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“Even without my full power, I have no trouble moving entire cities with a wave of my hand,” he says icily. “I remain one of the most formidable beings to have ever graced the Three Realms. I could defeat any minor god merely by looking their way—”

“And while that is all incredible,” I say, with as much sincerity as I can summon, “wouldn’t it be even more incredible if you were restored to your former glory?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I can heal you,” I tell him. I force myself not to stare down at the sword still clutched in his hand. To hold my ground. “I can help make the pain go away.”

Another change—the barest flicker of emotion, though he instantly snuffs it out. His tone drips with disdain. “Nobody can.”

“How can you be sure? I’m known for my healing powers. I have helped countless gods cure all sorts of ailments and curses. I’ve concocted entirely original remedies that can alleviate one’s pain within the time it takes to burn a stick of incense. I’ve worked with the Celestial Emperor himself, and even he was impressed.”

I am grossly exaggerating now. By worked with, I mean that I had once been consulted on how to make the Celestial Emperor’s tea taste sweeter without losing any of its spirit-rejuvenating properties. By impressed, I mean that he had not called for my immediate demotion after taking my advice. Still, I am not lying. And at the end of the day, my concerns lie not with finding a true cure for the Death God. I merely need more time, more opportunities to escape him for good.

“At least let me try,” I insist. “You will lose nothing. If it works, then you will be freed from your pain. And if it doesn’t, you can simply kill me at a later date.”

He weighs the sword in his hand. “You expect me to trust you?”

“Trust is for people on equal footing,” I say. “I am at a clear disadvantage here. You have brought me out here to the Night Realm, to your palace. I have no way of calling for help. I am weak and weaponless and you may choose to take my life whenever you wish.”

Trust is for fools. But the trick to fooling anyone is to make them lower their guard first. As he considers my words, assessing me with his black, unsettling gaze, I think about all the people who have remarked that I have a kind face. Guileless. Sweet, even when I am not smiling. I have never been more grateful for such deceptive softness.

“All I need is a month’s time to perfect a cure and rid you of your pain,” I go on, treading lightly, as a thief would around a napping beast. “Just one month—we both know that is nothing.”

“One month,” he repeats. “That’s really all you require?”

“Yes.”

If I flee before the month is over, I will still be able to make it to the banquet. I can still have everything I want: my title, my redemption, my coveted future. When the moon moves on to its next cycle, I will be walking through the grand halls of the palace in gold, attendants fluttering after me, gazes following my steps, and Death will be a long-forgotten thing, a shadow in some dusty corner. Yes, I repeat to myself. Yes, that is how it will be.

“You said it yourself,” I remind the Death God. “Nobody can escape you.”

I will simply be the first to.

He is silent.

I try to squash my fear, to shove it away into a sealed box at the back of my mind, to hide my trembling fingers in the wide folds of my sleeves. My blood roars into a crescendo in my ears as the silence stretches on and on. As he stares at me, unblinking. I seldom have trouble reading expressions—people are rarely as mysterious as they think themselves to be—yet either he has mastered the art of concealing all feeling, or, worse, he truly feels no emotion at all.

Meanwhile, the snow continues falling in a mad flurry, casting pale gray shadows over the floors. I do not even dare swallow too loudly, lest the smallest sound or movement change his mind.

Then the Death God flexes his fingers, and the sword vanishes, leaving only empty space between us.

My relief is so immense I could choke.

“If you disappoint me,” he begins, “I will—”

“Kill me,” I finish for him, my voice stronger and infinitely more solid than I feel. “You have made that quite clear.”

He fixes me with a look of contempt. “I hope you do not confuse this for mercy.”

“Mercy? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “You will start working on the cure. No later.”

“Of course.”

He turns around, and for a second I wonder if I am simply to be left here, in this vast, deserted hall, with only the cold and the darkness for company. But soon he murmurs something under his breath, a command, perhaps, and a girl pops up in the space next to me.

I almost jump, my gasp curdling into a curse on my tongue. Even though gods do not need to bother with walking, it is still considered rude to appear and disappear at will without warning. Of course, I would not expect the Death God or anyone working for him to care.