Centuries ago, the sect—chased from Europe, and then from the very ground itself—had moved to this secluded mountain, seeking refuge inside the heart of its peak.

In the cavern chamber, dozens of sectaires had gathered to follow my historic walk. All told, this colony numbered seventy-eight, the number of cards in a Tarot deck. Half were female, half male. Their voices rang with excitement. The sect had awaited this moment for generations.

As we entered, an elder called, “Quiet everyone.”

At the candlelit altar, I stood beside the high sectaire, making my face impassive. No one would ever know the strangling urge I had to flee. I was about to start sweating, despite my lack of a shirt. I resisted the impulse to rub my damp palms on my trousers.

In a resonant voice, the man addressed everyone, signaling the beginning of today’s ritual. I barely registered his words as I contemplated my life.

As ever, I wondered about my birth parents. I’d been missing for seventeen years. Did they still long for me as I longed for them? They would never know the importance of their sacrifice. Could they have accepted the ritual I was about to take part in?

I doubted they could have accepted my dual nature.

An Arendgast was both angel and animal, a creature torn between base and noble instincts. When I’d been twelve, I’d asked the high sectaire how I could overcome my animal instinct for self-preservation during the ritual. His answer had filled me with horror.

Perhaps I should have run then. . . .

Though our records—the Chronicles of Arendgast—had been burned long ago by fearful villagers, the elders had passed down sacred knowledge to help me in the Arcana game, tales of the past and foretellings of the future.

I was to beware my worst enemies: Death, the Empress, and the Emperor. My staunch ally was forever the Tower; I was to seek him out as soon as possible.

I had also been prophesied in this game to give my heart to a great warrior, another Arcana: “One who slays from afar.”

Surely that meant I would survive the ritual!

The elders had also passed down the date of the foretold Great Cataclysm.

Today.

The apocalypse would befall us, the game beginning in its wake. But I should have heard Arcana calls by now. What if the elders had misremembered the date?

The lack of calls meant one of two things, both of them dire: I was not the Arendgast. Or the game didn’t begin today.

Either option equaled my demise.

My life had taken just one fateful turn to get me to this precipice, figuratively and literally. When I’d been two, a sectaire—allegedly a minor arcana—believed he’d witnessed the earliest seed of my tableau flickering over me. That night, he’d stolen me from my birth parents, bringing me back to the Mount.

I gazed over the crowd, finding him. His face was red, his eyes bleary. Had he truly seen my tableau so long ago? He swore I was the seventh coming of Gabriel.

But then, that sectaire also drank a lot.

And right now he looked . . . nervous.

My entire destiny had been shaped by a drunken sectaire. Would I pay the ultimate price for another man’s mistake?

“Exalted One . . . ?”

I snapped my gaze to the high sectaire. “I am ready,” I lied again. Though I’d spent my life preparing for this, I was most decidedly not ready to free fall a mile to the ground.

If I made the leap of faith too far in advance of the game, my wings wouldn’t be fully formed.

The others parted the way for me to reach the ledge. As I trudged through the cavern, sectaires tried to catch my eye for tonight’s closing ritual, reaching out to touch my chest and back. “Choose me,” they whispered.

Was I the only one who doubted my survival? Each step brought me closer to my probable death.

I swallowed when the edge of the cliff came into view, but I kept walking.

Closer.

If I was the Archangel and the game truly began today, my wings and claws would burst from my skin as I fell. My senses and healing would be heightened.

I would fly over lands I didn’t know, loosed from the Mount for the first time.

Closer.

As the sun set, I would return with fire, a ceremonial light, all part of the ritual. Then the colony would drink strong spirits and celebrate into the night, the great cavern ringing with cheer.

I would be expected to choose four bedmates among the sectaires, the most beautiful and handsome among them. Having never so much as kissed, I was nearly as nervous about that part as I was about the fall!

Gods, I’d never wanted to live more.

Closer.

I emerged from under the rock overhang, blinking my eyes against the sun.

Closer. What if they had the date wrong?

The brilliant skies were cloudless. Far above, an aeroplane—one of those mysterious crafts!—crossed the blue expanse. Hardly an apocalyptic day.

Closer . . . Here. At the cliffside, I gazed down at the jagged snow-covered rocks below, fear choking me. My heart thundered as I replayed the high sectaire’s answer to my query all those years ago: “’Tis our duty to ensure you become the Archangel. Should your instinct for self-preservation overcome you, we shall see to it that you leap.”

In other words, all of the sectaires at my back would push me.

My fate was fixed; somehow I would leave this ledge. Would I do so proudly or with shame? As soon as the high sectaire signaled, I would go quickly. Before I lost my nerve. Fists clenched, I inhaled quick bursts of air, biting back yells of terror.

He turned to me. “Whenever you are r—”