I was a cat with a mouse, and I didn’t play with my food.
The war god’s time had come to an end. “You know what, Jarovid? You’re right. You did motivate the summit. You made history. Good for you. Now,” I pressed the tip of his blade into his throat. “Any last words?”
He snarled. “You won’t get away with this. I’m agod. My pantheon will come for you. You’re nothing. You have no name. No cults. No purpose. Instead, you’re wrapped up in these damned ticks, these fleas. They’re mortals, you short-sighted fool. They’re just humans. And you?—”
“Tut, tut,” I chastised lightly. “Not just humans.Myhuman. She’s more special than you’ll ever be. And you, once mighty god of war, have just ensured no one will avenge you.”
A high, clean ring cut through the crackle of flames and sobs of the few living victims.
The wind howled.
The snow turned into ice.
And a god’s head rolled, sockets unseeing, tongue lolling, as I proved to the world that I meant every word.
Iridescent, immortal blood dripped from the blade.
I was a god-killer. The sword, on the other hand, was not.
One day, whether in weeks, or months, or ten thousand years, Jarovid could fight his way back to the surface and reclaim his seat in his pantheon, should they accept him.
My choice of weapon was a tenuous, threatening olive branch to all watching.
I made good on my promise.
My mercy would not be shown twice.
No one would harm my human and live to tell the tale.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CENTURIES OF SEMANTICS
Iwas a caged animal, pacing against technicalities as I watched the ripple effect of Jarovid’s death.
The dramatic uproar wherever I went was obnoxious.
I’d always been respected in the streets of Hell, but there was a new reaction whenever I left the palace for the cobbled streets. Whether fear or disapproval, the whispers of demons on the streets confirmed a certainty: no one doubted why the royal lineage was passing to me.
I’d carried the power of a god-killer for a millennia. Before our battle in the mountains, the strength that came with my crown simmered within me, untested.
Hell greeted me with renewed reverence.
Topside, I had to learn to internalize my irritation. It would serve neither me, nor my Love, if I met every deity for the rest of her cycles with hostility. But the change in their behavior…Did treaties mean nothing? I was annoyed by their shock, given the lengths to which I’d gone to follow our agreements, which both hardened and emboldened me.
As an unforeseen consequence of new reputations: I was met with caution, inhospitality, or outright hostility in new territories.
When a godtrulysmites a fellow immortal, there is no three-day stone that rolls away from the tomb. They aren’t reborn as a phoenix. They wouldn’t return as a tree. No one awaited their invasion of another body, their burst from the bottom of a lake, their appearance in a dream, or any of the etched texts of slain deities who returned with powerful theatrics.
The luxury of poetic reemergence that granted the epic ebb and flow of gods and goddesses came to an end.
My act of grace—a god-killing entity killing without a god-killing weapon—seemed to have been lost as word spread. I might as well have finished him once and for all.
As it stood, my presence couldn’t be risked.
I tolerated regional animosity during Love’s Christian cycles, particularly in the years following the world and its theological tilt in the centuries following Jarovid’s death.
Whether or not I was allowed to be with her, our agreements remained:
