“Why do you think you need a sword?” Tyril asked when Millik returned from his shopping trip.

  “It would be unwise to gather all of the reapers together and be unarmed,” Millik said, admiring the freshly hand-crafted sword glistening on his hip. He had always used a hard-water sword when he was a reaper, so the added weight was slightly uncomfortable, but it was nice having a weapon again. Especially when that weapon was made by one of the finest Pokian weaponsmiths around. The old merfolk was bulky in his age, and he delighted in making a sword fit for a reaper, even if he was just a former reaper. With Millik’s reputation, the swordsmith was surprisingly cooperative, and finished the weapon in a matter of hours, his magic specializing in the craft. The blade was adorned with a few studded gems near the hilt, and the handle was intricately crafted with hand-carved wood wrapped in leather. When he drew it, it gleamed with the sun’s light, even up on the ridge.

  “It’s a peace meeting,” Tyril said, not attempting to be subtle.

  “The Gods don’t get along,” Millik said, “It’s unlikely their reapers will, either.”

  “But that’s the whole point,” Tyril protested. “We will get along.”

  “You’ll be riding a different wave once you meet them,” Millik retorted.

  “Some trust could go a long way, here.”

  Millik scoffed, “It’s not like they deserve it.” He waved Tyril to start walking. The Lavarus estate was in Lonist territory, so they would have to start heading there soon. “I’ll play along, but know I won’t hesitate to fight if one of them steps out of line.”

  Tyril sighed. He fell in place behind Millik naturally, even though he outranked the ex-reaper. Millik didn’t complain, though; he liked feeling important again. Maybe if he performed well at this meeting, Pok would reward him once more. He couldn’t dream much, but even just a good word would make his day.

  The old artisan’s hut was pretty worn down, but that just meant they were good at their job. The door creaked as Ameri went in and the artificial light inside hit her eyes.

  “Reaper Ameri!” Allimer said as he embraced her in a grand hug before she could even see him properly. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and the large old man lifting her up came into view.

  “Dad,” Ameri struggled in his tight grip, though she was laughing. “Put me down. And you don’t have to call me that.”

  “Of course I don’t!” Allimer chuckled with his full body. “But I couldn’t be more proud of my daughter! You deserve to be called by your title.”

  “Thanks,” Ameri turned her eyes down.

  “So,” Allimer sat back down in his chair. “To what do I owe the company?”

  “You know why,” Ameri scolded. The old man’s cheers were definitely contagious, but she was here for business, not a family reunion.

  “Ah, of course,” he laughed, “you couldn’t let me think you actually wanted to see me?” He didn’t mean anything by it, and Ameri took nothing out of it. He rolled his chair to the other end of the small shack and pulled out a small prototype, alongside its blueprints. Her dad just might be one of the best inventors of the Sor, but he sure did keep a cluttered workstation. He brushed a few smaller projects onto the floor, each one falling with a clank.

  “Why are you here to see it?” He asked with a little more seriousness than before. “Normally I’d report to Sor directly. What’s the special occasion?”

  “I, unfortunately, need to be well-versed in what our plan is for this war. There’s a peace meeting between the reapers tonight, and I shouldn’t make any deals while still ignorant.”

  “But you love ignorance,” her dad teased accurately. “It’s easier to kill someone when you don’t know anything about them.”

  Maybe to you. Ameri never had that kind of problem. Killing was her job, and she was good at it– actually, she rather enjoyed it.

  “So what is it?” She asked him. The device on the table looked almost nothing like the blueprints beside it, but that’s just how her dad worked.

  “A weapon,” he said with gravitas.

  “I know that,” Ameri said, “What kind of weapon?”

  “Once infused with Sor’s power,” Allimer maintained the suspense, a smile creeping across his face, “It could level an undead army in seconds.”

  “Sor’s power?” Ameri did not know that part of the plan. She put her hand on her broach. Having Sor’s magic flowing within her was a part of what made her Sor’s reaper. Infusing that power into more weapons could be dangerous, especially if it fell into the wrong hands. Power should be given to the person, not the tool.

  “Yes,” Allimer said, his grin showing crooked teeth, “It will be beautifully devastating.”

  Lonist territory was always strikingly beautiful. The God of Harvests’s people were of course known for their gardening skills, and they were proud to show it off. Lush topiaries lined each street and building, and each of those were splattered in flowers of all colors complimenting the greens of the bushes and the people’s robes. The street felt very cramped, with the overhanging balconies not helping the already narrow road pushed in by the bushes and gardens on either side. And the people: Lonists: human, rhox, and elf, all clustered in the streets, sharing in their appreciation of everybody’s individual gardening adventures.

  The two Pokians in their blue robes stood out. Foreigners were always out of place anywhere on Bitrect, as each God’s territory was only home to their believers. There was rarely a reason to ever leave home, but now was such a rare occasion.

  What else was no surprise was that the peace meeting was being held in a Lonist estate. They were infamous for how much they valued the absolution of conflict.

  Millik and Tyril were headed towards the mansion at the top of the hill below the Temple, weaving through the streets’ civilians throughout the entire area. Millik looked up at the Temple as they climbed to the estate, thinking about how it sat a distance above its people, whereas Pok’s was directly on the sea.

  The mansion’s door was made of fresh wood, not necessarily young, but undamaged and maintained with care. Before Millik could knock, the house’s servant opened it to allow their entry.

  “Sir Tyril,” he said to the reaper as they entered, “You brought a guest.” He hadn’t meant it as a question or a judgement, rather an observation. Millik always hated that aspect of Lonist culture: they were slow to assess, and slower to opinionate. The God of Patience drew that out of his followers, too.

  “Pok wished him to join us,” Tyril said as sternly and with as much dignity as he could muster. Millik was proud; the young reaper was already establishing his power.

  “Very well,” the servant said. He gestured further within the mansion, “follow me.”

  The house looked large from the outside, but inside it was even more expansive. The front foyer opened to a large central floor with a balcony above, running all the way around it, and stairs on either side. As he was approaching from the front, Millik noticed the large windows on the frontside, assessing them as an easy escape option if it ever came to that. There were numerous doors on each floor, each leading to some surely-necessary room of the house. The servant led them up the stairs and to a door on the right. Inside was a large, round table, and seated at it were a rhox dressed in a green robe, a woman wearing a white robe, and the same red-robed woman who was in Pokian territory yesterday who was lounging in her seat, unattentive. All three of them had a round, golden accessory at their shoulder, each with an engraved copy of their respective God. So much power sitting in one room, it was almost enough to stop Millik from entering entirely. There was one other non-reaper in the room: a plump, not old man in green robes at the head of the table.

  “Ah!” He said, “Reaper Tyril, how glad you could join us! And ex-Reaper Millik, too!” He got out of his seat and walked over to the two of them and shook both of their hands excessively. “My name is Horval, and I’m oh so glad that you could use my manor for such an important meeting!”

  “Mr. Lavarus, are you going to partake?” Tyril asked him naively.

  “Of course not,” he laughed, “This is a business for Reapers. I have no purpose here. Enjoy.” He smiled as he left, with the servant following close behind. Millik was slow to sit because of what he said.

  “Hello,” Tyril said to the other three reapers as he sat down. “My name is Tyril, and I am the new Pokian reaper.”

  “It’s just like one of Pok’s to show up late,” the white-robed reaper, Fahva, scoffed. She flicked her hair, which was golden and silky; it would float in the wind if they were outside. Millik had worked with and against her a few times, so he was familiar with her unnecessary jabs, and just how strong she was.

  “Millik?” Tyril prompted him, “care for introductions?”

  “Right.” That was why he was here, anyways. “The Bower reaper is Fahva. She’s got quite the attitude for all the virtue they spit. In the red is Ameri, Sor’s puppet.” She sat up very loudly at this remark. “I can’t say I’m familiar with you, though,” he said to the rhino person in Lon’s colors.

  “No,” they said, not cheerful nor malign, simply truth-telling, “My name is Golny. I’ve been Lon’s reaper for years, although it’s not really a job he needs. In truth, I’m a farmer before anything else. It is nice to meet you all.”

  “Likewise,” Tyril said to him. “So, do we know when the Votin reaper will arrive?”

  All three reapers and Millik burst into a little bit of laughter.

  “Tyril,” Millik put a hand on his shoulder, the young reaper’s face turning red, “The God of Death doesn’t need a reaper.”

  “Oh?” Tyril said, “It’s wrong for a God to do this work themselves.”

  “Well, she doesn’t,” Fahva said, piercing Tyril with her eyes. “She doesn’t kill anyone. All Vot has to do is wait. Death comes for everyone eventually.” This last statement left the room in a rather fugue silence.

  “So then what’s the point of a peace meeting?” Ameri broke the silence. “People live. People die. Peace is just as pointless as war. In the end, Vot’s the winner, and she isn’t even here.”

  “You’d want any excuse to kill someone, wouldn’t you?” Fahva accused.

  “No,” Ameri half-shouted, “I don’t want to kill anyone! I kill because I have to. It’s just a bonus that I get to enjoy the process.”

  “But peace takes away any possibility, doesn’t it?” Fahva dug further, “So, I don’t think we’re getting any conclusion that can satisfy everyone.”

  “We can agree to peace all we want,” Millik interjected. “A word can be broken very easily. If we want peace, we need to entrench it in our cultures.”

  “You have no right to talk. Actions break just as easily as words; you’re proof enough of that.” Fahva mouthed the last word: ‘deserter.’

  “Did you have something in mind?” Golny said to Millik.

  “An exchange–” Millik said, interlaced as Fahva shouted, “He’s not a reaper anymore! He doesn’t get a say in this. He’s not Pok’s voice right now.”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “Maybe not,” Tyril stood up, “But I trust him.”

  “You’re wrong for that,” Fahva muttered, leaning back.

  “Let’s hear what he has to say,” Golny said to her. “Then we can decide.”

  Millik took a deep breath. What was he going to say? In this short moment to breathe, his brain finally had time to catch up on what all had happened during this conversation. He did have an idea, but Fahva was right, too. He wasn’t Pok’s voice. They were here to make the choice that best fit the choice Pok would want. That’s the duty of all reapers, so Millik had to take it seriously. He couldn’t spout what he thought was best, because he would be wrong. He tried to think long and hard, but at his core he knew what Pok would want in this situation. There was no avoiding it, like an eel wrapping around the back of his mind.

  “Tyril,” he said, standing up to his side and placing his hand on his shoulder again. “Let’s go.” He ushered Tyril to turn around and exit the room, moving his hand to Tyril’s back, pushing him along. He wasn’t forceful, and Tyril didn’t resist, but Millik could still feel the tension within all of Tyril.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Fahva called after them.

  Millik opened the door and pushed Tyril to leave, only looking back at the three reapers to make one final statement.

  “Pok doesn’t–”

  A spark of light ignited from underneath the table. A loud roar echoed throughout the room as it was engulfed in flames. Millik barely had a second to react, and, in that moment, instinct took over.

  With a small popping sound, Millik found himself and Tyril were now back at the small pond on the ridge, staring out, away from the city.

  No.

  Millik fell to his hands and knees, the splintering wood of the dock pressing into his palms. He would only realize this afterwards, but he was hyperventilating.

  I didn’t.

  He promised himself that he would never use his magic again– It was his biggest mistake– It cost him his life as a reaper– It cost him Pok. The God had given him as much of a pardon as he could muster, but Millik never forgave himself. Of course he couldn’t.

  “What just happened?” Tyril asked, obviously stunned and confused.

  Millik punched the pier below him. The wood was soft and old, so it splintered easily. The water below splashed onto his hand, too cold to be enjoyable. He groaned before he stood up, slumping beside Tyril. He took a few deep breaths to collect himself a little more. He met Tyril’s gaze, feeling all of his shame seeping out, but also taking in all of Tyril’s fear. A few more breaths and he stood up strong once again.

  Recentering his balance: “Somebody blew up the peace meeting.”

  Ameri couldn’t cough any more. Her hands blistered in the heat of the explosion, and the roof of the meeting room had collapsed on top of her, and possibly the other reapers as well. Her hands were bleeding, staining her already red robes. If her head wasn’t spinning, and she wasn’t in so much pain elsewhere, she would be admiring just how beautiful her own blood was. With her injuries, it was difficult to push the debris off of herself. When she did, she gasped when she saw the state of the room. Sitting up, she shook the shock out of her, slapping her face to wake herself up, and getting dirt-filled blood covering her face. She looked down to see that it wasn’t just her hands that were bleeding. Most all of her was, and everything else was covered in a layer of dirt and ash.

  The meeting table had been completely destroyed in the explosion, and the empty chairs were flung to the edges of the room, only broken in whichever way they shattered. The walls had been hit too, although specific damage was impossible to place under the debris from the roof caving in. The sunlight falling into the now-open room was infuriatingly bright.

  “Oh my!” A voice came from the room’s door, which had also been blown off of its hinges. Ameri turned to see the owner of the mansion (whatever his name was) standing there, completely mortified. His eyes met hers, and he shuffled through the destruction to her side. “You are not okay. We can get you a doctor.” …a doctor would be nice. He waved to his servant before turning to her again. “Where are the others?”

  “Down here!” The sharp voice no doubt came from the white-clad Bower reaper, who had also been buried just as Ameri had, although she had yet to free herself.

  “I am okay,” Golny said, the plaster and wood sliding off his large form as he sat up, unharmed. Of course the rhox wouldn’t be hurt from just an explosion. Their tough skin was bound to ward such pitiful attacks. I wish I had that kind of armor… Was her head spinning?

  “What about the two Pokians?” the house’s owner asked, worried.

  “They were at the door,” Golny said helpfully.

  “That bastard probably teleported away, like he always does.” Fahva shouted from below the rubble again. “I hate this. Can someone help me out?”

  “It seems like there’s been quite the trouble.” Olgernoth’s voice carried across the ridge into Millik’s head as he ran through the high-level streets, Tyril close behind. Millik’s thoughts were sloshing around in his head, he couldn’t form a coherent response. “I’ll be here if you need me,” Olgernoth said helpfully before dissipating into the tumultuous waves in his head.

  “What do you mean you can teleport?” Tyril asked.

  “It means what it means,” Millik called backwards. He pushed through a small group of citizens, each of which gasped and glared at him, to get closer to his destination. “We need to tell Pok what happened.” He didn’t think about what he just said, and he wouldn’t for quite some time.

  “Why don’t you just teleport there?” Again, Tyril’s questions were frustratingly naive. He stopped abruptly as Millik turned around and came close to his face.

  “Listen to me.” He could feel the anger in his eyes. “I don’t use my magic. Not anymore.”

  Tyril grabbed his shoulder, holding him from turning back around. “You’re not making sense. If it’s your magic, why shouldn’t you use it? I’m grateful for it, because it just got us out of that.”

  “That was a mistake!” The people around them turned to watch, and Tyril’s shoulders tensed just a little bit, but he couldn’t stop Millik, not now: “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t have. That blast wouldn’t have killed us– it probably hardly hurt those three anyways. All this means is that I broke my promise. That cannot be undone. Tyril, listen to me, I made a mistake before, and it cost me everything. Do you know what that mistake was? Most do! It’s not a secret! When Danger came to Bitrect, I joined with Fahva to stop it. We would have lost if Bow himself didn’t step in. But before that happened, I ran away. I used my magic, my oh-so-sweet teleportation, and I ran, leaving her and Bow to fight that monster alone, and bringing shame to Pok’s name. I promised that I would never do that again. I climb those stairs at that temple every day to show my resolve and to prove that I reject my own power. Look at where that got me, huh? The outcast ex-reaper who can’t do anything to save anyone anymore–”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  “...What?”

  “Save people. That’s not our job, is it?”

  Millik let his jaw hang.

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t,” Olgernoth said in his mind. Even just in thoughts, the old merfolk’s wisdom was audible. “You’re not a reaper, so you also don’t have to follow their rules anymore. You may have betrayed Pok, but you live to see plenty more days. You don’t have to live for him anymore. Now, you can do what you want to do.”

  “...I will.” Millik responded to both of them, yet realistically his answer wasn’t appropriate for either conversation.

  Tyril sighed. “We need to report this to Pok. Are you coming?”

  “Of course.”

  …

  There was a storm growing far out above the sea. With each surge of light flashing on the horizon, Millik’s blood roiled like the waves, and he raced down the steps. Tyril was close behind him, descending the stairs with more timidity. They ran through the temple grounds, which were just as vacant as they always were. The pathway had been recently swept, and the new fruit trees still had a fine layer of mist swirling around them; presumably they were just watered, but the groundskeeper was nowhere to be seen, unsurprisingly. The sun still shone brightly onto Millik as he knocked hurriedly on the temple’s door, rasping violently.

  “Millik,” Atrode opened the door, surprised to see his old friend once more, and in such a panic, “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to see Pok.”

  “What happened to the peace meeting?”

  “It got attacked,” Millik said, “We need to see Pok.” Millik didn’t wait for the shrinekeeper as he pushed forward to the inner sanctum’s doors. Tyril was close behind him, assuring Atrode that Millik was okay to be here– at least, he would be, if he had knocked before opening the inner sanctum. The doors heaved open, and, to Tyril and Atrode’s objections, Millik forced his way into Pok’s throne room.

  “Millik,” The God said his name with such alien resignation, “You fail me once more.”

  “Pok,” Millik fell to his knees at the feet of the towering figure, “I did not mean to escape.” The Gods work in ways that Millik can’t put words to. Of course he already knew about the peace meeting’s explosion, and of Millik’s reaction.

  “You understand me wrong,” Pok said, voice booming, “I have no problems with you saving your life and my reaper’s. You lose yourself within this cacophony, mistaking your place. That is your failure to me.” He instructed the new reaper, “Tyril, there is an old merfolk on the ridge named Olgernoth. He has similarly forsaken me. Please, find him and kill him for me. We can discuss the peace meeting later.”

  “No!” Millik called, turning back to Tyril, still standing in the doorway with Atrode respectfully behind him. He couldn’t find any other words. Tyril looked to Millik, then to Pok, and then back again. Millik couldn’t see anything through his eyes, but it was clear what he was deciding between.

  “Go, Tyril,” Pok commanded again, drawing his attention back.

  “Okay,” Tyril nodded and left, not without another look sent to Millik. Millik couldn’t help the groan that flowed through him.

  “Millik,” Pok said as he waved to Atrode to close the door, which heaved into place, shutting Millik in with the God. Millik had never felt so vulnerable before. Pok leaned down in his throne, throwing his face right in Millik’s, and, for the first time in a long time, Millik remembered that there were emotions behind Pok’s eyes. “You forsake me for yourself,” he reprimanded. “You have always been loyal, and, because of my favor, I will give you one chance to explain your actions.”

  “What actions?” Millik reacted verbally violently, his anger nearly overtaking him, “I haven’t done anything against you. I acted as your voice in the meeting, just as Tyril wished me to. When the meeting was attacked, I was first to think to report to you. Yes, it was a mistake to teleport away, one which I will never forgive myself for, but–”

  “There is your problem,” Pok said, “you wish for forgiveness from yourself, not from me. Gods are to be worshipped, and forgiveness should be sought from them. To think yourself more important is blasphemous.”

  “I- I would never,” Millik didn’t know what else to say. What Pok said about him couldn’t be right. But Pok couldn’t be wrong, either.

  “For this,” Pok said, “I will not punish you, but instead the vagrant who put such thoughts in your head. It is unfortunate to waste such a powerful telepath, but his age was wearing on him, no?”

  “Pok,” Millik said, standing with his head held high for a reason unbeknownst to himself, “That is unjust. He did nothing wrong.”

  “Oh well,” Pok said, leaning back, “You have done worse for less, Millik. And besides, Tyril has nearly finished the job. There is no point in caring now. You are free to go, but do not forget what has transpired today.”

  “How can you say something like that?” Millik had known his God for so long, and he had objectively known this care-less side of him, but he didn’t think it hurt so much when it would be turned against himself.

  “Millik,” Pok put on a lecturing tone, “I am the God of the Seas and of Inspiration. There is nothing more apathetic than the ocean. Churning waves take and give without heed. The tide is slow to act, but fast to take. Inspiration strikes just the same, truly arriving only when needed. Thus, I also embody both ideals. It is not my duty to worry, but I do what must be done. Now, leave, before I consider such stubbornness treachery.” The God reached out a large, blue, ethereal finger, and pushed open the door himself.

  Millik’s breathing was out of control. He barely stopped himself from slamming his fist into the door as he left, feeling his nails digging into his palms. His long braid trailed far behind him as he stormed back out of the temple. Climbing the stairs once more felt humiliating, but he did it, and he was running. He raced through the mid-level markets until he got to the top of the ridge.

  Behind him, the storm on the sea had reached its zenith. Lightning crashed down into tall, cresting waves. Each bolt sent booming, crackling thunder ringing throughout the land. It was melancholic to stand at the top, looking out at such a sight, but Millik couldn’t stay long.

  “Reaper,” The voice in his head was quiet, but he felt it echoing through his whole body.

  “Where are you?” Millik thought aloud, screaming out to the temple’s side of the ridge. If he turned around, he couldn’t bear the possibility of seeing what happened to the old merfolk.

  “It doesn’t matter.” There was a small sound, like a telepathic cough. “My story is over, but this is a turning point for you. People have always hated you, Millik. I did too. But Pok was always to blame, not you. You were simply the vessel, not the cause. Now, you must see it too, don’t you?”

  “Where are you?” Millik said again, “I might be able to help–”

  “No. This is my end. I do wish I could say more to you.” A pause. “Maybe there is a way that I could.”

  “What?”

  “Vot. I’ll be seeing her soon, won’t I?”

  “I get it. I’ll go talk to her. I’ll make sure she brings you back.”

  A pause. Olgernoth didn’t say anything.

  “There’s still a chance. There has to be.”

  The old merfolk didn’t say anything. Millik knew what that meant. He had taken so many lives, but so few had been taken from him. The old man wasn’t his friend– he was hardly even kind to Millik, but he could tolerate the ex-reaper when nobody else would. That meant something. But now it was gone.

  To Be Continued…