High above, a partially shattered stained glass dome lets in the cold light of a heavily clouded midday. Thick ice has encrusted much of this massive room, but I can still make out a mural of the reaper goddess on one wall, her face obscured by a hood. Graphic images of violent deaths, terrified mortals, and peaceful graveyards are painted around her.
This is one of Syntyche’s temples.
Or, itwas. Something cataclysmic must have happened because it’s an abandoned tomb now.
I stare at the frosted mural for a moment, a strange feeling tickling the back of my brain.
Then I notice the skeletons of two purple-dressed priests on the floor near the altar. They lie entangled, looking as if they diedstrangling each other. Other dismembered, shriveled corpses pepper the room, dressed in black since they came to worship Syntyche by mourning the dead. They look partially preserved, as if this bone-deep cold has been around long enough to prevent them from decomposing properly.
What a disturbing scene to wake up to.
I wish I could appreciate it better, but I feel so fuckingodd. My torso continues to burn as the rest of me feels weaker. When I press a hand over the scar on my chest, I'm still missing a heartbeat…and my quintet emblems. Not to mention, I’m dressed only in a ripped, sleeveless black slip, and?—
Is that stained glass embedded in my arm?
I pick a few pieces out, grimacing at the throbbing in my head. How did I get here? Memories of my not-life are a swirling cesspit of confusing information, but it all comes to a screeching halt around the moment I cursed the gods while dying in Everett's arms.
Oh, fuck. My revenant purpose was fulfilled.
Which means that Idied, died.
But this isn't the Beyond. If it were, Sachar would be standing over me, judging the ragged remains of my soul and sentencing me to an afterlife of eternal misery for all the shit I did to survive in the Nether.
So what the hell is going on?
And more importantly, where are my guys?
Gods, this temple isfreezing. Whenever the whistling wind outside slows, snow dusts down from the shattered ceiling, making me shiver. I slide off the altar, avoiding shattered glass all over the icy stone ground, but I pause when I notice a gleaming scythe on the ground nearby.
The rest of this eerie space is coated in layers of dust, frost, spiderwebs, and that faint, enthralling feeling I've always sensedaround death, fresh or old. But this scythe is dust-free, so it was placed here recently. And the blade?—
It’s etherium.
I know because I’m drawn to the wickedly sharp, glass-like curve the same way I was drawn to Amadeus's crown years ago.
Hissing at the overwhelming soreness throughout my weakened body, I lean to scoop up the scythe. But my fingers pause when I sense a ripple of magic emanating from the weapon. Deep green runes slowly appear running down the snath, glowing faintly. Just being this close to the weapon is hair-raising, as if I'm about to touch a live wire.
So, of course, I absolutely must touch it.
The moment my fingers wrap around the weapon, breathtaking power sears through my veins. A woman's voice echoes in my head.
“When you learned that memories take years longer than souls to transcend certain planes of existence, you requested that I place your memories of Paradise within this weapon to be returned to you more quickly. Consider this a favor. May fate bless your scheming, or else may your second death be equally honorable.”
I recognize this solemn voice: Syntyche, the goddess of this temple.
My mother.
That abrupt recollection is jarring, but as I consider it, pieces of my past that I never lingered on start to make sense. Being so drawn to darkness and sensing death. Seeing ghosts as a kid. The fact that I could make a blood oath without a priest or priestess’s holy magic sealing it, despite Felix insisting it would be impossible…
I must have tapped into my dormant nature without knowing.
I should have known you would take after her.
That’s what Pia said to me after First Placement—only now, I vaguely remember that the so-called “prophetess” was in Paradise when I woke up there.
She wasn’t a mortal prophetess, but Galene the Knowing in disguise.
No wonder that bitch left so many annoyingly cryptic little remarks.
