“Because I created it about three years ago with Eleanor and Isla. I needed to teach them how to activate a sigil properly, and we had nowhere to live, so…”
He created his own city.
He was okay. Safe.Building a home for himself. Cassian was proud to hear this, but equally unsettled. “There is a war going on in the western region within the Rowena continent,” he said, unsure of how to go about expressing his worries. “The border is mere miles from here. I do not know how far the ruin will spread.”
Finnian paused and glanced at him over his shoulder. “When the war began, I cloaked the city to keep the residents safe as a precautionary.”
Not to hide from him. Or perhaps both? Cassian didn’t have it in him to ask.
As if he could hear Cassian’s thoughts, Finnian held his eyes for a long moment, reassuringly. It was plenty to settle Cassian’s doubts.
Finnian continued working.
Cassian inched closer to get a better look over his shoulder, curious. Drawn on the wood surface of the workbench in blood was a runic arc.
Finnian reached up on the shelf and grabbed individual bundles of dried white sage and mugwort twined in string. He placed them in the center of the sigil and snapped his fingers, the glint of his rings catching in the candlelight. The bundle of herbs caught fire.
Finnian held them both up and blew out the flame, though the herbs continued to burn.
Tufts of smoke curled in the air. The pungent odor thickened. Cassian’s throat tickled, moisture collecting in his eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Are the citizens of your city human?”
Finnian waved the smoking herbs in a precise circle above the sigil. “Some, yes. It is a safe place from all deities.” He let go of the bundle, though it remained fixed in the air. “A significant influx of mages has occurred in the past year. According to Eleanor, I have become something of an inspiration to them.”
Or they were mages who favored his necromancy.
Cassian brought a hand up to his hair at the idea of Finnian’s necromantic ways being spread amongst others. The thought spiked his stress.
A jar levitated from the shelf and floated down to Finnian’s open palm, filled to the brim with dead scarab beetles.
He sighed and returned his hand to his pocket. “Why have you called me to your home?” His kept tone was subdued, purposefully reserved.
Finnian silently placed a few insect carcasses from the jar into the glyph’s center. He swiped his hand in a casual dismissal and the jar glided back to its spot on the shelf.
His arms paused in their movement, and he angled his head sideways towards Cassian. “How is my father?”
It came out quiet, uncomfortable. The Finnian he knew would never ask such a personal question. Cassian could deflect it or refuse to answer, which would only pain Finnian. It was a line of fire the young god rarely put himself in the middle of.
Cassian recognized his vulnerability and wanted to do everything in his power to nurture it.
“He is well,” Cassian replied delicately.
“Do you visit him regularly? He enjoys company.” Finnian’s hands did not stop moving.
“I visit him when I can, but he is getting by just fine.”
“Naia always worried that he suffered.” Finnian rotated to face him, expression terse, bothered by the thought. “Tell me, is he suffering?”
Their last conversation sprang into Cassian’s mind—the emotional confession he’d given Finnian, how punishing Vale was something he never wished to do, words that Cassian wasn't sure if they’d cut through Finnian’s detached persona and truly reached him.
It seemed, though, they had.
“Unfortunately, suffering is a part of his imprisonment, but I can assure you I do not make his days torturous,” Cassian said. “Unable to explore the world or be with his children is more than enough.”
Finnian looked down at the broken stem of white sage between his fingers. “I am glad to hear you still care for him.”
Cassian studied him for a long moment in search of answers he desperately longed to know. “What am I doing here, Finnian?”
