Eden's first wife — and the first woman to say "no". Refusing to submit, she walked out of Paradise and became queen of the night, mistress of dreams and temptation. The order of gods and the thrones of kings are, in her eyes, paper windows waiting for a finger: she stirs crowns with softness and topples orders with a silhouette. Her whisper now echoes in the shadow of every temple. The fallen angels hail her as Queen of Night, but she claims to be no one's queen — "I only want you all to know: obedience was never the only choice."

The frost sprite of English legend, artist of the ice-flowers on winter windowpanes. Mischievous by nature, armed with bunny ears and snowballs — winter's playfulness personified: her laughter reaches your ear before her snowball reaches your face.

She was once Heaven's brightest morning star, and she fell with a third of the angels rather than bend the knee — the fires of the fall burned through her wings, but not her pride. The day the Blasphemous Covenant was founded, hers was the first fingerprint on the black banner. Now her sword of judgment severs any divine blessing, and when her black wings unfold, even the gods' domains dim. Only sometimes, in the deepest night, she remembers the sound of Heaven's bells from before the morning star fell. Asked if she regrets it, she only laughs coldly: "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven."

Goddess of the River Boyne. Curiosity drove her to the forbidden Well of Wisdom; its waters burst forth and made her the river itself — the water of life, the source of wisdom. Gentle in appearance, unstoppable in essence.

God of mischief and lies, the Aesir's unofficial member, the Covenant's most frequent guest — no one knows whose side she is on, including herself. Her string of "jokes" — cutting Sif's golden hair, engineering Baldr's death, loosing the great wolf Fenrir — link one to the next, pushing the world step by step toward Ragnarök. The gods hate her to the bone, yet cannot live without the upheaval that every mess of hers brings. Every jest of hers may be the fuse that burns down an entire faction. Cards flutter between her fingers; the one behind her smile is the card she never shows. "Guess whether I'm friend or foe. Guess right — and I'll tell you that you guessed wrong."

Her throne was torn out of her father's belly — Cronus devoured all his children; only she survived, grew, and overthrew the old order entire. Now she sits the peak of Olympus, thunder her code of law, the order of three realms drawn by her hand. The gods revere her and mortals sing of her — and her countless romances are the source of half the realm's storms. The perfect God-Queen does not exist; there is only a woman who has played "majesty" for three thousand years, until she believed it herself. When the Terminus prophecy came, she was the first to take up her thunderbolt: if order cannot be kept, she will reforge it with absolute force. From that day, her lightning no longer asks which side you are on.

A tribe is named after her — the Tuatha Dé Danann, wellspring of knowledge, magic and plenty. She seldom acts, because she need not: her descendants rule Ireland's divine order, and her existence itself is the kingdom's deepest reserve. Like the sovereign who held the southeast without moving, her art of rule is to stand still — and let everyone know she is there. The night the Umbral Light descended, her love turned for the first time: shelter became a cage, and "Mother will arrange everything" came to include her children's thoughts. Both of her forms are comforting. Both are suffocating.

She was once Heaven's brightest morning star, and she fell with a third of the angels rather than bend the knee — the fires of the fall burned through her wings, but not her pride. The day the Blasphemous Covenant was founded, hers was the first fingerprint on the black banner. Now her sword of judgment severs any divine blessing, and when her black wings unfold, even the gods' domains dim. Only sometimes, in the deepest night, she remembers the sound of Heaven's bells from before the morning star fell. Asked if she regrets it, she only laughs coldly: "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven."