Thousands of years ago, after he earned his title, Cassian vowed to never make irrational decisions. While he did not regret becoming the High God of Death and Curses, he’d decided it on a whim and questioned his sanity for it every day.
It was the same voice of reason chiding in the back of his mind towaitas he put one foot in front of another, walking side-by-side with the young god, unsure of his own actions.
This wasn’t like him, and worst of all, he was enjoying it.
6
THE SERPENTINE FOREST
Finnian
The Present
Finnian awoketo a veil of fog melting between the thicket of branches.
His body jolted, and he gasped, his airway free from moths.
Fucking High God of Chaos.
Finnian couldn’t ever fathom loathing another person more than he did Cassian, but after his encounter with Chaos—and a newfound fear of moths—he was beginning to believe otherwise.
Slowly, as if not to disturb the eerie silence enveloping him, he rose to a sitting position and did a sweep of his surroundings. Through the monochrome hue and the dense layer of gnarled beech trees, he peered into the hazy shadows as far ahead as his eyes could reach. There was no birdsong, no breeze. Only an unnerving stillness.
The Serpentine Forest.
Something he’d come across during his studies. Geographically, Finnian assumed the forest’s placement was close to Moros. It made sense for it to act as a barrier to keepsouls from stumbling into the Land’s prison, and even more sense to keep those from ever truly leaving Moros. The forest’s layout would no doubt be something detesting and fiendish. A labyrinth or maze, or maybe some sort of grotesque illusion.
He climbed up to his feet, eyes flicking around to keep a lookout for jostled movement. His divine power quickly activated in his left ear. The sound waves extended farther out, and with a slow rotation of his head, he managed to grab onto the bubbling of water in the distance.
He followed the direction with his gaze, analyzing the churning darkness and the silhouettes of trees. Through a sliver of prodding gray light between the leaves, he made out the steep incline of ground cover ahead. The sound came from the other side.
He hiked to the top. At the bottom was a hot spring in the clearing, surrounded by bald cypress trees. The anthropomorphic roots protruded from the water, twisting and reaching across the ground cover like skeletal hands. An entanglement of midnight-violet blossoms suffocated the bank. Amid their bell-shaped bodies were fat berries.
Finnian’s knowledge of belladonna flowers was extensive due to the amount of grimoires he’d written. He primarily used the poisonous flower as an ingredient in potions to cast temporary illusions or to conjure up a lethal poison of intense paranoia—many of which he had sold in his black market to stir attraction.
Hollow City’s prosperity and longevity had been his constant focus.
Only a few years had passed after his banishment when he discovered the belladonna’s origin. The flower first blossomed, supposedly, in the very forest Finnian stood in. Where, over five thousand years ago, the High God of Death and Curses bled for seven days and seven nights after becoming one of the first deities in existence.
Envisioning the High God bleeding for days on end was satisfying.
Finnian approached the pool of steaming water. Distant, muffled, animalistic screams caught in his ear.
He stopped with his toes inches from the belladonna, eyeing the gurgling surface of the hot spring.
Interesting.
He lifted a hand, fingers curled. With the command of his magic, he caressed a single droplet from the water, elevating it eye-level with him.
Water held the energy of those it touched.
Finnian twisted his head, angling his ear towards it. The cacophony of hushed sounds amplified and violated his eardrum. He winced, forcing himself to listen carefully to discern the noise.
The spiraling of hurricane wind; a murmuration of deep-toned birds screeching in pulses; a woman’s voice echoing an atonal siren song; the rumbling and cracking of earthy crust. It was an uncomfortable, violent ensemble.
Finnian flexed his fingers, releasing the droplet from his control. It splattered on one of the black petals of the nightshade near his shoe. The substance blackened and frothed, burning a hole straight through the blossom.
Finnian backed away, his eyes jumping to the hot spring. The cloudy water’s depth was endless, like a void, all too similar to the inferno in Moros. Where did it lead? Was there more of this dreadful place beneath his feet?
