You must right your wrongs.
Everything went dark. Control over his body gave way, and his side collided with the floor.
You must find Father.
His fingernails scraped against his own skin to rip the moths’ dry bodies away. The wound stung as the air hit it. His vision momentarily cleared, revealing someone crouched down, hovering over him—their face masked with a deer skull, horns twisting out of the top.
Finnian’s heart submerged into his stomach as the image eclipsed with his fading consciousness.
“Welcome to hell,” said the High God of Chaos and Ruin.
5
EVERETT
Cassian
The Past
He turnedhis first lover into a ghoul.
Cassian strolled down the lantern-lit cobblestone, the brassy glow bouncing off the brick establishments of the city known as Augustus. Established two-thousand years ago, Cassian had witnessed many wars between mortals to conquer the urban settlement, as it sat on the border between the Eastern and Western Hemisphere. It had brought many souls into his Land.
The city’s population thrived as the century waned on. Though Cassian never had any interest in stepping foot on its speckled cobblestone, here he was—obsessively turning over a soul named Arran in the back of his mind. A demigod born in Kaimana to a lesser goddess, murdered by Malik, Finnian’s older brother.
Cassian remembered every soul in his realm. It was his duty. Arran had entered the Land about a year ago with an immense amount of trauma.
He was sent to the Grove of Mourning, a sacred part of the Land where struggling souls roamed. It was a place to go when one needed time to process and recover from their mortal life before setting forth on the path of healing that the Lavender Fields provided.
After Cassian had broken out of Finnian’s sigil in the temple, he’d returned to the Land and immediately ordered Mavros to spill every detail of the young god to him. He’d paced the square feet of his sitting room a hundred times over, livid, his hands itching to latch onto Finnian’s neck after their encounter.
It was then when Cassian visited the soul, concluding its way of death was to blame for the mental despair burdening him. Mutilated and shredded by Malik’s blade. The pain and suffering he’d endured had been horrendous, and he had lasted four years at Finnian’s side as an undead creature.
Why did the young god release him? If he were building an army for power, it made no sense. He would need as many souls as he could acquire. Perhaps he pitied his past lover. If that were the case, it gave Cassian a better idea of Finnian’s true character beneath his apathetic ruse.
Cassian rubbed his fingertips against the pad of his thumb as he walked. A poor distraction to keep his hands from entering the pockets of his trousers.
Nathaira had advised against expressing any of his usual gestures. The only thing that had come to mind was the occasional hand swiping through the hair, but she quickly pointed out the way he constantly stuffed his hands in his pockets. A habit he was painfully aware of now.
He turned the street corner to a more crowded pathway. Currents of mortals rushed on either side of the cobblestone, loitering outside the businesses. Grease-stained, rugged men, after a long day of manual labor, stood with promiscuous women on their hips.
Shoulders bumped into him. He overheard the lewd remarks they tossed amongst one another. The lanterns lining the sidewalk decreased in number until barely any at all lit his path. Darkness settled like a fog between the buildings.
The tavern came into view up ahead.
It had been two years since he’d faced Finnian in the temple. The young god vanished, and it had taken Mavros time to locate his whereabouts. It appeared Finnian had learned a spell to hide his aura from Cassian. The game infuriated Mavros to a high degree and became a personal priority for him rather than an order.
Approaching the tavern, Cassian’s hand lifted for his pocket, but he caught himself mid-movement, pressing his fingertips against the lines of his palm.
There was a slight edge quivering beneath his skin. An unease, as he casually brushed his fingers over features that were not his—a shorter nose, the tip rounded and exposing the divots of his nostrils; low cheekbones framing curved eyes; a set of jaws giving his face a more circular shape.
The whole thing was absurd. Shape-shifting to alter his appearance entirely. Meddling in the Mortal Land to hunt down a young god when he could’ve easily sent Mavros in his place.
Cassian had many things to tend to. Preparations for the monthly Council meeting was at the top of his list. He dreaded it immensely, mostly for the fact that he was forced to sit at a table and watch the High Goddess of Fate flash her elegant smiles and speak in poetic riddles when ayesornowould easily suffice. Cassian hated flourishment.
He smoothed the velvet lapels of his tailcoat. Focusing on what was currently in his control helped. The mere thought of Ruelle was suffocating. He could not afford to be distracted.
Cassian stopped in front of the entrance of the tavern, smoothing out his crisp collar. Its frosted windows were slickwith condensation. The bell chimed against the door with each arrival and departure. Above the entrance a sign read: RED FOX TAVERN.
