Finnian fisted his hands to combat the quivering beneath his skin, a sign of the fabric of his sanity fraying. Once he was hidden in the safety of his indifference, he raised his chin and stared ahead at the dark, oak-stained doors across the temple.
Cassian’s gaze prickled across his cheek and something about it lulled Finnian to grab ahold of it, but he refused.
Without looking at the High God, he said, “Lead the way.”
9
THREAT OF BALANCE
Cassian
The Past
The Landof Entity was far too bright. The white, plush landscape of clouds embraced the High Goddess of Life and Balance’s grand temple, forcing Cassian to shield his eyes on arrival.
He stepped out of his shadow, adding much-needed contrast to the heavenly gleam, and ascended the stairs through the open entrance, supported by columns and decorated with cycads and majesty palms.
He strolled down the marble corridor and turned the corner to an entryway, its threshold covered by a veil of ivy permitting only Council members inside.
Encircling a round table made from white jade were five thrones. Each was cut from unique stones, embellished to match the owner.
“It is nice to see you, Brother,” Iliana, the High Goddess of Life and Balance, greeted with warm affections.
She sat perched on her rose quartz-cut throne, the sleeves of her chiffon dress flowing around the arms. Long, ivory strands reached her waistline. Her eyes beamed like sandstone topaz underneath the sunlight.
Without her glamor or the glowing orb she often shielded her identity with, anyone could tell she was Cassian and Acacius’s sister.
Cassian took a seat on his throne—sleek, Stygian, and unfortunately positioned directly across from the High Goddess of Fate.
“Lord Cassian.” Ruelle bowed her head in a formal greeting.
“Lady Ruelle.” With a flicker in his eyes, he scanned the alluring fabric of her beige dress, up to her auburn waves, and lingered on the contour of her full lips, aware that her eyes would gleam malevolently if he dared to meet them.
Cassian had done well to suppress his interest in the young god. It existed deep within a chasm inside of him, one he could not completely empty, no matter how much he tried. The twinge in his gut told him Ruelle could sense this.
“Such a familial welcome you give our brother when I barely get a wave, Sister.” Acacius lounged back, one elbow resting on the arm of his magnetite throne, his shoulder-length hair pulled back with pieces slipping past his temples. His golden gaze glittered playfully on Iliana. “Are you not fond of my presence like you are of Cassian’s?”
Iliana turned her attention to him, scrunching her nose, a sign of annoyance she’d expressed since they were children. “Do not jest with me, Acacius. It will not prompt an honest response from my lips.”
Acacius tipped his head back and laughed. “I missed you too, Sister.”
“What of the middle god of fire who fell to Solaris?” Azara wasted no time diving into the topics waiting to be discussed.She sat on Cassian’s right side, her vibrant red locks adorning her diamond-shaped, freckled face. She held her attention on Cassian, awaiting a reply, expression stern—never one for small talk, a trait Cassian enjoyed.
“He traveled across the Mortal Land to each of the Temples of Fire and threatened the mortals who overturned his statues,” Cassian said. “Forty-seven of the souls have emerged from the River.”
“What is the state of the god?” Iliana asked.
Cassian did well to block out the incessant tapping of Ruelle’s fingernail on the arm of her celestite throne as he replied, “Receiving punishment in Moros.”
“How long?” Azara asked.
“Since he has already lost a rank in title, I see a few centuries to be fit.”
“You could always send him down to my realm,” Acacius chimed in, smirking.
Despite his exasperation, Cassian maintained a neutral expression and refrained from rolling his eyes at his younger brother. Acacius’s realm bred chaos and ruin persistently. It tied into Moros and helped fuel the type of misery that was needed in such a prison. Cassian would never send a soul directly to Acacius’s realm, no matter how rotten they were.
Ruelle’s fingernails ceased their percussion. “And what of the young god stealing souls?”
