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“Okay,” I whisper, and I let myself sink into his arms. I can feel each beat of his heart, each strained inhale and exhale, each rise and fall of his chest. Never again, a voice whispers in the back of my head. Never again will it be like this, and the knowledge almost strangles me. My throat is achingly tight with everything I feel; my remorse and terror and anger and deep, soul-splitting grief. My fists refuse to unfurl, and I’m sure that if I were to hold on to him as hard I wanted, I would leave behind indentations in his skin where my nails have been. Keran. I’m sorry. In the corner of my vision, through the sheen of tears, I see the glowing veins of lightning form under the clouds, ready to lash down once more.

There’s no time left.

“Watch out,” I say sharply, pointing at an invisible enemy. “Behind you.”

He twists around, his sword already materializing in his grip and piercing through the air—right as I step out in front of him.

White-hot pain explodes in my chest. I had known what would happen—I had planned this. But still I look down, gasping. The sword is already wedged in, my blood flowing freely from me, shining like wet ink, turning my blue robes crimson. Blood fills my mouth too. It tastes like the sea.

Keran’s eyes widen, the look on his face terrible. There is pure shock at first, then awful, wretched understanding. His lips tremble; strands of hair stick to the sharp planes of his face. His gaze is wild and dark and haunted, and somehow it hurts me more than the cut of the blade. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “No. No, Rujia—” He chokes on my name. He attempts to pull the sword free, but I won’t let him. My fingers are around the hilt now, forcing the blade past my rib cage, out through my spine.

“It’s okay,” I try to tell him, my balance failing. “I wish . . . it didn’t have to be like this. But there was no other way. It wouldn’t be fair . . . for the mortals. They shouldn’t be the ones paying the price.”

He lays me down gently, supporting my neck with his hand.

“I’d rather they all die than you,” he says, his voice strangled. Something wet splashes onto my cheek from above. The tears of death. There are legends that say one tear from the Death God is enough to destroy an entire dynasty; others that say one tear is worth more than a mountain of gold, simply for how rare it is. In all of them, no matter who attempted to hunt down Death, nobody ever saw him cry. “I would trade every other soul in an instant.”

“Keran,” I whisper, reaching up with trembling fingers. My hand feels impossibly heavy, the distance between us too immense to cross. I have so much I want to say to him still. So much I want to do. But for now, all that matters is this: “Can you promise me something?”

“Of course,” he says hoarsely. “Anything.”

“Carry my soul,” I whisper. “Let me become a mortal in the next life.” My final act of defiance. My last wish as a god.

He swallows. “All right. I promise.”

I have dreaded this moment, and feared it, but as I close my eyes, I realize that death does not kill you—life does. Life, with all that it offers and threatens to rip away, its sweetness and bitterness, its soft turns and sharp edges. Quick, cunning, cruel, beautiful, unpredictable. Death is what comes after, waiting to catch you when you inevitably fall from life’s favor. The arms that carry you gently back to bed when the banquet is over, that pull the blanket up to your chest, that smooth the hair from your forehead to let you rest.

The Death God’s touch is so wonderfully tender on my cheek that I forget the pain.

I breathe out and let him take me away.

Part

Three

The Death God

Is Doing Just Fine

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Death God carries her soul home.

Light has split through the sky, the remnants of the storm fading away as if nothing had ever happened. Down below, the mortals have come out to celebrate. The gods have left their hiding spots to bathe in the glitter of the sun, the open air, the serene seas. He wants to kill them all.

He does not say a word as the twin dragons on the doors slither free and slide open, revealing the dark, spiraling descent into the underworld. His throat is still bleeding from when he had screamed her name, again and again and again, to no response. But without her, who does he have to talk to anyway? So he walks on, silent, her soul in his hands, a single orb of blue light, no bigger than a just-budded peony.

Normally, he would stop at the shores of the Yellow Springs. But he knows what happens from here. The souls of gods are so heavy that they tend to sink straight into the depths, never to resurface again, never to be reincarnated in the next cycle. He refuses to let that happen to her. He refuses to let go.

So for the second time in his eternal life, he unties his cloak and steps into the pitch-black water. There’s an awful hissing sound, and bright, lancing pain sears through every inch of skin, as if he’s walked straight into an ocean of knives.

All the souls immediately swarm around him, screaming into his ears. If the living hate him, then the dead only hate him more.

Betrayed me . . .

I lost him . . .

It hurts . . .