Page 89 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)
THE GOD OF DEATH
T he world hurtled toward its end. The other gods came not long after, churning the earth and skies with their rage. They came to the outskirts of Nyaxia’s territory, and they all met there, hovering in the heavens between worlds.
Shiket led the White Pantheon. Behind her, Srana watched him, stare ticking like passing time.
Acaeja stood at the back, her wings outstretched, all the fates they revealed shrouded in thick mists of uncertainty.
When he met her white stare, he heard her voice in his head: You are not out of time yet.
He didn’t understand what that meant. He tore his gaze away. Shiket was glowing with divine fury. The blades on her back fanned out like the spread wings of a bird of prey—though now, he noted, she was missing one of them, the great sword on the top left.
Curious, the god thought.
“You have made a grave mistake, cousin,” Shiket snarled. “Moving against the territory of the White Pantheon is unforgivable.”
“I could have slaughtered your kingdom,” Nyaxia said. “Call it mercy that I spared some. Or perhaps I intend to have more fun with them, considering that you have seen fit to hunt my children for two thousand?—”
“You wish to talk about hunting?” Shiket’s voice boomed across the heavens. Somewhere a thousand miles away, a flock of birds startled from the surface of a volcano, fleeing into the stars.
“Your children ”—she bit the word in disgust—“are monsters that feast upon the flesh of the innocent. There is nothing just about such an existence. Atroxus was right in his mission to wipe them out, and I will not rest until it is done.”
Then she lifted her stare to the god of death, her gilded teeth bared.
“And you, ” she hissed. “We should have executed you when we had the chance.”
A ball of rage formed in his chest.
{How dare she speak to us that way,} the mask snarled.
{She will suffer a terrible end,} the eye foretold.
{She never understood any of it,} the heart agreed.
This was what it was to be a god. A constant game of possession and destruction and competition. A thrill up one’s spine with every burst of conflict. Gods had long, boring existences. It had been two thousand years since their last war, and they were eager for some excitement.
The god was not immune, either. He felt it, too—the desire to carve Shiket’s head from her shoulders, then tear apart her soul so that she might never find any afterlife.
Perhaps he wouldn’t have to. Perhaps the White Pantheon would rip itself apart in the wars to come. He cast a knowing glance to Srana, who built her secret armies all while standing so obediently now behind her kin. Surely she was not the only one to have such machinations.
“It is unwise to taunt me. Even Atroxus, arrogant fool that he was, knew better. But apparently you do not.” Nyaxia’s eyes flashed with the rage of shooting stars. “You wish to have a war? Let us have a war. My children are thirsty. Let them drink.”
“We have thousands of bodies at our disposal,” Shiket spat.
“Meanwhile, I have destroyed one of your vampire Houses. Perhaps you have the benefit of the eternal night. Perhaps you have the benefit of some teeth. But how far will that go, I wonder, if I unleash a million warriors of the light against you?”
Nyaxia’s lip curled. “You are welcome to. I have the god of death at my call. We will raise an army of the dead that will shatter your human kingdoms.”
At that, Shiket hesitated. Nyaxia laughed, drinking up her uncertainty like fine wine.
“That intimidates you, cousin. Good. Fear me. The dead outnumber the living. The only army that grows with every loss.” Her voice rose with excitement—as if she herself was realizing the brilliance of this plan as she spoke.
The god of death watched in silence. It was his power, his kingdom, his subjects wielded as her threat.
The underworld, in the state that it was, could not support being used in such a way. The souls there had suffered greatly. They went to the underworld for rest, not to be hauled back to the mortal lands to be used as a weapon in someone else’s war.
These protests rang out somewhere deep inside him, near the wound in his chest, so far away he could barely hear them, anyway.
And besides, he was bound to Nyaxia, his divinity linked to hers. What was there to say?
{We could conquer a kingdom far grander than the last,} the mask whispered.
{Already, we see the potential,} the eye hummed.
Only the heart was silent.
The gods’ gazes turned to the god of death.
“We shall see,” Shiket muttered. “We shall see.”
She slid her helmet down over her face, and in a flash, she was gone. The other gods followed, one by one. The last to leave was Acaeja. She remained even after Nyaxia began to turn away, her stare fixed upon the god of death.
There is still time, she whispered.
And for the briefest moment, a collection of dreamlike images flashed over her wings. A crown of copper bone. A bloody petal. A bird on fire. The sidelong stare of a brown eye threaded with amber gold, richer than the most precious of metals.
Then she, too, disappeared into the ether.