stepped out of Tor’s arm, closer to Ignitus. “Yes, I’m angry.”
She could feel tension palpitating off Tor in waves. She could feel the heat on Ignitus’s skin rise, in his eye a gleam of challenge, waiting for her to make a fatal mistake.
“I’m angry at Rook’s betrayal. He turned his back on us all when he attacked you. I’m angry that I was unable to stop him before he got so far. And I’m most angry, Great Ignitus”—Ash dropped her voice low beside the party hum—“that this seems to be a pattern. First my mother is poisoned. Then Stavos threatens you. Now something drove Rook to attack you.”
Ignitus jerked back. Ash reveled in the surprise that graced his fine features. “I told you,” he said, his voice wavering slightly, “there is no threat.”
“It cannot be a coincidence.” She was pushing the god of fire—she knew how