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“Do you truly believe in that? Fate?”
“I don’t believe in it,” he says flatly, “I know it. Everything is predetermined by the Heavens. Our lives are little but leaves flowing downstream, at the mercy of the currents.”
“Perhaps the Heavens can be wrong sometimes.” I do not mean to say it out loud—I do not mean to even think it—and I tense, half expecting a giant bolt of lightning to crash down from above, or a vortex to open up right in front of us, the same one that had swallowed my mother and father. I should know better than anyone about the way of Heaven, the sanctity of the stars, the rules of redemption and punishment. But no lightning comes.
“You think too highly of yourself, if you believe that you can temper with fate,” the Death God tells me, his tone not unkind. “You overexaggerate your significance.”
“If I were to push you now,” I say casually, “would that be the doing of fate, or my own doing?”
“That would be foolish,” he says, “as you would fail.”
My brows rise. “You’re not answering my question.”
“I’ve answered quite enough of your questions already. I’d save my breath if I were you; it’s not like you have many left—” Suddenly, he stops mid-step and points at something in the snow. “Wait. Is that it?”
I crouch for a closer look, parting the frost with my fingers. And so it is. The lone flower quivers in the wind, its petals azure at the edges and darkening around the core, its leaves slender and sharp like little crescents. It emits a lovely bluish glow, brighter than the surrounding snow. I count three inches above the stem before snapping it neatly in half. With my other hand, I retrieve the pouch I’d prepared and fold the plant inside it, careful not to shake or crush anything.
When I’m done, I hold the flower out to the Death God, my nails still dark and damp with dirt, my face flushed from the cold. I can see the fog of my breath hanging between us when I speak. “Here.”
He stares at the heartfrost flower but makes no move to take it from me. In fact, he steps backward, as though concerned the dirt might smear onto his robes. “You hold on to it.”
I blink. “But don’t you—”
“You hold it,” he says with enough force that I cannot ask again.
I clamp my jaw shut. I had hoped to leave him with the cure so that even if I manage to escape, he shall not be left with nothing. But since he will not have my kindness, I will not bother forcing it upon him.
As he walks forward, his eyes ahead, I remain standing in one spot. My muscles tense, my heart drumming faster and faster until the sound of it seems to be coming from right beside my ear. This is it. My chance to escape. I must time it well, act without hesitation.
Just a little more distance.
I swallow, or try to; my mouth is uncomfortably dry. The Death God has not detected anything yet.
A little more.
My fingers flex by my sides.
Now.
I thrust my palm forward, taking aim at the spot just below his feet. My power surges out in a great, rushing current, the force of it blowing my hair back from my face. There’s a deafening boom, like the first clap of thunder. The ground rumbles. Snow flies everywhere.
I do not have time to see the Death God’s reaction. To wonder how close behind he is. I am already turning fast on my heel, willing a rip to open in the air, imagining myself cutting through time and space and landing safely back in the Celestial Realm. I close my eyes and concentrate. I can almost taste the salt lick of the sea, smell the honeyed fragrance of orchids and jasmines. I can so easily imagine the sun on my cheeks, the gasping relief of the escape—
But then the violent cold pours in again, slapping me awake from the vision. A firm, freezing hand wraps around my arm.
A velvet voice in my ear. “It won’t work.” And it must be the blood rushing through me, the frustration rising to a scream inside my throat, because for a split second my senses are distorted and the voice sounds nearly sad. Remorseful.
Except the god standing before me is not sad at all, but etched out of ice and stone, like the mountains looming in the background. Dark, unfeeling eyes. Straight, even brows. What every mortal and immortal alike looks upon before their heart stutters out its final beat.
I lift my other arm to swipe at him, to channel my power, but he moves faster, locking his fingers around my wrist in an eagle grip. Then, in the same breath, he pushes me back. It is not a violent shove, but the weights of our bodies are so precariously balanced that it sends us both crashing to the ground. The snow crunches under my head, the icy shock spreading from the nape of my neck to my toes. Desperate, I try to rise, but he pins me down on both sides with his knees. His robes are so long they trail over my sleeves and my skirt, black fabric covering blue. His face hovers inches over mine. Divine. Deadly. He releases my left arm briefly only to move his own.
A sword materializes in his grip, encircled by wisps of shadow, as if it were forged from the night itself. The same sword he had raised at me yesterday.
My heart stops.
Panic closes in around me like a drawn sachet, the strings yanking tighter and tighter, suffocating me within it.
“This was a terrible idea,” he murmurs. He looks disturbingly, disgustingly unfazed; he shows no sign of exertion save the faster rise and fall of his chest. “I said no tricks, remember? I should take your life right now.”
