—From a letter written by Fergus Almont, Rotunda delegate
He was not himself, and he was watching Apollius.
Gabe felt his shoulder lean against a tree, the bark rough against skin that he knew was not his own. It felt stretched in the wrong direction, too short, broader and more muscled. And that should have made him panic—panic lurked in the very back of his head, relegated to animal instinct—but he was distracted by the man in front of him.
It was Apollius—he knew it was Apollius—but much as knowing that he was not in his own body should have been a source of panic and was not, the sight of his former god working a forge in the greenest forest he’d ever seen didn’t alarm him. Instead, he was warm all over, content. Happy. What a foreign feeling.
The forge was open-air, in a small clearing. The stones that made it were of a piece, like they’d been manipulated into shape rather than built. Apollius was stripped to the waist, his brown hair matted against his skull with sweat, skin gleaming. Goldenphosphorescence hovered around him like a halo. He was the most beautiful man Hestraon had ever seen.
The back of Gabe’s mind—the part that was still him—jolted when he thought the name of the fire god as if it were his own.
This wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.
Apollius whacked at whatever he was creating with a steel hammer, turning it in the fire. Gold and silver, melted together into the shape of a dagger. He looked up at Hestraon, grinned. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”
“I still can’t believe I let you take first crack at forging something with the ore on the island. That’s quite an inaugural project.”
“I can believe it.” He turned the blade again, showering embers. His smile lit up the whole island. “You let me do whatever I want.”
The first shade of a dark thought in the alien consciousness that trapped Gabe’s own. It was true.
Hestraon pushed off from the tree and approached the forge. For a first attempt, Apollius’s dagger was better than good. The pommel was a bit crooked, and the blade a bit thin, but he had no doubt the weapon would hold up to use. He hadn’t experimented with anything mined from the Mount, but it stood to reason that it would be stronger stuff than he used to work with.
Back when he was human.
Apollius picked up the dagger with tongs and dunked it into a bucket of water. Steam roiled over him, turning his body momentarily ghostly. “There.”
Hestraon gave the blade a moment to cool before plucking it from the water. It shone bright in his hand. “Well done.”
“Had a good teacher.” Apollius stood close, the heat of him warming Hestraon’s arm. He pushed forward until they touched, and the burn in Hestraon’s chest had nothing to do with his power.
“Imagine how much we could sell that for on the mainland,” Apollius said.
“You’re a god now, and you’re still thinking of money?”
“I have retained my practicality.”
When Hestraon turned, Apollius’s face was close enough to feel his breath. Hestraon’s eyes closed, almost of their own accord. His mouth parted slightly.
Apollius leaned in. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d kissed, but with him, it always felt like it.
No kiss came. When Hestraon opened his eyes, confused and slightly hurt, Apollius was grinning, his eyes bright as a child’s who’d just pulled off a trick.
“Why not?” Hestraon breathed, no dignity in the plea. He was past that with Apollius. Always used to begging.
The god of light and life smiled, leaned in closer, so his lips brushed Hestraon’s cheek. “Because you haven’t earned it. Go on. Try again.”
This was a joke, and a cruel one. Ever since the Fount, Apollius had amused himself by asking Hestraon to try channeling Spiritum, the power that now came to Apollius as easily as calling a well-trained dog. It was impossible—when Hestraon concentrated, he could barely see the glimmers of gold, and they wouldn’t obey him.
Still, he tried. Closing his eyes, focusing so hard he swayed on his feet. Sunlight threads, weaving through everything alive, but no matter how he coaxed them, they wouldn’t respond.
Failure landed like a rock in his ribs, sinking low, settling. Familiar, by now.
“No kisses for the weak.” Apollius grinned. “Come on. Let’s go show Nyxara. See if she thinks my work is as good as yours.”
Gabe opened his eyes.
His breathing came ragged as he reoriented himself to the correct dimensions, got used to filling the whole of his head again. This was what had happened to Lore, back when Nyxara first burrowed into her mind—dreams that were memories, the goddess’s life played out behind her eyes.
