Nyx lay a hand over Lamont’s throat, and Lamont went quiet. “Do you know what it’s like to freeze to death?” he asked. “Or to drown? For your lungs to close up, fill with brine? Or for them to not work at all, perhaps. For every breath to hurt, a sharp sting you live with every moment of every day.” He pressed down, and Lamont struggled, reaching for him. Nyx ignored the bite of Lamont’s nails on his skin and kept pressing, slowly, putting more weight into his palm. “It’s what my son lived with. He felt it with every breath, and he still got up in the morning. He still went to lessons and training sessions. He loved animals, and tactics, and sometimes I think he and his sister could read each other’s minds.”
Lamont wheezed, mouth open, eyes wild. Nyx brushed Lamont’s light brown hair out of his eyes. Thunder pealed outside, and Nyx smiled grimly.
“This is how he died, Lamont. Little by little. The poison in his system too strong for his body to bear. My only regret is that I can't make you feel what Kelta felt, when you sent her and Nadia off to drown or freeze. But this, at least, I can have.”
He pressed down. There was a crack, a strangled cry, and the body beneath him jerked and seized until it finally stilled. Nyx stood, the last ruler of a ruined empire, and brushed his hands off on his bloodstained armor.
“There,” he said. “Now I’m ready.”
He turned, and as rain fell against the windows of the imperial throne room, Death removed his cowl and smiled.
* * *
“Hello, my butcher.”
Nyx was beautiful, covered in blood and vengeance. Nothing his avatar would want, not now. But ah, Death wanted him. Death could have him, if he wanted. All he had to do was tell Nyx that Azaiah wept for him, that the tears he would shed for the loss of his compassionate soldier would drown the world. Bid the man to fall on his sword, take his soul, and perhaps that would vanquish Azaiah for good. But the game was entertaining enough to keep playing, at least for a while.
Death knew he needed a once-mortal form to inhabit, to stave off the full might of his power. But unlike Avarice, who wanted nothing more than a body that wouldn’t rot under the force of his corrupted spirit, Death wanted to be free. The chains that bound him to Azaiah were tight, but the ruin of this man would loosen them, perhaps enough that Azaiah would be consumed by Death’s rampant storm and drown what was left of the man he’d once been.
No chance to find a companionora successor. Then Death could wear this form as he flooded the world. And when everything living had bent a knee to him, Death would take his siblings, one by one, until only he was left—and the shell of a world where life had once flourished.
It was his purpose, after all. Death was the end. The chains only held him back for a time.
Nyx didn’t bother greeting him. Instead, he dropped his sword, and the sound of it clattering to the stone floor next to the body of the dead emperor was almost as loud as the thunder that rent the sky above, the rain lashing against the windows. “I want Azaiah. This is over.”
“Is it?” Death smiled. “Do you think it’s that easy? You’re an emperor now, you realize. You could have power. The throne.”
“The empire is destroyed. Even if it weren’t, I don’t want the throne. I’ve never wanted it.” Nyx’s voice was harsh, guttural. “People died because they thought I did.”
“People died because they are people, and that is what you do,” Death said. “Would you care for a game of Winter, my butcher?”
“Not withyou,” Nyx spat. “I want Azaiah. I’m ready. I am here to be his companion, just as I promised.”
There was a flicker, and Death felt the avatar’s spirit rise, drowning him momentarily, pushing him back as the chains tightened and Azaiah took his place.
Be quick about it,Death thought, and sank into the storm.
Azaiah stared at the man he loved, then glanced around, his eyes touching on the body on the floor. “What have you done?”
“Azaiah,” Nyx breathed, dropping to his knees. “I’ve finished it. It’s over. I’m yours. Please let me be yours.”
Azaiah heard the thunder, and he knew that while the rain had stopped, the lull was only temporary. The pain of this moment was so great he did not think he could stand it. It had been easier to give up his life on the altar. But there was no other choice, not here, on the bloodstained stones of an empire doomed to be forgotten.
“My soldier,” Azaiah whispered. “What has become of you?”
“I—I had to,” Nyx said, his voice as quiet as Azaiah’s, as if there were anyone else here but ghosts. “He killed my family.”
In the corner, the spirit of Emperor Lamont stood with his back to them both, radiating hostility.
“I would like nothing more than to take you from this place, Nyx. But I cannot.” Azaiah’s voice rang sorrowful in the quiet room, like mourning bells. “You arehiscompanion, now. Not mine.”
“Ares— That was just— No, they said I wouldn’t be—”
“Not Ares,” Azaiah said gently. “Death. The thing I harbor, the power that dwells inside me. You are his now, Nyx. My soldier felt compassion for those he killed. My sibling Ares—their companion would take pleasure in vengeance, delight in slaughtering an enemy. You felt nothing. And it is to nothing that you are bound.”
“Please,” Nyx whispered. “That isn’t what I wanted. I wanted to beyours.”
Azaiah drew his fingers over Nyx’s cheek. “To be mine, you must be Nyx. When you find him again, you’ll find me, too. Now, you are Death’s butcher, and you are my sibling’s sword. You cannot be my grief if you are theirs, my soldier.”
