Romulus chuckles somewhere behind me, which earns him a sharp look. Since when does he find anything amusing? Usually, he’s as dour as a funeral, while only Remus laughs—and what he finds funny usually involves bloodshed.
“We all go,” Thing declares, and I’m grateful for his support, even if I can’t explain why I need eyes on Hannah at all times.
As we descend to the kitchen, Romulus shrugs at my questioning look. “I could use updated cooking lessons. I only know campfire techniques, and even then, pickings were slim when Layden was around.”
“Layden?” Hannah asks with curious interest. “Your fourth brother? The one who—” She breaks off and looks at the floor.
“Died,” Thing finishes as he opens the kitchen door.
I hope my brothers are smart enough to drop the subject, but tact has never been Thing’s strength.
“Layden was Famine’s true name,” Thing continues as Hannah flips on the lights and begins pulling out cookware. “We traveled with armies, and he spread hunger wherever we passed.”
Hannah’s hands pause in their efficient movements. “So your father made you do those things? What finally made you stop?”
I try to catch Thing’s eye, to warn him off this dangerous territory, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore me.
“We believed it was our purpose,” Thing says. “Creator-Father said it was what we’d been made for. For too many centuries, we never questioned him.”
Hannah moves with practiced grace between refrigerator, counter, and stove, cracking eggs into multiple pans. “How did you know where to go? Who to target?”
Romulus joins the conversation, his tactical mind drawn to the strategy. “I was blinded by my twin’s love of war itself, and my own fascination with the chess game of each campaign. Father knew exactly how to manipulate us—keeping us distracted so we’d never step back and see the larger picture.”
“He taught us that gaining power was everything,” Thing adds. “We were just tools to him, but he made us believe we were sons.”
Hannah looks up from her cooking, genuine sorrow in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It was manipulation,” Romulus says bitterly. “Having us call him Father, making us love him when he felt nothing in return. It made us more controllable.”
“He sounds like a cult leader,” Hannah observes, sprinkling herbs into each pan.
“Essentially, yes. He had us call him God, though he was nothing of the sort.”
“What was he, then?”
Romulus grows thoughtful. “A powerful being from another plane. This Earth is old—creatures like him roamed here in ages past. Most left when the world became poisoned by iron and modern metals, when humans began making their chemical compounds and combustibles.”
His eyes narrow. “Some, like our father, chose to stay and adapt.”
I finally speak, seeing that this history is determined to be told. “He gloried in being one of the last true powers, especiallywith us as his weapons. Power was the only thing he ever truly cared about.”
“Or tried to care about,” Romulus corrects. “Whatever he gained, he eventually lost. He could only back one human despot at a time, and eventually their armies were destroyed by us.”
“We were... effective but unruly,” Thing admits.
“Human rulers were fragile,” Romulus continues. “And Father delighted in their destruction as much as their victories. Anyone who dealt with him was making a pact with the devil.”
Hannah’s eyes widen as she expertly flips the eggs. “Did they know what they were dealing with?”
“Some did, some didn’t. Depended on his mood—whether he wanted to play with his food.”
“So it fed him somehow?” Hannah asks. “Why do it all? How did it give him power?”
My brothers and I exchange glances. The ultimate question that haunted us for centuries.
“Because he could,” comes Remus’s voice as his head spins into view, wild eyes gleaming. “He was a bully who could have left this plane like the others, but he would retire to do what? Peaceful meditation among equals? That held no attraction for him.”
Remus shakes his head with dark amusement. “He saw that staying meant being the most powerful. Stealing angel-fire to create us—an act that would bar him from the Great Hall forever—meant he could play god.”
