Finnian clenched the jewel in his fist. His horrendous siblings had deceived him by stealing Mira’s necklace and then convincing him to give it to their eldest sister as a birthday present. He had not known the necklace was their mother’s, a family heirloom.
Finnian would never make the mistake of trusting the triplets ever again. Because of them—because of Mira—Alke was gone.
Dead.
Finnian stared down at the vessel that once held the bird’s soul, sparring with how to make sense of it.
Memories played behind his eyes—the company of Alke on his shoulder, flying over his head as they journeyed outside the palace grounds, squawking loudly to assure Finnian of his presence, breaking pieces of licorice to share with the bird. These things would no longer exist.Never again.
Finnian would remain and Alke would join the afterlife, because that was what it meant to be a god. Forever outside the realm of death.
Finnian refused to allow those closest to him to slip through the cracks into its Land. Death would not exist in his world.
Finnian’s curled fingers stretched open, and he stared down at the pendant. Its omniscient power radiated up his wrist, burning a heatwave in his blood.
He focused on siphoning the energy from its properties. It pricked up his arm and around his nape as the magic flowed down into the hand cradling Alke.
“I will bring you back.”
Part one
Make it Hurt
1
THE YOUNG GOD WHO STEALS SOULS
Cassian
The Past
The breeze rustledthrough the wisteria blossom’s long, wispy branches, tickling Cassian’s cheeks. Determined to enjoy the stillness, he lay in the lavender stalks, hand propped behind his head.
Focus on thepresent moment.
Nathaira constantly lectured him to do so, but it was something he could rarely afford due to his ever-growing worklist—meetings with the Council, cursethisgod for whatever line they’d crossed, imprisonthatgod for their wrongdoing—and then there were the daily duties that came with running a realm full of souls.
Cassian had lived for over five thousand years, but that length of time had not brought him anything but redundancy. As the Ruler of Death, his days were all the same.
He kept his eyes closed, but his mind continued to work, scribbling a mental list of to-dos: visit the souls in the Paradise of Rest, welcome the new ones at the River and those whoarrived with the Errai—deities of Death who shepherded the souls through the gates—and check in on the progress of those wandering the Grove of Mourning. He often worried about those in particular, struggling to heal from the trauma they’d endured in their mortal lives.
“My lord.” Mavros’s voice appeared behind theswooshof his arrival.
Cassian kept his eyes closed but could sense his attendant’s presence awaiting behind him.
Mavros was quiet and reserved, but possessed a dark, prominent aura. The kind fearsome to mortals and apprehensive to deities. One only a god of death possessed.
Mavros had been at Cassian’s side for well over three millennia. Their formal relationship turned cordial over the tedious years of operation among the Land of the Dead.
“My lord,” he repeated with an exigency in his tone.
Cassian lifted into a sitting position with his elbows on his knees. The wisteria blossoms tangled in his hair and clung to his shoulders.
He inhaled their sweet fragrance before climbing to his feet and sauntering through the lavender at his ankles.
The two made their way down the knoll and into the waist-high stalks, weaving between wandering souls, who minded them no attention as they passed, too occupied with their thoughts and the beauty provided by the Lavender Fields of Healing. These were all souls who had recently arrived in the Land.
Some walked aimlessly, unaware of their surroundings while processing their deaths and the mortal life they’d left behind. Others strolled with luxurious patience, the bloomed lavender catching between their fingertips, pausing to soak in the streams of sunlight parting the frothy-thick clouds.
