“Wife—”
“Wren,” I correct, though gently.
His thumb sweeps across the lower vertebrae of my spine, pressing into soft skin. “Wren. I don’t do well with social interaction.” He speaks barely above a whisper. I can’t look away from his mouth.
“You talk to me just fine,” I breathe.
He touches my chin, pushing it down so my lips part, teeth on display, the motion strange and mesmerizing, and the deliberate stroke up my back equally so. “You’re different.”
“Different how?”
The hand on my back slides low again, stopping shy of my backside. My skin prickles as heat gathers in my lower belly.
“You are headstrong.”
I snort. “You really know how to make a woman swoon, you know that?”
“It was a compliment.”
“If you say so.”
“Headstrong, fearless, and brave. I have never met another like you.” His eyes burn with an intensity that frightens me, even as some broken piece of me, the one that does not view myself as worthy of such words, smooths over. “I have never met someone who challenges me to see what lies outside of my experience. Never met someone who so easily slides beneath my skin.” He breathes in deeply, as if drawing my scent into his lungs.
Headstrong. Perhaps it is a compliment after all.
Dropping his hands, Boreas steps back and says, “Have you heard of Makarios?”
I shake my head. Space. Distance. I tell myself that is a good thing.
“The Deadlands is a complex realm. Neumovos is but one facet to the whole of this place. There is also the Meadows, where souls are sent if they’ve committed no crimes nor completed no worthy deeds. It’s apeaceful afterlife, if a bit dull. Then there’s the Chasm, where only the truly corrupt are sent, including my ancestors.”
“You’ve mentioned it before, but I’m not clear as to what it looks like.”
“It is a void. An abyss. A crater in the earth.” He drags his thumb and forefinger down the sides of his mouth. “Technically, it exists beneath the Deadlands. It is where gods and men receive their eternal punishment, should their actions doom them to such a fate.”
“So why aren’t you there? Didn’t you help overthrow your parents?”
As the silence settles, I loosen my grip on the need to pressure him into a quicker response. If our positions were switched and I was attempting to tear down the walls I’d erected around myself, I’d like to know I was safe in doing so.
“My brothers and I were spared,” Boreas finally says, “because we helped the coup succeed. But the new gods did not trust us to remain loyal. So we were banished.”
“And you were sent here?”
“We drew lots. I was the unlucky one to inherit the Deadlands.”
“And Makarios? What’s it like?” I ask, eager to learn more.
“Makarios is not something I can explain. It must be experienced.” And now he hesitates, the breath contained to his chest. “I would like to show you that the Deadlands, while dark, also hold the greatest potential for light. And nothing shines brighter than Makarios.”
30
MAKARIOS IS A THREE-DAY RIDEfrom the citadel, but traveling via river only takes a few hours. Standing at the frozen bank of Mnemenos, Boreas melts the ice with a touch, and the arrow-shaped boat drifts from upstream to knock against the soil.
Bundled in my thick winter coat, I’m surprised to find my body sweating beneath the heavy layers. I quickly shed the extra weight.
“It feels warmer,” I say. When I glance at Boreas, I find a small notch between his eyebrows. “Do you feel it?”
“No.”
