The waning sun is blocked by tall, intricate marvels of architecture that are the hallmark of the city of Purity. Each building is more impressive than the last. My reflection in the elegant hovercar’s window shines with streetlamp eyes. The image of the iron crown upon my head slices the growing darkness and twinkles, mirroring the lights outside. Lounging beside me in the back seat, Dune is the heart of darkness in his God of Dawn outfit. His boots are ebony. The dark-black fabric of his trouser legs tucks inside them, lightening to a softer shade toward his waist. His shirt is an even fainter shade of black, turning to gold as it reaches his shoulders. A golden, lionlike fur mantle covers his shoulders. His cape attaches to it, gold on the inside, and night turning to golden sun on the outside.
Our hovercar comes to a stop as we queue up for the extravagant costume gala. A slow-moving line of expensive vehicles leads to an enormous hovering glass building with seven towers jutting up from it. A frosty veneer decorates the massive structure, which appears to balance on the head of a thin needle point above the calm, glass-like surface of a deep lake, resembling a floating crystalline formation. A brilliant, burning pink sunset presides. The water beneath reflects the building in the fuchsia sky, the mirrored image like an alternate universe.
The building has only one way in from the ground level, a hauntingly beautiful transparent bridge that reminds me of ice shards frozen in a winter gale. Our hovercar stops in front of the wide bridge. Ushers dressed as fantastical snow people stand on either side of the glacial-looking supports. Frost-covered hair and skin shimmer in the glowing lights of the streetlamps. The ushers have the torsos of men and women, but the lower halves of their bodies are encased in films of faux ice, blurring them.
A particularly tall iceman opens my door and reaches to help me out. The brown mountain range of his secondborn moniker hovers above the back of his hand. I grip his fingers and step into the night air. His eyes fall on my silver sword moniker, widening before moving up to my face.
“I can assure you I was invited,” I murmur.
His smile is anything but icy. “Of course. You’re Roselle St. Sismode.”
“I’m Roselle Sword,” I correct him.
A warm breeze blows. I had been expecting wintriness.
“You look like Roselle, the Goddess of War, to me.”
I glance down at myself and laugh self-effacingly. “Only for tonight.”
His smile fades. “Let us hope not.”
Dune emerges to stand beside me. The golden fur mantle covering his shoulders makes him appear even stronger—lionhearted. The attendant’s eyes travel up Commander Kodaline’s powerful build, and then the secondborn says, “My master, Hail, the God of Ice and Flurry, welcomes you to his social club.”
This is all a bit silly, but I play along. “Thank you.”
Dune simply nods.
“Please,” the usher continues, “allow me to escort you to the doors.” His arm sweeps in the direction of the bridge.
“That won’t be necessary,” Dune says, taking my arm in his. We walk to the north-facing bridge. Firstborns, mostly Swords, garbed in costumes ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime, stroll near us, all moving in the direction of the shimmering ice fortress.
The bridge is a marvel of design, with a long arch that doesn’t appear to have any support between its two ends. Beneath us, the water is so clear and deep that it’s not hard to imagine that we’re the ones walking upside down in a different world. Before us, enchanting snowflake-shaped doors roll open.
Pairs of Diamond-Fated secondborns greet us inside the doors. One young woman is garbed in a tight, icy bodice. Her counterpart wears a fiery red ensemble, her skin licked with decorative flames. The one with the short blue bob and snowflake-patterned skin scans my moniker with a handheld device. “You have a VIP all-access pass! Are you ready for a seat at the Gods Table?”
“Or are the depths of the Underworld more to your liking?” her redheaded counterpart asks.
Dune’s eyebrows slash together, and his demeanor becomes stern. “We’re here to see the host,” he replies with an air of authority.
“Of course,” the blue one says, all business now. “You’ll need these to reach the Gods Table at the summit. You’ll find the God of Ice and Flurry there.” She points up before handing us both a set of hoverdiscs. The round, metallic pieces are each about two inches in diameter. Lifting my boot, I press one to my sole. It latches onto the stiff leather. I do the same with the other foot. The hover mode engages and lifts me several inches off the floor. I can access the controls of the hoverdiscs through my moniker because they’re attached to me, and therefore not blocked. We walk forward, only we don’t touch the ground.
“Rise and fall in the recommended channels, or you’re liable to get hurt,” the red one warns us.
I gaze back over my shoulder to watch the greeters fawn over the next arrival—a decadent, bare-chested god with a very lethal-looking white snake wrapped around his broad shoulders. The fiery greeter directs him to the left and over to a dark ballroom, where a sinister fog and a flare of hellfire creeps over the threshold. He sees me watching him and sends me a sultry air-kiss.
Ahead is a winter palace. Icy fog covers a glass floor. Costumed firstborns use it like an ice rink, only their feet never touch the surface. Above the rink, a holographic field displays a scene from last year’s Secondborn Trials, where several of the contestants from different Fates were forced to cross an icy lake. Some tried to tread where the ice was too thin and fell through. Others waited too long for the ice to harden, dying of hypothermia before reaching the other side, freezing solid during the night. A group that constructed primitive sleds to distribute their weight did well. Others assembled hoverdiscs to accomplish the crossing. The ingenuity of the various competitors is astounding, but watching the losers makes my belly ache.
Dune and I move away from the rink. We find a channel, essentially a dedicated path leading upward. The building has tiers of floors, but in the middle, there’s open air up to the ceiling. As we rise through the channel, we pass an ice wall with firstborn Swords clinging to its surface, using glacial pickaxes and cliff boots with hoverdiscs to make the climb a breeze. A holographic field in the cliff depicts three-dimensional secondborns in a challenge in last year’s Secondborn Trials. The contestants were required to climb a treacherous mountain to obtain golden ration tickets that could be used to purchase food supplies.
My mood sours as I watch the footage. Cyborg mountain lions pounce on Sun-Fated secondborns who couldn’t climb fast enough. Their bodies are torn apart in the most horrific ways. The drone cameras cut away to a Moon-Fated team. The climb up is simply too much for one. He calls something to his partner before letting go of the ledge. My heart pounds, watching his body free-fall into the mist below. His partner chooses not to continue the climb, letting go as well and falling to her death. The terror of that moment must have been excruciating. I shudder.
Dune whispers in my ear, “Remember all of the things you’ll no longer tolerate when you have the power to change them.”