Tyril tossed a fencing sword towards his favorite shrinekeeper.

  “Atrode,” Tyril said, brandishing his own training sword, a metal one which he had grabbed off the wall of the nearby armory, “help me.”

  After sparring with Ameri, she told him he needed to work on his tactics more than his magic.

  Atrode held out his sword while wearing a solemn smile. It must have been years since the last time he had used a sword. His posture snapped into readiness, muscle memory taking over. He had been a warrior for a long time, but in his retirement his priorities were to serve Pok and the temple. Though it seemed he would enjoy training the new reaper as well.

  Millik wasn’t too fond of the Sor territory either. The biggest difference between them and everyone else was that the Sor people were too focused on whatever they were doing– training, sparring, he could see some cooking, the smell wafting out of their windows– too much so they didn’t stare at Millik. A blue-robed Pokian walking through the streets, and nobody even noticed that he was the most infamous Pokian ever. It was unnerving and upsetting.

  He snuck his way into the temple. Not that he was trying to be stealthy, but he passed by pretty much everyone with nothing more than a moment’s glance. People only looked for more than a second and only if he had to actively walk around them.

  At the doors, he knocked, just as he did with Bow, and just as he always had with Pok. His plan to obtain Sor’s power was one he wasn’t entirely certain about, but he did know a few more things than he was supposed to, all thanks to Olgernoth, and now he was going to use that to his advantage as much as he could.

  The keeper opened the door expectedly slowly.

  “What’s a Pokian doing here?” she half-shouted, rousing the attention of everyone who hadn’t cared to notice him before. She held her spear tightly, not necessarily pointing it at him, but definitely making him aware of it. “Go home. You’re not welcome here.”

  “I wish to talk to Sor,” Millik said.

  “If you want to convert, why would you come still wearing that bastard’s colors? Get lost.”

  “I have no interest in following Sor,” Millik explained, “But I need to talk to her.”

  “Not an option,” the shrinekeeper said, “She’s busy now anyways, so get out of here already.”

  “I apologize, but I can’t take no as an answer. I need to speak with her. I assure you it’s urgent.”

  “Listen, buddy,” she raised her voice a little. But between her words, the temple was silent, as everyone had dropped their focus to eavesdrop. “I said Sor’s busy. And I’ve got work to do, too, so I’ll say it again: get lost before I skewer you.”

  “There’s no need for threats,” Millik tried to calm her down, “Please just give me a moment with Sor. I need to speak with her. I promise it’s urgent.”

  “What is it you don’t get?!” She spun her spear around and put the point to his throat. The gasp of the entire audience was loud enough to rouse the Gods. One watcher shouted for her to finish him. Another followed suit, calling to make it pretty. If Sor hadn’t heard the gasp, the raucous that followed certainly reached her inner chamber.

  Sure enough, before the shrinekeeper could puncture Millik, one of the inner sanctum’s doors creaked open, and the red-robed reaper emerged from the shadows.

  She groaned a little. “What’s going on out here?” She asked the keeper before seeing who the spear was pointed at. “I know you,” she said to Millik. “You’re Pok’s old reaper, the one who ran from Danger. What do you want here?”

  The shrinekeeper still hadn’t lowered her weapon, and she didn’t seem like she would anytime soon.

  “I wish to speak with Sor,” Millik said, “It’s urgent.”

  “Very well,” Ameri said. She ushered the keeper to leave them. The blade pulled away from Millik’s neck and she stepped aside. “Whatever you wish, you may speak with me. Consider it an act of goodwill, not that you deserve it.”

  “No,” Millik said, “I need to speak with Sor, not you.”

  “Not happening,” Ameri said. “Whatever you need to say, say it already.”

  “Fine,” Millik said. “I wish to fight.”

  Ameri tilted her head slightly in response.

  “I know that you have been preparing for a war,” Millik said quietly. He wasn’t sure how much of what Olgernoth revealed was exactly public knowledge, so he was slightly gambling that the growing crowd would be enough to get him inside Sor’s inner sanctum. Olgernoth hadn’t said too much to him, either, which just meant that he had to use what he did know extremely well. “I wish to fight alongside you.”

  “Huh,” Ameri said as she thought, “I suppose I have no reason to stop you.”

  “May I speak with Sor now?” Millik prompted.

  “Why? I just gave you my blessing and her own, or have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

  “Ameri,” Millik said, “I’m afraid I won’t be much of a fighter without Pok’s magic. My own magic is not strong in combat, so I relied on him to fight before. But I still wish to fight, even though I am incapable myself. For that, I ask for a gift from Sor. With some of her magic, I may be able to fight alongside you all properly.”

  “Absolutely not!” Ameri said, “Sor’s magic is way too good for someone like you.”

  “Then imbue it in my weapon,” Millik said. “Then, since it is not tied to me, it can be taken away at any moment. That is the logic behind a reaper’s badge, no?”

  “I suppose so,” Ameri said, “but what you’re asking is still ridiculous.”

  “I am an experienced fighter,” Millik tried, “On the battlefield, I can assure you that I will be a valuable asset.”

  “Are you saying you’re better than our soldiers? Why give you her magic when we could give it to a trained soldier already devoted to her?”

  “Because this battle is important to me,” Millik said. He bowed his head, practically begging her. “You remember my failings in the past, of course. This battle may be an important way for me to redeem that mistake.” This was a risky gamble, since he still didn’t actually know who Sor was going to war with. Instead, he focused his words using how he was feeling about killing Pok. It wasn’t accurate, but it was earnest.

  Ameri laughed. It wasn’t a small laugh, either. She cackled like she was fighting a strong opponent who still thought they were better than her.

  “I’ll never understand people who fight for such a stupid reason,” she said. “But I suppose that’s pretty convincing, either way.”

  She turned back and pushed open the inner sanctum’s doors.

  The mountainous red God was not one Millik had interacted with much, even though her and Pok had neighbouring territories. She sat tall in her throne, her posture much unlike how Pok always leaned back. Her red robes were loose, draping over her entire throne and touching the floor.

  “Ameri,” Sor said, “What is going on?”

  “Sor,” Ameri said. The way she said it almost shattered Millik. How could someone talk to their God so casually and with such ease? “This man has a very strange request. I don’t think it would be advantageous to turn him down, but it’ll be your decision in the end.”

  “What might that mean?” Sor said. “A request? What is it?”

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  “I wish to fight alongside you in the coming battle,” Millik said, kneeling, “But I’m afraid my prowess for combat magic is non-existent, so I come to you asking for you to give a small gift of your magic to my weapon.”

  “Why might a Pokian citizen wish to fight alongside us?” Sor asked.

  “This is Pok’s old reaper,” Ameri said, a smile growing unhidden on her face, “The one who teleported away from Danger.”

  Sor laughed just like Ameri did.

  “Impressive,” Sor said. Her smile as she leant down was large and toothy. “I appreciate such an initiative for change. I’ll give you my magic, and so I expect to see you on the battlefield, and you best not run away again.”

  “I won’t,” Millik said.

  “Good.”

  “You flinch easy,” Atrode said. “It is easy to win when my opponent gives me an extra opening after each attack.”

  Tyril gripped his sword. “How do I stop doing that?”

  “You don’t.” Atrode sheathed his sword and took a drink. “It’s a part of who you are. Instead of getting rid of it, or working around it, you should embrace it. Use everything about you to your advantage, for that’s all you can do.”

  “In what way?” Tyril asked.

  “You flinch because you’re afraid. In a real battle, getting hit is deadly. So, don’t try to face an opponent who will kill you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “There’s no shame in picking your battles. Rather, I see it as a skill few have.”

  “So you’re saying I should run from battles I can’t win?”

  “No,” Atrode said, thoughtful, “I am saying that in order to know what you can do, you need to recognize what you can’t do. That’s what he failed at, so it’s up to you to do better.”

  Mora didn’t say a word as she followed Millik into Vot’s chamber.

  Being alone with a God was one thing, and it was a whole new thing when you had the power to kill them. Not that he would.

  “It’s done, then?” Vot said.

  Mora recalled her concealment magic. The wave of power that erupted from The Deathhold was magnificently strong. Both Millik and Mora had to take a knee, and Vot clutched her throne.

  “Perfect,” Vot said.

  “I still have a lot of questions,” Millik said. “For what purpose do you want Pok dead?”

  “Having second thoughts now?”

  “No,” Millik said firmly, “It’s a simple question.”

  “It really doesn’t matter that it’s Pok,” Vot said, “It could have been any of them, it’s just that you seemed so conflicted, I didn’t think it would be hard to convince you, and it wasn’t.”

  “So why do you want a God to die?”

  “I recently got a taste of something that I have been having trouble getting out of my mind. It was delicious, and it got me thinking. There may just be things that are more delicious.”

  “You’re being vague on purpose,” Millik observed.

  “Of course,” Vot said, “I really don’t want to ruin the surprise, because the plan is only now beginning.”

  “I am still in the dark about this part, too,” Millik said.

  “Indeed,” Vot said, “And for good reason. Do not worry, my pawn, for it will all be revealed soon.”

  …

  Outside, Vot’s large figure cast a long shadow across the gray, rocky terrain. Millik and Mora stood beside her, and an army of Votins, both skeleton and human, stood straight before them. The skeletons were heavily armed, and the people were heavily armored. It made sense: undead soldiers were relatively expendable, whereas it’s best for the ones still alive to remain that way.

  Millik was starting to get suspicious of something. He had promised Sor that he would fight alongside them in an upcoming battle. Vot had also prepared an army. Had he been tricked into fighting on two sides of the same war?

  “Who’s ready for a spectacle?” Vot asked the lines of soldiers, who cheered loudly, rattling across the fields. “This is about to be magnificent!” She looked down at Millik and Mora with a smile before turning around and widening her stance.

  Everyone could feel the magic flowing through Vot as a large skeleton pulled itself up out of the dirt. The first part to escape was a large hand with claws at the end of its fingers. A pair of long, bony protrusions poked out of the dirt far behind it. These would turn out to be the skeletal fingers of the creature’s wings. A second claw clutched the soil at the same time a large, horned skull with deep, now soulless eyes and a set of sword-like teeth burst above-ground. Its long, snaking neck gave it a perfect view of the gathered army just as a second head, identical to the first, caught up to it and rose beside the first. Before its hind legs had breached the surface, its membrane-less wings unfurled and started beating the air. Its tail swayed in the wind as the monster took to the sky.

  Millik’s voice caught in his throat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell at the God who tricked him into watching as she brought back his greatest mistake. He gripped The Deathhold tightly, his fingers digging into the leather the only thing keeping him from running away again.

  Where the hell were those Pokian assholes? Ameri was too busy preparing the rest of their army to look for Tyril and Millik. Both had promised to fight at their side, yet neither was anywhere to be seen. Sor’s army had even marched through Pok’s territory to get to the battlefield, yet neither of those bastards had thought to join them on their way to war. Millik wanted to redeem himself against Danger, yet Ameri was out here alone. Ridiculous. That’s what she gets for actually believing them.

  Their soldiers had been split into two flanks, one to be led by Ameri, and another to be helmed by Sor herself. Of course the God of Leadership had to be on the front lines. They rushed into their places, pressured by the skeletal monster in the air above the horizon. Sor had been expecting Vot to raise Danger, and they were ready for a fight, but they didn’t have any actual notice other than the quickly gathered Votin army and the show of magic that rumbled across Bitrect.

  More than magic will crush Bitrect if we don’t stop that thing.

  Ameri had never seen Danger while it was alive. She knew all the stories, obviously, but nothing could have prepared her for seeing it in person. Her heart was racing, but not in the way she enjoyed; was she scared?

  She looked back to the soldiers she was in charge of. She wasn’t a leader– that was Sor’s job. Ameri was just a pawn, like everyone else. She liked being a pawn. Everyone staring at her now, waiting for her orders as Danger approached: she wasn’t ready for this.

  But Sor was trusting her. She trusted Ameri to fight, and that was what she was going to do.

  Sor’s giant figure grew out of the other side of the battlefield. Splitting their ranks in this way would mean that they would split Danger’s attention, and that's exactly what happened. One of Danger’s heads swiveled so that the beast was looking at both flanks at once, and, now seeing the God, Danger changed course to fly straight for the mountainous God Ameri loved. Sor’s long red robes reshaped themselves into an ethereal set of armor and she manifested a similar spear and shield. She shrunk back to human-size and called a battle cry which rang through all her soldiers. Ameri’s chest tumbled as the battle officially began.

  She pulled her axe and began her charge, an army behind her, all screaming with the weight of their entire soul.

  Millik took a deep breath, staring down the stairs to Pok’s temple. Seven hundred and two. He knew each one well. A small memory returned to him of a time when he tripped during this climb, and a nice lady helped him to his feet. She had acted kind, but when she actually realized who he was, she made a quick excuse and continued on her way. Millik deserved that kind of treatment. Of course he did. He betrayed his God and his people, but most importantly, he betrayed himself. That was what truly made his life on the ridge so miserable. Not the filth or the grime or the dry, sea-less air. It was the feeling that he shouldn’t live with what he’d done. He was grateful to be spared, but much more than his body had died that day. All because Pok couldn’t kill him for his mistake.

  He took the first step down. It felt differently than it had any other time. Of course it did. He had a weapon on his hip capable of killing the God he had devoted his life to, and he was willing to use it.

  Each other step came easily, like a practice he had honed for years.

  At the bottom, stepping into the temple always blew a cold wind over him. Waves rolled below his feet, and the call of seabirds hit his ears. Before, all of it was welcoming, but now it was… ominous, and he found himself having second thoughts.

  Did he really want to kill Pok? The time was coming where he would finally have to make that decision. He had been Pok’s reaper for so many years of his life, and he had followed him for so much longer. It was Millik’s fault that he ran away from Danger, not Pok’s. Had Pok actually done anything wrong to Millik to deserve such a fate? Did it matter? A small flame had ignited within Millik’s chest when Vot told him it was possible to kill a God. A warmth that drew him closer with each passing moment, like a fish to its angler. A hatred he had quashed because he had been lacking an outlet. That was what drove him now.

  Walking through the quiet courtyard gave a peaceful air to the task to come.

  Standing in front of the doors, he had another decision to make. He could teleport inside, but something was telling him that would be wrong. He had promised Bow that he would be valorous, and he promised Sor that he would redeem himself. It wouldn’t be right if he used his magic, the cowardly magic that cost him everything, to make his new job easier.

  He pushed the doors open. If he knew anything, Atrode would be on the other side, confused by his brash rejection of their ritual–

  “Hey, Millik.”

  It took a moment for Millik’s eyes to adjust to see Tyril standing beyond the threshold.

  To Be Continued…