Page 77 of Storm Front

The world had changed in the years since the great palace was swallowed by the sand. And though Azaiah tried, whenever he went to Nyx—Glaive, as he was called, now—he lost himself to the storm of corruption, and it was the dark mirror of himself who appeared, not Azaiah. He had not seen the man he loved since that brief moment hundreds of years ago, in the empty Palace of the Moon, with the emperor’s blood on the stones. Lamont had come so late to the river that he was but a pale shade of himself, a whisper of regret and lingering anger, and Azaiah did not think his soul would return to walk among the living.

Some of the crew on his brother’s boat recognized him; most did not. His brother used to conscript those who served on his vessels, but over the years he’d bowed to the wishes of his companion and now hardly ever demanded service on board in exchange for granting a boon. Azaiah knew his brother liked to have a sea witch aboard, but he didn’t see any as he made his way down the stairs toward the captain’s quarters. Perhaps that’s why they were in Mislia—though that island, too, had changed.

“…don’t needthatmuch money, Dex,” his brother was saying. “What are they going to spend it on?”

Azaiah smiled despite himself at his brother’s drawling tone, then pushed the door open when it was clear he wouldn’t be interrupting anything.

The being who’d once been known only as Avarice lay sprawled on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other twined in the long, dark hair of his companion, Declan, who was kneeling at his side and scowling about it. Avarice—or Arwyn, as he’d taken the name of the human prince who’d offered his body and some small piece of his soul to the Demon in the Well a few hundred years ago—gave a delighted laugh and leapt to his feet. To anyone who didn’t know his true nature, he appeared to be a man with long golden-blond hair, eyes the color of the turquoise waters that ringed his Well off the coast of Diabolos. He was dressed in some strange amalgamation of clothing, as usual preferring to mix every pattern and fabric imaginable in as garish a combination as he could come up with.

Beneath the smiling facade of the pretty prince, Azaiah could see him as he truly was: the thing from the Well, with the skeletal face and the paste-jewel teeth, crown of rust on his brow, clad in rags and tarnished jewelry. He knew that the man kneeling for Arwyn could see it, too, and Azaiah was never sure which of those faces enticed Declan more—the prince he’d loved in his youth or the immortal personification of greed who’d managed to win his heart despite how much Declan hated him at first.

“Azaiah!” Arwyn clapped. He was shorter in his human form than most people, including AzaiahandDeclan, who was himself not that tall for a mortal, but his presence made up for it. “What brings you to my ship? It’s not a plague, is it? We haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“No,” Azaiah said, shaking his head and pushing his cowl off. “Not a plague. No one is dying here today. How are you both?”

“Shadow here doesn’t think he should pay our sailors,” Declan replied. He had long dark hair and an angular face, and his accent still bore traces of the long-ago society of ships that had eventually become the island nation of Diabolos. He’d been Arwyn’s retainer, once upon a time—the real Arwyn, whose soul was gone now, given willingly to the creature in the Well.

“I didn’t say that,” Arwyn protested. He paused. “Well, yes, I did, but I simply think you’re offering too much gold.”

“Real gold,” Declan said, rising smoothly to his feet. “Not the painted iron you tried to pass off last time. We had a mutiny.”

“That was fun.” Arwyn sighed wistfully. “So, if no one’s dying, are you here to, what?” He peered at Azaiah. “You’re not going, are you?”

Azaiah shook his head. “No, not yet. But I think I’ve found someone, for when I do.”

“That means it will be soon,” Declan said. He put a careful hand on Azaiah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Declan was a kind man, for all that he’d fallen in love with a corrupted god.

“It will be some time. I can sense one who has the potential, but they’re still a child. And unlike our brother Astra—”

“The brat,” Arwyn said. “It’s enough to make me miss Somnus, even if his dreams were so depressing at the end.”

Azaiah shook his head. While no longer a child, Astra still seemed determined to be everyone’s annoying little brother. It worked especially well with Arwyn, who, Azaiah suspected, secretly liked it.

“The one I’ve found may not keep the potential as they grow, but yes. It is… the first possibility I’ve sensed.”

“And you haven’t seen your soldier?” Declan asked with a glance at Arwyn, who was pouring himself a glass of wine at the sideboard.

“He isn’t my soldier, that’s the problem,” Azaiah said. “Sometimes I see what he has become, but when I get too close, or when he kills, I’m not the one who appears to him.” He was not aware of what happened when he was the darker version of himself, but Astra had shown him dreams a few times. He did not know whether he was horrified or glad that at least they still could be together, as vicious as it often was.

Arwyn knocked back his wine and sighed. “Dex, go do something else. I need to talk about god shit with my brother.”

Declan sighed. “You’ll tell me later, but all right.” He gave Azaiah a nod. “Your successor. Warn them, maybe, about my shadow. You know how he is. But I hope it’s not anytime soon. You’ll be missed.”

Azaiah smiled at him. He’d liked Declan from the first, even when he was still snarling and angry, hissing at Arwyn like a trapped cat. Time slipped past him like the water of his river, and Azaiah felt, once again, the ache of weariness that should not be possible. He knew he was nearing the end of his tenure, and the only reason he was glad his successor wasn’t yet ready was the hope that, one day, it would be Nyx who waited for him, not Glaive. That he would be fully Azaiah, not the dark mirror of his own power.

“You’re a good man. I’m glad Arwyn talked you into staying around.”

“Wasn’t one of my smarter choices,” Declan said, but he shot a fond look at Arwyn before turning to go. “Come by when you’re done being gods, and we’ll play Winter. No one else plays as well as you do.”

“That’s because no one else remembers it ever existed, much less how to play,” Arwyn said.

“What’s your excuse?” Declan laughed as he departed, and Azaiah could see the faint outline of a shape on his back—the shadow of an anchor, representing the fact that it was he who kept Arwyn tethered to humanity enough not to wreaktoomuch havoc, now that he could leave the Well where he’d been confined for so long.

“Is that what you came here to tell me?” Arwyn asked. “About your successor?”

“Yes, and no,” Azaiah said. “It’s… worse, now, when I go to him. To Ny—Glaive,” he corrected. “I thought by now it would be better. That he would have learned to feel something again. I want to wait, but I’m… tired, my brother. So very tired.”

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