Page 43

CYRUS

Selfishly, Cyrus wishes for more time. He feels a shift, a sense that pieces are moving in a way he can’t control.

Mezor takes him along the border of the pit to the site of Leuther’s tower. It should be a short trip, but it takes a day and a half with Cyrus’s back still healing. The half-built tower sits on a rocky hill, with decaying forest on one side and a wasteland of broken shale on the other. The looming figure of Mount Hythe is silhouetted behind it like a ghostly twin.

Perched on a fallen log Cyrus watches his primus tear down the half-constructed walls with his bare hands.

It feels like a different lifetime he begged Mezor to take his heat. He’d believed he was helpless, powerless, and hated Mezor for his effortless strength.

But even the strongest soul has cracks.

Once it seemed impossible that he could offer anything of value to someone like Mezor, whose life is nearly unfathomable. Now he understands. When Mezor was inside him, when his knot filled up all the empty spaces—when Cyrus was taken over by him completely and they were nothing but primus and vergis—he saw how they could become one. Out of two broken creatures, a whole could emerge.

As Cyrus watches Mezor’s furious work, Ekko swoops down to land beside him. His beak is bloody and he looks smug. Cyrus scratches his chest, heedless of the mess. His heart is glad to see Ekko flying free.

“You’ll have to find your own kin soon,” he tells Ekko, who cocks his head silently as if pretending he doesn’t understand. The blazing creature from Cyrus’s near-death hallucination is gone. It’s his golden eye that now turns to Cyrus—the black eye looks away from them, watchful.

Soon the tower is nothing but a pile of rubble. Mezor comes down the hill and Ekko takes off with a screech, the wind off his wings stirring up dust and yanking at Cyrus’s shirt.

“He doesn’t like me,” Mezor remarks.

“You’re a stranger,” Cyrus replies.

“I’m his competitor.” Mezor smirks. “Your protector—the role he’s also assigned himself. He’s devoted to you. Take him with you when you leave—he’ll be glad of it. I know I would.”

“He should be free,” Cyrus says fiercely, turning away. “He’s been imprisoned his whole life, and I won’t keep him by my side like a pet. He’s a wild creature.”

Mezor’s eyes grow sad. “You should let him choose.”

“What will happen to you when the last seed is planted?” Cyrus asks suddenly. “What if I could stay here?”

Does this have to end?

Mezor’s dark gaze bores into him. “My time will run out. There’s no future for you here. Promise me you’ll get back to the Grey Company and leave with them.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He knew the truth, but it’s still painful to hear.

“ Promise ,” Mezor growls.

“I promise,” he gets out past the tightness in his throat.

“I have to plant the seed now.” Mezor’s hand comes down on his head, ruffling his hair affectionately. He swallows.

“Who sleeps here?”

“Ah.” Mezor hesitates. “No one. It was going to be me.”

A sudden shiver passes through Cyrus. “You?”

He nods. “Many years after the cataclysm, when my brothers were gone, I tried to sleep here. I thought if I waited long enough, sleep would eventually come to me. But it didn’t happen. I lay awake the whole time, watching the poison spread from Mount Hythe and seep into the land around me.”

“So you left.” He imagines Mezor lying under the rock, painfully aware, alone.

“I went back to the grotto and tended my garden. When Branok came to Mount Hythe, he found me and offered me a deal. After a hundred years of service he would use the Hellspring to help me.” Mezor’s brow furrows. “He was clever and persuasive. I believed him.”

“I want to plant the last seed for you.” Cyrus stands. “It doesn’t have to be you, does it?”

A bloom of emotion surprises him. Cyrus stumbles, catching himself on Mezor’s arm, and Mezor looks down at him with an odd glimmer in his eye. Warmth bursts in his chest.

“I’d like that,” Mezor says.

Cyrus climbs the hill with the world seed in his hand. Moss and vines crawl across the stone underfoot and glimmering grasses grow sparsely from the cracks. In the rubble of Leuther’s tower he crouches and digs a hole in the hard earth, carefully placing the world seed in its cradle. With the type of exquisite focus that only comes from exhaustion, he shakes dirt off the roots of a clump of moss to cover the seed.

The last step is a vial of water from the Hellspring. His fingers shake as he uncaps the tiny bottle and tips the contents out. The black drops soak into the dirt immediately and vanish.

When he’s done, he sits back on his heels.

Nothing happens.

Gravel crunches behind him, and he looks up at Mezor.

“It’s not enough,” Mezor says. “No one sleeps here, so it needs power.”

“Then what do I do?”

Mezor hands him an arrow and holds out his big hand. “Bleed me.”

“It needs blood?” Cyrus grimaces instinctively.

“Blood is power. The soul lives in your veins.”

Cyrus takes the arrow and runs his thumb across the point. It’s sharp as any blade, catching on his thumbprint. He lifts his other hand and slices through the palm quickly, before he can think better of it.

“No,” Mezor growls, reaching for his wrist, but he’s too late. Ichor drips down Cyrus’s palm and lands on the earth.

Cyrus takes Mezor’s hand next and swipes the arrowhead over his palm, too. Bright red blood wells up eagerly. He dips his finger into it and brings it to his lips.

It tastes of iron, of ozone.

Mezor’s blood mingles with his ichor in the dirt. The air suddenly turns oppressive. Mezor’s scent rises hotly—or maybe it’s a storm. Under his knees the earth trembles faintly. Mezor’s bloody hand grabs his shoulder.

“We must get down now.”

The hill sloughs big chunks of shale as Cyrus scrambles down the slope, Mezor behind him. They reach the bottom and the rumbling stops. Cyrus turns in time to see a sapling of pure light shoot up from the hill. He grabs for Mezor’s hand without looking.

“It’s eager to catch up to the others,” Mezor says. “Come—you need rest.”

“It’s already so huge.”

“My power hasn’t waned like my brothers. And you gave it your essence—your soul is strong.” He squeezes Cyrus’s hand and the small wound throbs.

He lets Mezor lead him away from the hill. When Mezor settles beneath one of the half dead trees Cyrus collapses into him gratefully.

He falls asleep, feeling nothing, dreaming of nothing, drifting in the pure gentle river of the bond.

When he wakes, Hell is filled with light.

Cyrus sits up. The forest glows with light cast from the world tree. Shining threads run down the hill and disappear into the pit. Next to him Mezor’s eyes are shut, and something feels different through the bond—it’s dampened. Like Mezor isn’t fully present.

Like he’s asleep .

Cyrus’s heart beats fast. He eases himself out of Mezor’s grip with care. Filling the cracks of our souls . If only they had more time together.

He climbs the hill, drawn to the world tree’s light. Its trunk is as thick as his torso now—it must stand thirty feet high. Broad branches sway in an intangible wind and new leaves unfurl before his eyes. A scent like a storm rising fills the air.

He lets his fingers trail over the smooth bark. Under his touch, brilliant red light swirls as if drawn to him. Mezor’s power—his soul, greeting my soul. He shivers.

The branch above him trembles as Ekko lands silently. His watchful presence comforts Cyrus.

The golden roots leading to Mount Hythe illuminate his path. Beyond that, he can’t see what the future holds.

Mezor jerks when Cyrus nestles back into the crook of his arm, and the bond sparks with awareness. He stirs, his eyes opening. “Hmm?”

“It’s just me.” Cyrus curls into him.

Mezor pulls him closer. His heartbeat is slow and soothing. The light of the world tree dances over Mezor’s bare chest. Cyrus plays with the trail of dark hair leading down from Mezor’s belly, stroking it one way and then the other. Mezor’s breathing deepens, and Cyrus lets the rhythm of it lull him back to sleep.