“You should know that.” When Azaiah didn’t answer, Nyx sighed and continued. “I was a child. My parents sold me to the military. They were poor—”
“Yes, I took them in the famine,” Azaiah said, and Nyx glared at him. “Ah.”
“When a new emperor comes to power, he fights on the closest solstice,” Nyx said, slowly. “Someone came at him from behind. They weren’t supposed to. It was meant to be a display, no bloodshed. I killed him, the man trying to kill the emperor.”
“I remember that, as well,” Azaiah said. “That was the first time you saw my shadow. You didn’t know me as well as you know me now.”
“I don’t know you at all.”
“You’ve known me in battle,” Azaiah said. “You sent enough souls to me over the years. You prayed to me in the mud last year, when you dragged your friend’s body to dry land.You fucking bastard, don’t you fucking take him.Those were your words, no? I did take him, though.”
“Yeah, thanks for fucking listening.”
Azaiah shook his head. “That’s all Icando. And you met Tyr when you sent your first soul to me.”
“The emperor made me part of the household. It’s basically being a servant, except the princes have to call you by your first name. But Tyr, he thanked me for saving his father. And he asked if I could read a letter for him. His mind couldn’t put the letters together right,” he added, defensive.
“I have no reason to read.” Azaiah moved his bead, then gathered the cards to reshuffle and deal them once more. He played the Three of Swords, which Nyx couldn’t counter. “How does it feel when you take a life?”
“Gods, I don’t know. You have to push past it, I guess. Make sense of it. Better them than me. But shouldn’t you know that?”
“I take souls, Nyx. Not lives. There’s a difference. But that’s another question,” he said, as Nyx seemed to draw breath to ask. “And you haven’t won yet.”
“You’re a son of a bitch,” Nyx swore, but some of the anger seemed to be bleeding out of him. “Fine.” He played the Sun, which was enough to win against Azaiah’s Two of Cups, and moved his bead accordingly. “Why did you come for me when I cursed you? I can’t have been the first to do that.”
“You weren’t. And you won’t be the last. But that isn’t why I came.” Azaiah felt the rumble of the thunder outside in his core, and he knew it would soon be time to go. Death could not linger in one place. It disturbed the natural order of things, and his nature was to be ever moving, a silent specter. “Human lives are brief, Nyx. No, don’t be angry. I don’t mean to be flippant. They are brief, but they are… hmm. Bright. You are lights, all of you, in the dark. Some of you, your flame burns brighter than others. Yours does, so I noticed it when you cursed me, called for me.”
“I did not ask you to interrupt my grieving with a fucking board game and a round of questions,” Nyx muttered.
He was so charming, this gruff soldier. “The flame of your soul caught my attention, let me hear the sound your curses made on the wind. But what made me come here, to you, with my games and my questions? It was your grief, your compassion. You mourn sincerely. The man who lies in the tomb—your grief for him is potent, and it is real.”
“Am I the only one?” Nyx whispered, gaze shifting, staring at the board. “I can’t be the only one who loved him.”
He had been. But there was no need to tell him, and Azaiah was not cruel. “You think we do not care about you, but we do. Myself, I was mortal once, as I said. All those who wear my cloak and carry my scythe were. It connects us to you. Reminds us that while we cannot mourn you any longer, we must remember that others will. I am Death, Nyx. I could end the world if I wanted. But remembering who lives upon it, that’s what keeps my storm at bay.”
The thunder rumbled again, and Nyx put his cards down. He glanced toward the door. “That’s you. Bringing the rain?”
It never did rain when Azaiah walked among mortals. It was only the rumble of distant thunder, the threat to come on the horizon. But he did not tell Nyx this. Not yet. “Those are more questions than you’ve won the right to ask.”
“If I were a god, I wouldn’t be such a stickler for rules.” Nyx dealt another hand, but before they could pick up the cards, a voice called from the other room.
“Nyx? Nyx! Oh, sorry, you’re busy.”
It was the soldier who’d brought Nyx to the bar. Azaiah went still, because sometimes he could be seen and sometimes he couldn’t, but with death heavy in the air and the witches’ magic from the funeral storm-scented around them, the veil would be thin enough that she would likely perceive something of him: a man in a black cloak, his back to her.
Terror spiked, and Azaiah realized it was on behalf of the woman, from Nyx. Azaiah murmured, “I am not here for her, Nyx.”
“Good. Don’t be. She’s my only friend, now that you took Tyr. Hey, Nadia. I’m fine.”
“It’s getting late. You want another drink? You and your… friend, there?”
Nyx glanced at him, and Azaiah answered the unspoken question to quell his anxiety. “She sees me. She does not know me for who I am.”
“What you are,” Nyx corrected. “And good. I’ll— I’m fine, Nadia. Really. I can get home.”
“If you’re sure,” Nadia said, after a moment.
“I’m sure.” Nyx’s dominance fell again, a different kind of power than that Azaiah wielded. He enjoyed the press of it, even if it did not affect him as it would a mortal. “Thanks, though.”
