Page 41 of The Ascended
Fuck.
Our best option was gone, and we'd barely started.
"Will number two please stand."
My blood chilled as Chavore rose from his chair.
I assumed Chavore shared the domain of his father, but I wasn’t certain.
If the gods were basing their choices on the type of abilities we'd displayed, he might choose me. The Dreamweavers had said he was just and fair. The star-wielder who'd forged weapons from celestial light was the obvious choice.Gods.He was going to pick me wasn’t he?—
"Thatcher Morvaren," Chavore said with a warrior's smile, nodding toward my brother.
My heart stopped. This was too close, too dangerous. How were we supposed to?—
The sound of a chair slamming back erupted across the hall before Thatcher could even step out of line. Xül stood, hands pressing down on the table as his gaze grew colder.
"Am I to assume this a joke?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. Those eyes narrowed at Chavore, who looked utterly unfazed,merely shrugging as if Xül's outburst was nothing more than a minor annoyance.
"Is there a problem, old friend?"
The wordfrienddripped with sarcasm.
"He doesn't belong in Bellarium, you fool," Xül snapped. "His abilities are far more suited for Draknavor."
I wracked my brain trying to remember the names of the divine domains. Gods, why hadn’t I paid more attention to the stories?
"I'd say he's perfectly suited for the Domain of War," Chavore shot back, his voice remaining maddeningly calm. "Power like that could reshape entire battlefields."
So Chavore didn't share a domain with his father after all. Interesting.
"Power like that," Xül said through gritted teeth, "comes from the same source as mine. Life and death, growth and decay—these belong to my domain alone.”
“Do they?" Chavore tilted his head, genuine curiosity in his voice. "It looked remarkably like warfare to me. Quick, decisive, effective." His smile turned sharp. "Rather like good strategy, actually."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Other Legends watched the exchange with interest, some looking amused, others concerned. The contestants in our line were dead silent, probably terrified of drawing attention while two gods argued over Thatcher like he was a particularly interesting weapon.
"Absurd," Xül said, his voice soft but deadly. "You think because you can move pieces on a board that you understand the forces that drive them."
"And you think because you commune with corpses that you have some monopoly on destructive power." Chavore threw a smug look towards Xül.
Xül's hands clenched into fists on the table. "You arrogant?—"
"Gentlemen," a new voice cut through their argument. Elysia. "Perhaps we could save the philosophical debates for after theChoosing? I’m sure many of us have actual criteria beyond petty rivalry."
Chavore's expression didn't change. "Of course, Elysia. How thoughtless of me." He settled back into his chair. "Thatcher Morvaren, if you would."
Thatcher stepped forward, his face carefully neutral. But as he moved to stand behind Chavore's chair, I caught a glimpse of resolve in his expression. He looked determined.
Xül remained standing, fury pouring from him in waves. The scribe looked between them nervously, clearly unsure whether the confrontation was over.
"Will number three please stand?" the scribe nearly whimpered.
Xül sighed, not bothering to move. "Fine," he said, his voice clipped with irritation. "I'll take the other one."
His gaze cut to me. There was nothing warm or welcoming in his face—just cold assessment and irritation simmering. I had to fight not to flinch.
"Apologies, Warden," the scribe said in a shaky voice. "Could you clarify your choice, please?"
