Page 112 of Kissed By the Gods
The darkness is socomplete that I shudder, my bones once again chilled. But this time, I’m not afraid. This time, I don’t let the darkness overtake me.
I sink into it, and it cradles me close. I stride through the shadowless obsidian, pulled forward and forward still. Curious, whispery, feather-light touches brush against my skin and I shudder, goosebumps covering my flesh.
A light flares in the dark. A golden, ethereal light that seems all the brighter because of the void that surrounds it. And now, there are shadows. They twist unnaturally, forming fleeting shapes. Eyes blink, claws reach, and faces leer before becoming the shadows once again. Silhouettes sweep from overhead, creatures too vast and too indistinct for my mortal mind to comprehend.
But those creatures—they’re not for me.
Another light flares, glowing from cracks in the ground this time, a silvery glow running through veins of the void. It highlights towering structures that are jagged and asymmetrical, both ancient and impossibly timeless.
Murmuring surrounds me, tangled up in a language I don’t understand but that is somehow familiar. The murmurs are interrupted by growls and howls and hisses.
Where the air at the peak of Elandors Veil was thin and cool, the air here is dense and heavy, and it presses against my chest like it’s trying to push me out. There’s a cloying, sweet aroma, and the faint, musty scent of time itself. As though nothing living need breathe here.
The ground shifts as I walk, crumbling and reshaping at will. Like it’s rejecting me, trying to push me off course. Or maybe push me forward.
I stop in front of one of the shadows, and obsidian eyes stare back at me from the void.
“I’ve waited for you, Strider.”
“In Faraengard, the faravars are divine beasts—a gift from the gods, slipped through the Veil, wrapped in wonder. And perhaps—perhaps—there is some truth in that. But here in Aish, we remember it differently. Here, the faravars aren’t a gift, but a test, and we have far to go before we are worthy of them. Bless the faravars and their endless patience, for we may never be worthy.”
Aishan folklore, on the origin of the faravars
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I’m snowed in.
Godsdamn snowed in.
Buried alive, more like. The second the realization hits, something sharp spikes in my chest. I slam my boot into the narrow cave entrance, now a solid wall of packed snow and ice. It doesn’t budge, but pain ricochets up my leg. I curse through gritted teeth.
Fine.
I whirl back toward my things, throw my pack over my shoulder, snatch my scythe from its holster, and march straight to the blockade like it personally offended me. You know what? It has.
I swing. The blade bites into the ice with a satisfying crack.
Again. I will reach the summit. I will climb this gods-cursed peak even if I have to carve a staircase with my bare hands. Because I’m not fuckingfinished.
Again. A shard of ice fractures away.
Again. A sliver of daylight appears, barely bigger than a coin.
Again. The hole grows wider. My hands are numb, breath heavy, muscles screaming—but I don’t stop.
Again. Cracks bloom like veins across the ice.
I throw my body against it, shoulder-first, and the wall shatters. Snow and ice burst outward as I tumble through the opening. I inhale a lungful of frigid air—triumphant—only for something to slap me across the face with a gust of snow.
It smacks into my eyes, nose, mouth. I choke, cough, spit. My vision blurs.
Still half-blind, I swing my scythe in a wide, defensive arc, hook down. Just in case. Maybe it’s a startled bird. Or a snow hare. Or some skittish mountain goat bolting from the noise.
But as I blink the snow from my lashes, my grip tightens—and then slackens completely, until I drop my scythe to the ground. It clatters on the ice.
