Page 49

MEZOR

Mezor floats in the aether. Hollows flicker in and out around him, disturbed by his presence. He sees both the empty void and the vast cave that cups the Hellspring, its surface rippling thickly like ichor.

Which vision is real?

He’s tired to the bone—tired of fighting, of aching, of waiting. He wants to let go. Yet something whispers to hold on.

Not yet.

In one half of Mezor’s vision, the King is seated on the long pier that stretches into the middle of the lake, his eyes shut. He sits utterly still. He’s waiting, too. Every few hours he gets to his feet and scoops out a handful of the black water, bringing it to his lips. It streams down his chin in evil strands, thick and poisonous now. Branok waits for the world trees to siphon more corruption into the Hellspring. The corruption will merge with his own power, becoming part of his soul.

When that happens, Branok will die. And so will Mezor. Together they’ll be reborn into something new. A simulacrum. A creature neither living nor dead.

The thought is curiously empty—he doesn’t desire it, but he doesn’t fear it either. Whatever is meant to be will be. At least Cyrus will be safe .

Deep down in the part of him that’s still cognizant, his soul seeks his mate through the bond. The emotions he senses are hard to read. Cyrus is far away—or the bond is simply too weak. Soon it will snap, freeing Cyrus forever. Eventually Cyrus will be glad of the freedom.

The King rises again and checks the water. This time when he straightens, he shows his blackened teeth in a darkly triumphant smile. The corruption eats away at his mind and body the more of the Hellspring he drinks—he must be in agony. But none of that shows. He strides back down the pier. Hollows leave the aether, drawn to him. Mezor watches dispassionately as they swarm around his prone body and lift it into the air, carrying him over the rippled shore.

The King gestures sharply before they reach the water. His expression changes from triumphant to suspicious. “Put him down. Someone is coming.”

He stills, listening. Soon Mezor hears it: a thunder that beats rhythmically, like a hundred demons marching together. The surface of the Hellspring flickers. Distantly, failing senses tell him the stone is trembling under his back.

The hollows eddy around their master, confused. A great shadow fills the cave’s entrance, blurred by the veil of the aether.

The shadow resolves. The two halves of his vision are split. Against his will, Mezor is yanked back to his body. Indifference abandons him as the pain swells to encompass his whole focus—everything hurts, down to his bones. He chokes on a shout, the noise dying in his throat. Each breath sends a knife through his ribs. He groans, trying to rise, and collapses. The hollows scatter from his side, disturbed.

The King doesn’t notice, his attention fixed on the intruder. Tall as a tree, with horns like branches and eyes as bright as the dawn, the figure is Mezor’s brother.

A shepherd god. But one who should be asleep.

“Who are you?” the King demands furiously. “How dare you intrude?”

Kalad , Mezor replies in his own head. How is it possible?

“I am Kalad,” The intruder echoes him. “God of the meadow, shepherd of souls. Who are you?”

“I am the King of Hell.” Uncertainty weaves through his arrogance.

“Ah. It is good to meet you, King of Hell.”

Kalad’s familiar dryness makes Mezor’s heart ache. But above the rumble of Kalad’s voice, the bond rings like a bell, drawing his attention.

It can’t be.

But the truth is inescapable. Cyrus stands at his brother’s side, bow in hand like a warrior. His dark hair whips off his cheeks, his brow fierce with determination. When his dark eyes land on Mezor, he gives a cry.

“Mezor!”

Heedless of the King’s presence, Cyrus rushes across the cave. He drops to his knees at Mezor’s side. It’s undeniably him—his scent, his warm touch, and worst of all, the sweet storm of his emotions through the bond. Despair winds thorny branches around his heart.

“I tried to go,” Cyrus whispers fiercely. “I tried. But I couldn’t.”

Mezor shuts his eyes in anguish. It doesn’t help. Cyrus is everywhere—in his mind, his heart, his soul. Every part of him cries out to protect his mate. But his body is stone, his strength sapped by the King. The only way to keep Cyrus safe is to send him away.

“Pardon me, King of Hell,” Kalad says, and his steps draw near.

“Stay away from him!”

But it’s like telling a river to stop. Kalad kneels, his familiar presence bringing a warmth back to Mezor’s soul he no longer thought was possible.

“My brother.” A rough hand brushes his brow. “You are very weak. Almost dead.”

“Can you help him?” Cyrus whispers, gripping Mezor’s unmoving hand.

He’s beyond help. With monstrous effort Mezor fights the weakness of his body to grab Cyrus’s wrist.

“You must…go,” he croaks through the glass shards in his throat. “Both of you.”

Cyrus’s eyes flash with anger. “I don’t care what happens, I won’t leave your side again! Nothing you say can stop me.”

Mezor turns his gaze to Kalad pleadingly. “Please…take him away.”

Cyrus sucks in a breath that’s nearly a sob, his hurt battering Mezor through the bond. But he’d suffer a thousand times over to keep Cyrus safe.

His brother’s gaze is sorrowful. “He is your mate. You should not be so cruel to him.”

He tries to beg with his eyes, his throat dry of words. He’s never felt so helpless. But Kalad only shakes his head.

“Let me help you.”

His brother raises one claw and slices his palm, lifting the hand to Mezor’s lips. Mezor is too weak to turn away. Warmth pours into his open mouth and he swallows instinctively. Kalad’s essence runs down his throat, bright and hot, lighting him up from within. It reaches into him, pouring like a river into the dry bed. His pain melts. His body grows light. Strength flows into him, and the ragged pieces of the bond weave back together.

For an instant, his mind goes blank and he drinks. Then he comes to his senses.

“No!” He jerks away, horrified. But it’s too late. His brother slumps forward. He’s given everything—his power sinks into Mezor’s body, shoring up his failing muscles and strengthening his brittle bones, replacing everything taken by the King. Like the flowers that float on the surface of Kalad’s pool, his soul is gentle and beautiful, healing Mezor from within.

But the more power is in him, the more the King will simply take.

“Kalad!” Cyrus grasps the massive, fallen head. But Kalad’s eyes have shut for the final time.

“He’s gone,” Mezor whispers. “Please Cyrus, go. Free yourself.”

Cyrus’s eyes are bright and terrified. “I thought you would understand.”

Mezor turns away even though it rips him apart inside. His body might be healed, but his soul isn’t free. He can’t turn his back on Hell, on his kin—if the last leaf withers on the vine his brothers will die in their sleep, and his home will be reduced to a wasteland forever. Without the King’s promise, his work will all be for nothing.

When Cyrus realizes Mezor has nothing left to offer him, he will be forced to flee—or worse, the corruption will take him, like it’s taken everything Mezor cares for.

It’s the only way.

“It’s no use.” Branok laughs cruelly, the noise echoing across the shore. “He won’t listen to you.”

“Let him go!” Cyrus cries. “You can’t take him from me.”

Branok’s reply shakes the bond. “It’s Hell he loves, not you. He will fulfil his end of the bargain and abandon you, the way he always planned. Your devotion is meaningless.”

The truth of his words tear at Mezor. The bond is on fire. Mezor claws at his throat, his teeth grinding against the agony as it multiplies. Breath refuses to enter his lungs. Cyrus chokes, his cries muffled by the encroaching aether.

“It hurts!”

Branok’s claws scrape the stone as he comes closer. “The bond is breaking,” he rasps.

Time slows. The cave fades.

Darkness swallows him.

“Mezor.”

The voice is a gentle drip of water on rock.

“Mezor. Brother.”

He rises. “Kalad? Is that you?”