The strength of his wings failed, and he felt them wither away as the ghostly presence of Typhon withdrew. He found himself missing that monstrous voice in his head.
Now, he felt nothing but emptiness.
He landed hard on the ground, dirt and roots scraping his hands and knees. The pain sent a spark of awareness through his body, bringing clarity and focus to his mind.
It was fleeting. Soon, he would withdraw, just like Typhon did. He would fade away to an empty shell. He would cease to exist.
He rolled until his back was against the hard ground as he glared up at the sky. He hated this. All he felt was rage and helplessness. The frantic anxiety coursing through him made him desperate and panicked. He had todosomething. He couldn’t just sit around like Cyrus.
He had to take action.
Evander sat up and ran a hand down his face. His eyes closed, and he heaved a weary sigh.
Then, he heard voices.
They were nothing more than whispers, soft but insistent, like hissing snakes.
His eyes opened, and he looked around. The Undead Wilds were nearby. It was likely only the wayward spirits.
Even so, he was deeply curious. And if Cyrus wouldn’t do anything, then perhaps it was up to Evander.
He could talk to the spirits. He could negotiate with them.
He clambered to his feet, brushing leaves and twigs from his body as he made his way to the forest. The whispers grew louder with each step he took. His skin pebbled, and his body prickled with awareness.
The magic here was powerful—powerful enough for him to sense it. He had no magic, but he couldfeelthe energies in the air.
The canopy of trees partially blocked the light of the sky, shrouding Evander in darkness. But still he pressed onward, embracing the murmurs and allowing them to drift over him like soft caresses.
“God of death,” one of them whispered to him. “What brings you to our domain?”
Evander looked around, but he saw nothing. The voices had no bodies. He had seen them materialize before Cyrus. For whatever reason, they had decided not to do so for him.
That was fine. He did not need to see their faces to speak with them.
“You vowed to help Cyrus get Mona and Prue back,” Evander said, his voice firm and unwavering. “I was there when you asked for a drop of his immortality. I know the price you seek, and… I am here to pay it.”
The air filled with frustrated hisses, as if the spirits were upset. “Why does the king not come to us himself?”
“He is seeking other paths first.”
The voices stilled at that. Then, one of them said quietly, “He does not trust us?”
No,Evander wanted to say. But he didn’t want to cause trouble between Cyrus and the spirits. So, instead, Evander said, “He intends to enlist your help once he formulates a plan. But I cannot wait that long.”
The voices purred around him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Impatience. So unbecoming of a young god such as yourself.”
“I don’t care,” Evander snarled. “I will not let Mona suffer. I will not stand idly by while she is in danger.”
“Is that what you think the king is doing? Being idle?”
“No. But?—”
“Does he appreciate your subordination?”
“I am his older brother,” Evander snapped. “He does not command me.”
The words felt vile on his lips. He had never defied Cyrus before. He had always been content to abide by Cyrus’s laws and keep to himself.
