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He shakes his head.

“No. Tell me,” I insist. “Whatever it is, it’s fine. We’ll work it out.”

“It’s . . . quite ridiculous,” he says, but he lifts the basket he’s holding. Inside it lies a pile of rotten herbs, the leaves leached of color and curling inward, darkened by his magic. “I only wanted to help,” he says quietly. His voice is mild, matter-of-fact, but his knuckles are so tight around the basket I can see the white outline of bone. It’s all there, now that I know where to look: his frustration, his shame, his self-loathing. “You’ve been doing so much, and I hoped to be of use to you. I thought if I could be careful enough . . . if I could avoid touching the leaves . . .”

A hot, prickling sensation in the back of my nose. I swallow. “That’s all right. I have enough herbs as it is.”

He says nothing.

“Here,” I say gently, my fingers folding around his until he loosens his grip, allowing me to take the basket and set it down on the ground. “I don’t need any more of these herbs, really.”

“Then . . .” He scans the camp, his gaze roaming over the endless lines of the sickly, the buckets of tainted water, the makeshift beds set out in the dying sun, the mortals lying there, gray-faced, in pain, the vats of half-brewed medicine I haven’t had the chance to scoop out yet. Everything looks exactly how it feels: like the end of times. “I can . . . I will help you prepare the bandages,” he decides.

“You don’t have to. You should rest,” I try to tell him, but I know he’s too stubborn to listen. I watch him as he makes his way over to the dirty buckets, rolling up his sleeves, his lovely features tight with determination. For the rest of the day, he works without any breaks, without slowing to even wipe the sweat from his brow. If the Heavens had a sense of humor, surely they would appreciate the irony of it: the Death God, transformed into the healer’s assistant.

When night finally falls, he follows me back into the cottage, blowing out the candles and settling into the sheets beside me, his movements heavy with exhaustion. In the darkness, I let the question form on my lips, the question that’s been gnawing at me for days:

“Do you think . . . it’s too difficult for you?”

The blankets rustle as he turns on his side. “What do you mean?”

“This.” I motion between us. “Fighting the universe just to be with me. Do you really want to continue—”

“Of course I do,” he says at once.

But how long can we keep doing this? How many disasters can we survive until there’s nothing left to survive for? How far can we flee from fate until we run out of places to hide? A drawn-out apocalypse is still an apocalypse, is it not?

“I can hear you worrying,” he says.

“I wasn’t even talking.”

“But I know you.” He pulls me closer to him under the blankets, and all my fears go quiet, if only for a few seconds. “You’re not forcing me to do this, do you understand? I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you because I want to. And yes, it might be hard, but it’s bearable. Losing you—” He sucks in a breath. “That would be beyond anything I could bear.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, too grateful to speak.

“Try to get some sleep.”

“I will,” I whisper.

But I lie wide-awake until morning, when the first light pierces through the room. I rise before Keran does, brushing out the knots in my hair, tugging on my boots, fastening the sash around my robes. I am about to fetch water for the day when I hear a strange hissing sound from outside. Frowning, I push open the windows, turning my eyes to the horizon—and my heart stops.

The mountains are moving.

That’s how it appears: a dark blue smudge looming in the distance and drawing ever closer. But there are usually no visible mountains east of the city. And there are strange lights flecked across the blue, as if the surface is rippling, expanding.

No, not mountains at all. A giant wave of water, reaching its full height and drawing back like a dragon before it strikes. So tall that within the space of an inhale, it blankets the whole city in shadow. It is as though the sea has erased the sky. Where it had been quiet before, it is deathly silent now. All the birds stop chirping, the dogs cease their barking from the gates, the butterflies fold their wings and freeze. Even the grass goes still, the long emerald hair of the willows falling limp. The world seems to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable, while the wave rises and rises, drowning out the sun . . .

And then the sea comes crashing down.

I wonder how it must look from the Heavens.

The sea flooding fast through every street, turning over every corner, toppling houses in seconds like they’re made of sticks and pebbles. And the Death God racing outside when the second wave comes, heels digging into the ground and lifting his hands. A single figure, clothed in black, holding back a tide a hundred times taller than he is, like the earliest deities who held up the sky.

And the other god who screams at him to leave.

It won’t work. You can’t stop it. Keran, please.

His answer, so quiet it is almost buried beneath the violence of the crashing waters around them. I told you, I will change fate for you.