“The world is doomed.”

“I’ve given up hope. Just seems saner.”

She nodded. “Okay. Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t only me.”

The tent flap pulled back and a dirty and bruised Gwenvael stormed in.

“Bastards!” he roared. “They threw me into an endless pit!”

Rhi shook her pretty head at Briec. “Oh, Daddy.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Briec insisted. “It was Fearghus’s idea.”

Fearghus shrugged. “He asked for it.”

* * *

Dagmar Reinholdt stood on the top step of the stairs leading into the queen’s castle. Even though it was late, she gazed out over the courtyard and wracked her brain, once again, about ways she could protect Garbhán Isle and the family she had inside.

As things spiraled out of control around them, Dagmar had been determined to not only keep Garbhán Isle as safe as possible for all those within but to keep it as much the place she’d always known so that when Annwyl and the others returned, they’d have something to return to.

On Dagmar’s left stood her only son, Unnvar. On her right, her loyal nephew Frederick.

Together, the most reasonable beings Dagmar knew stood and studied the territory they had all committed to protecting.

They’d been doing this every morning and every night. Coming out here, staring, and wondering if they’d missed anything.

“The tunnels,” Var prompted.

The tunnels that the minotaurs had used to invade their territory from the Ice Lands. An attempt to end Annwyl’s life before she gave birth to the twins.

Turned out those minotaurs had been unnecessary. Annwyl’s twins eventually killed her themselves. Their births had been too much for the queen’s human body. But a god had brought Annwyl back and the queen had made it her business to fight anyone who had a problem with the presence of her babies. Then the presence of Talaith and Briec’s child, Rhi. Then all the others. The children of humans and dragons, which included Dagmar’s own offspring. Unnvar. Her eldest daughter Arlais. And the five younger ones that everyone called “Gwenvael’s Five.”

Offspring who’d had no choice in the games of gods. And that’s what all this was.

The games of gods.

But unlike the witches and priests who worshipped the gods, Dagmar didn’t. She believed in them. Knew they existed. But she did not make sacrifices or call on them in times of trouble. Especially since she believed that most often the cause of the “trouble” was the gods themselves.

Instead, Dagmar relied on reason to guide her decisions and life. Nice, sound, logical reason.

“Eh,” she heard from behind her. “Reason is overrated.”

Dagmar let out a sigh, not bothering to turn around and look at the god standing at her back.

Eirianwen. Goddess of war and death. The one who had given Annwyl her life back all those years ago, but not the one who had given humans the ability to mate with dragons. That had been her longtime mate, Rhydderch Hael, father of all dragons.

Frederick, oblivious to the god’s presence, continued to stare out over the courtyard, looking for any signs of weakness. Var, however, glanced back at the god, eyed her once, before ignoring her completely.

“Just like your mother,” Eir laughed. “He has more contempt than you, though.”

“Perhaps he has more reason.”

Frederick looked at Dagmar, frowned, but then his expression cleared. “Ah. Visitors.”

Then he too ignored the ongoing conversation. Frederick still had a god or two he insisted on worshipping. Otherwise reason would make the gods easy to see. Although Dagmar had begun to believe that her nephew continued to worship those gods only because he had no desire to see any in the flesh. He had no desire to talk to them when they were bored. No desire to find them sitting on his bed late at night, wanting “a bit of a chat.”

The boy had always been smart.

“Your son has grown, I see. Looks more like his father every day.” Eir’s grin was wide. “Gwenvael’s going to loathe him.”

“Why are you here?” Dagmar asked, facing her.

“Can’t a girl come see her friend for a bit of a—”

“If you say ‘bit of a chat,’ I’m going to scream.”

Eir laughed. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Where is she?”

The god gave a very convincing frown. “Where is who?”

“You know who. Annwyl. Rhiannon knows she’s disappeared. Where did you take her? Or was it Chramnesind? Maybe his Zealots.”

“None of us have Annwyl.”

“And you’d know?”

“Of course I’d know. I’ve been connected to that woman since our bargain was paid in full. And right now, she is no longer in my sight.”

“And Chramnesind—”

“He can hide nothing from me. So, no. I don’t think he has her.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Nothing in this world is sure. You should have figured that out by now.”

“Then why are you here?” Var abruptly asked, facing the god. He showed no fear, gazing directly into Eir’s brown eyes. “Why are you bothering my mother?”

“I didn’t see it as bothering, but if you—”

With an annoyed sigh, her son turned his back on the god. Dagmar had to fight hard not to react to the look of shock on the god’s face.

“Did . . . did he just dismiss me?” she asked.

“He did. Wouldn’t take it personally, though,” Dagmar explained. “He does that to everyone who bores him or can’t give him what he wants.”

“Can’t? Don’t you mean won’t?”

“No. I meant can’t.”

The god raised a finger. Not to strike Dagmar and her precious son down, but to argue, as she always seemed to enjoy doing. But before Eir could speak a word . . .

“Good evening, small Northland female and the males she will not give us for our strong daughters!”

Dagmar rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. Eir cringed and disappeared. Not even a god wanted to face the Kolesova sisters. They were Daughters of the Steppes and, as Var had pointed out more than once, “pains in our collective asses.”

“Talking to yourself again, tiny Northlander?”

Dagmar slowly turned to face the two females that Annwyl had sent to “protect such a weak, insignificant woman.”

She wanted to think that Annwyl really had been worried about Dagmar and her nieces and nephew by mating. But Dagmar knew better. The treacherous heifer had simply been tired of dealing with the three sisters. They’d committed themselves to fighting by Annwyl’s side in the hopes of a glorious death so they could go to their horse gods with honor. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

But from what Dagmar had heard when information still flowed freely, they kept getting between Annwyl and those she wanted to kill. They thought they were protecting her. Annwyl saw it as plain rude.

The tribe the Kolesovas came from were considered annoying by their own people. Large, hearty females who didn’t know how to lower their voices or keep from insulting people. They found men to be weak and stupid and only good for breeding. More than once Dagmar had had to step in when they’d get drunk and round up men too young to fight to send to their multitude of daughters left back in the Steppes.

Six months ago, when Annwyl had sent them back with orders to “protect all those I love at Garbhán Isle,” there had been three sisters.

On their trip back, though, the three women fell into the hands of a battalion of Zealots. At least four hundred strong. All human. All loyal to Chramnesind.

Two days later, when the dust finally settled, only two of the sisters were left. But the battalion had been wiped out completely. The remaining pair brought back the body of their younger sister Inessa so they could have a proper funeral pyre and several days of mourning without worrying that more Zealots would come for them.

Those were the longest ten days of Dagmar’s life. It wasn’t the funeral pyre. The Southlanders and dragons did the same. And her people, the Northlanders, also burned their dead, putting them on wooden boats and setting them out to sea in flames.