Peace. After all that death, how had Poire found this true and utter peace?

And so what if a mountain of black smoke crawled up from the depths of Lowtown before it spilled into the Midcity? From over the garden wall, it almost looked peaceful. Curling black and quietly growing taller.

Yes, it was almost quiet here, in the garden.

No crowds. No soldiers. And the cracking of gunfire might’ve been miles away. Over the mountain ridge.

Poire was surrounded by trees. A dozen different species rustled lightly against each other, rattling their branches like swords, flicking sunlight through a green canopy. Brick footpaths carved through the ivy, snaking around ancient trees and sprays of flowers.

High stone walls, cracked and stained with age, shielded this garden from the outside. Every few dozen paces, another moss-covered bench appeared in the rich foliage, urging Poire to come and sit.

Shouldn’t sit.

But it was the trickling laughter of a fountain that drew him deeper into the garden. Just the thought of cold water made his mouth feel thick and dry.

The fountain was at the center of an eight-sided courtyard. Water burbled from the center, splashing in a wide circle. Poire cupped his hands and gulped. It was colder than he thought it would be, and sweet. He cupped and drank, cupped and drank. When he had slaked his thirst, his stomach was so full it almost hurt.

Around him, the trees swayed gently, hiding the distant sounds of mayhem. Where their bark was peeled, they dripped sap that filled the whole courtyard with a syrupy scent.

What are those?

Seven moss-covered statues and one empty stone pedestal lined the outside of the fountain’s courtyard. He must’ve been too focused on the fountain to see them.

His heart stopped. Here was the statue of a woman. A human woman. No feathers, no scales. Her arms crossed so that her biceps bulged, and a hard grin creased her lips. Something about her looked familiar.

And here, this one clutched a dozen vines in her hand. Or were those snakes? The detail in the stone was too rough to be certain, but Poire was utterly certain they were human.

Who are these people?

This statue’s face was stained black by some paint on the stone. Her hands were cupped to her chest, holding something close. Two wings peeked out from her protective fingers.

And this statue, staring at the sky, almost looked like one of the other kid’s cultivars.

When Poire came to the next waist-high statue, he stopped. An ancient man, sitting cross-legged, his body so heavily lined with wrinkles that Poire couldn’t see his eyes.

Poire knew this man.

It was Director Yovan, head of Poire’s Conclave.

They ate dinner together eight times a year. Poire waved to him in the street when they passed, Poire on his way to school and the director to his office. Back when Poire first started falling behind, the old man himself came to interview Poire each morning and afternoon, and once in the middle of the night. How were your dreams? Which one did you have? Did you see the Light?

They’re fine. The one about the ash. No.

Director Yovan had been at Toffah’s graduation ceremony only three months ago. The director had seemed so calm then. Calm and sad. Poire assumed it was because Toffah was leaving, but now . . .

“Did you know?” Poire asked, clutching at the switch hanging from his twine necklace. “Did you know all this would happen?”

No answer.

His grip was so tight the plastic switch bit into his palm. Why do I even have this stupid thing?

Yovan’s statue sat on a pedestal. A blank, calm face. Lips as silent as stone. Poire thought about shoving it over and smashing it on the ground.

Instead, he looked up at the leafy canopy sparkling with emerald sunlight.

“Where did you go?” he said to no one. “What happened to you?”

“Praying at a time like this?” A voice took Poire by surprise. “You, friend, have the right idea.”

An old avian was standing across the garden, staring intently at Poire. He was wearing simple priest robes with slits down the back to allow his tail feathers to jut out. His eyebrows were bushy and gray, and a rope belt struggled to fit around his great, round belly. Behind him, the black mountain of smoke curled into the clouds above.

“Praying?” Poire said. “Why would I pray to them?”

The priest shrugged. “The gods are always listening.”

“Gods?” Poire shook his head. “They were just people.”

“Yes! That’s what I always say. Too many think of them only as spirits or some kind of magic. But the gods were like us too. Faced with daily imperfections, they used their miraculous strength or their infinite wisdom to guide their heavenly paths—”

“No!” Poire shouted. He was standing now, and his hands were clenched into fists, and a tide of emotions flooded through his veins. “Stop calling them gods. They were just people!”

He didn’t mean to do it. Or maybe he did. When Poire’s hand found the statue, it moved too easily. Falling off its pedestal and cracking against the brick footpath. Yovan’s bald head separated from his body. His stone beard smashed into pieces.

The priest’s feathers were up. Spikes of white and gray feathers, making him look huge. One finger held out menacingly.

“You dare blaspheme in the garden of the gods?”

“They weren’t gods!”

“Then what were they?”

“Cultivars! Technicians and pathologists and geneticists.” Poire pointed at the broken statue. “He and I had dinner together, only a few weeks ago—”

“You . . .” The rotund avian squinted at Poire, blinking rapidly as if he couldn’t see very well. “Had dinner . . . with Asaiyam?”

The priest cocked his head, making the long, gray feathers of his eyebrows wobble.

He reached into his robes, pulled out a pair of dusty glasses, wiped them on his robes, and placed them on his beak, still blinking at Poire.

“Oh, holy gods.”

He clutched at his chest, digging his feathered fingers into his robes. “Oh, Muqwa. You drank too much again, didn’t you? You old fool and your damned tea. This isn’t real.”

The old priest was shaking his head. He moved to sit down on a bench, muttering to himself. “All right, vision. What words have you for me this time? What dream is this now?”

“I’m not a dream.”

“Not a dream,” the priest chuckled dryly. “A godling, in the garden of the gods. Toppling the statues I have dedicated my life to. What else could you be if not a vision sent to haunt me?”

“I’m not a vision.”

“Well,” the priest said almost bitterly, “then I should be able to touch you—”

The priest reached out. Poire’s armor responded on its own, slowly lifting three fingers of metal to brush the avian’s.

“Oh,” the old priest choked, reeling back from that cold touch. “Oh, holy gods.”

Then the priest pushed himself off the bench and dropped prostrate before Poire, bowing and kissing at the bricks.

“Divine One, forgive me—I did not recognize you. Oh, holy gods . . .” His voice shook. His whole body shook. He was clutching at his chest and sitting back on his heels, shielding his eyes as if Poire’s very image would burn him.

“Oh, endless stars, forgive me. But of course, this was foretold. How could I ever doubt that you would come? But me? Why me? Oh, gods and stars above—”

“Stop,” Poire said, gritting his teeth, biting back the scream of grief that rose in his throat.

The avian priest opened his eyes. His feathers were flat with worry. In the far distance, the crack-crack-crack of gunfire was drowned out by the breeze that blew over the garden wall.

“I am not a god. Do you understand that?” Poire said.

“But aren’t you human?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then you must be him. The Savior Divine. The one who was foretold—”

“No! I am nobody’s savior. You don’t understand. The city is dead. All of its systems are dead. I can’t get any of the guides to talk to me. I can’t do anything to help you. You have to save yourself. Get out of this city, and don’t look back.”

“Keep hope, for in the light of a thousand suns, the Savior will awaken. He returns and carries with him our peace.”

“I don’t know what that means or who told you that, but it’s not true. How am I supposed to bring peace? I am nothing. I can’t even tell this stupid armor what to do. Everything in this city is dead.”

“You’re alive. And so are we.”

“You don’t know how anything works! You burn gas for light. Gas. What am I supposed to do here?”

“But Divine One . . .” The priest hesitated, trying to speak delicately. “What about your powers?”

“What powers? You people have made up the most ridiculous stories about my people. There are no saviors. We never had a prophecy.”

“Divine One—”

“Don’t call me that!” Poire snapped. “My name is Poire, OK? And I told you, I’m just human.”

“Just human?” The priest’s eyes were wide, his brow feathers furrowed. As if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “There is no such thing as just human.”

“You think I’m some divine, perfect being—”

“Ah!” The priest held up a finger. “Nobody said the gods were perfect. They were deeply flawed, all of them. Look at Asaiyam.” He gestured at Yovan’s statue. “So wise, and yet so slow to act. And here stands proud Kanya, who smiles though she may never know peace.”

You don’t even know their names, Poire thought.

The priest gestured to the eight spot, where the empty stone pedestal sat. “And the Fallen One. A paragon of imperfection if I’ve ever seen one. But despite all their flaws, they persevered in ways we can only imagine. They made miracles into reality. Your kind created this world, didn’t they? All this, just for us.”

They didn’t create this world, Poire wanted to say. They only carved it.

But who was he to say?

He was just a child. A newborn, almost, in terms of a human lifespan. Poire had never even left his conclave. What did he know about miracles?

Poire sat down on the cold, sharp edge of the fountain and sighed. His shoulders dropped, and his gaze fell to his feet. All those drowning emotions pulled away from him like the tides pulling away from the shore. Leaving nothing in their wake.

“I’m sorry I destroyed your statue.”

With a groan, the priest sat next to him. “We have spares. It happens more than you think. My name is Muqwa, by the way. Though you may call me whatever you wish.”

“Muqwa,” Poire said. “Are you a priest?”

“That I am. A patron of the Faith. The old faith, unless you want to tell the cyrans. Did you know there are dozens of prophecies on Gaiam? Hundreds, if you count the other islands.”

“What do they say about me? Do they tell you what I’m supposed to do?”

Muqwa peered over his glasses at Poire, blinking to clear his sight.

“We sort of thought you would know what to do.” The avian cracked an embarrassed smile at the corners of his beak. “We sing and pray and preach about salvation without knowing how it actually happens. We were hoping you would know. But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?”

Poire smiled back, but only for a moment. He was empty, and everything he did only made it worse.

“I’m lost,” Poire said. “And I don’t know what I’m doing here. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“But you are, which means you should be.”

“Why?”

The priest folded his hands over his stomach and bowed his head. His brow feathers twitched as he thought.

“When you say you are just human, I wish you could hear what I hear. I don’t know how to explain this to you. I’ve lived in the shadow of your towers my entire life. All my life, I have been surrounded by your mysteries and the gifts that your people have left behind. I have prayed and meditated and dreamed for countless hours. Why did the gods go away? Will they truly return one day as the prophecies proclaim? But here you are, Divine One. The one who was foretold. All of us have been waiting for you. All of this”—he gestured at the garden and the city beyond—“has been waiting just for you.”

“But it’s dead,” Poire said, staring at his fingers, the smile long forgotten. “It’s all broken. And I’m stuck here. And I can’t talk to any of it. The whole system is down. If I could fix it—but I don’t know how. I don’t even know where to turn on the power.”

“Power?” Muqwa jerked his head. “Electricity?”

“Yes.”

The priest slapped himself and groaned. “Oh, Muqwa. You imbecile. Why else would the Oracle need so much of it?”

“The Oracle?”

“Yes. Wait. You don’t know the Oracle?”

“Who is it?”

“Not who. What.” Muqwa clapped his hands and rubbed them together, whispering a quick thank-you to the heavens. “Your people left the Oracle behind as a gift. I’m surprised you don’t know it. The Oracle has given us so many things, but I have always wondered if it might be holding back . . .”

Then the old priest shook his head and muttered to himself, “Careful, Muqwa. Respect your place.”

An explosion over the garden wall, close enough to make stones bounce and rattle on the ground. Poire held his breath, waiting for more. But all that came was the rustling of the leaves. The black clouds were spreading now, rolling over the Midcity houses. Swallowing them whole.

“Is the Oracle close?” Poire said. “I mean, will we be safe getting there?”

“Sadly, it’s not the first time they’ve set fire to the city,” Muqwa said. “But we won’t let a little war stop us.” The priest winked, but Poire could see the shadow that passed over his face.

Muqwa clapped his hands on his thighs and pushed himself up with a strenuous groan.

“I never dreamed I might see this day.” Muqwa wiped his eyes. “Thank you for this gift.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’ve begun,” the priest said. “Come on. The Oracle will know how to help you. It was made to serve.”