Godhood —

how he had forsaken the thought of the divine, his belief in them seeping out like blood out of body, like boyhood and innocence mangled into grim reality.

Home —

how strange the notion of home was, neither here nor there, neither present nor past. Ward had long since lost his concept of it. A dog found his home wherever he was chained. He learned to accept his collar, silver becoming something permanent in his skin.

But she had looked at him from where the gods stood, her gaze not once wavering as the god Zilar welcomed them into the palace, and that little boy inside Ward, the boy he thought had lost his tongue when Ward had lost his freedom, screamed that he was home.

He scoffed. Home was where he cut his veins and bled out, not this place upon which the gods perched, this palace of shimmering gems and marble and stone.

Still, he stood there, the only one left in the courtyard. Guarded by two curving columns that met in a peak, Ward stood, and he gazed out into the distance. Through the rolling hills and lazy stream of clouds, his eyes surveyed the surroundings of the palace. As if he might locate his temple the way he located the wayward and the rebels for House Evora.

Something inside him recoiled as he realized he had been standing there for far too long. The sun no longer crested the sky in a golden blaze. It had sunk like a stone in water, deeper and deeper, until swathes of purple and blue bruised the once vivid blue.

He didn't pay attention to where everyone had gone. When they had stood there, the gods' arrival dissuading the more feral Anunnaki from jumping into yet another battle, he had barely listened. He had understood from when his hands had been on her skin, from when her soft words were carried on dove-white feathers, yet he bludgeoned them with his disinterest, dissatisfaction, dis —

Again, he had only paid attention to her —

Nieba. NiebaNiebaNiebaNieba.

Was godhood truly for him? Did she believe it, when she brought him and Marcus and Daeva to Limuria? When she had answered their questions, Ward had been quiet. The entire journey, he had listened to their heartbeats, their melody warping into a strange symphony, waning and waxing depending on their excitement.

And yet when he looked at her, gilded with gold…

Nothing.

Behind him, Ward heard the sound before her footfalls echoed through the courtyard. Her heartbeat seemed to reach for him, questioning and hesitant and gentle. As gentle as a heartbeat could be. As gentle as a person could be.

She paused, and he didn't turn.

''Do you remember me?'' she asked, voice soft with a foreign sincerity.

He wanted to tell her no.

He wanted to tell her not to remember, to forget as he had been forgotten, to not look at him like he might not be damned.

It sat on his tongue, the word urging itself forward, barbed and spiked and all he'd ever known.

Instead, ''yes.''

Ward finally turned, arms crossed in front of his chest like it might be a wall, like it might stop her from seeing him. He should have known it wouldn't work. Just as she had back then, she didn't cower or flinch, her blue-gold eyes fixed on him, her lips curved into a soft smile.

He didn't fucking understand.

She hadn't changed much. She had been younger, a tad smaller, but the line over her eye was still the same, her hands still wrapped in bandages, her dress still as finely crafted as the ladies of Abalus. She had looked at him like that, too.

Like he wasn't a rabid animal. Like he wasn't a caged dog, ready to strike, ready to bite the hand that reached towards him.

Death's Revenant, he had been called, then.

Painted in black smoke and spilled blood, he had been trying to scrub his hands clean in the area underneath the arena. The one reserved for champions like him, for the ones who caused the most bloodshed, who surged the crowd into roars of approval. Ward had been told an important figure from Nibiru was visiting the Pit that day, him and his Anunnaki daughter, and to show him why he had death's face painted onto him.

He hadn't expected her to come see him.

And he hadn't expected her to seek him out now, to look at the lines on his face and not balk at the crimes written in inky letters. She barely grazed them with her gaze, as if it was a mere speck of dust on a thread-bare tapestry. She barely seemed to think of how they had met, even though shame crept up his spine, urging him to leave her standing there, to walk away, to run.

Ward had always been told he was unnerving, but he didn't think there was anything more unnerving than being regarded so. It was easier for him to focus on that line underneath her eye, looking at her but not looking at her.

''You left me a flower that day. Why?''

If she seemed deterred by his question, she didn't show. She simply shrugged, the fabric of her azure gown shimmering with the movement. Her hair seemed to bleed in contrast.

''Because I want to leave things a little better than I found them. A little better than I made them, perhaps. I've been called silly, and foolish for it, but don't you think I should keep trying?''

He didn't answer.

''That flower,'' she said, ''did you keep it?''

He remembered how she had stood here, wine-red hair braided around her head like a crown, torchlight spilling from behind her, engulfing her in light. She had told him how sorry she was, as if it was her fucking fault, as if it wasn't the fault of those the foolish prayed to, as if it wasn't simply how things were. And when he had told her, her father would be looking for her, she had moved in closer. She had reached for his hand, as if there wasn't still blood underneath his fingernails. Opening his fingers like she was prying open a lock, she left him a flower.

A chamomile flower, he had later learned.

He remembered staring at it, unsure what to do with such a fragile thing. Unsure how to hold something like that, how not to break everything he touched.

''It died.''

''Oh.''

He thought that was enough. Enough for her face to darken, for her to remember who he was, what he had done, what she had seen. But instead, she smiled. ''That's okay, I'll get you a new one. I believe I heard Rhodys say the far left path leads to a garden. Do you want to join me?''

Ward was stunned into silence. He hadn't sensed a surge of anxiety or fear in her heartbeat. Not once, in their conversation, did it adopt that tune he was so familiar with. The one he heard echoing in his ears whenever people gathered the courage to speak to Ward the Dog.

It was strange, and it threatened to teeter him of his axis, to gut him like Nieba's appearance had.

And perhaps it was to repay her for that small kindness of years ago, or to prove to himself that if he said yes, if he walked with her, he would eventually hear that spike of fear.

He nodded.

She clapped her hands together in a strange display of joy. ''Wonderful! I'm sure I'll be able to find a prettier flower this time.'' She moved, but paused, as if she had only just remembered herself. Her fingers touched her heart in a greeting he knew was typical for those of Abalus. ''I'm Laia.''

Another beat of silence. His voice always sounded strange to ears, when it had to wrap around the letters of his name.

He noticed she had left out her family name, but he didn't ask. Instead,

''Ward.''

The palace of the gods was paradise unfurling. It was all Livia had dreamed of, all she had always thought she deserved. When she walked through the corridors, her fingers brushed over the stones, over the intricate tapestries that seemed to contain moving paintings. She watched the servant in front of her, how her skin seemed to glow and how her eyes were like pearls. She watched the way fabric moved around her like a sequence of feathers and scales alike.

She thought about the gods, how they had stood above them, and how she would look beside them.

''Your room,'' the servant announced, opening the door for Livia to enter. ''Food and drinks are on the table. If you need anything, snap your fingers twice. Garments for the ball are in the armoire. They are all created and tailored for you alone.''

Livia smiled at that, and inclined her head. ''Thank you. And please give my thanks to the gods.'' The servant turned, but Livia reached out, briefly touching her sleeve. She hoped she was allowed to touch her. ''Before you leave, if it's no bother, could you tell me where Arevik's room is?''

The servant regarded her with those pearl-white eyes. ''End of the corridor, last room on the right.''

The door fell closed behind her, and Livia was left alone.

The room seemed designed for her and her alone. Swathes of sheen fabric fell from the ceiling and in front of the large stained-glass windows. Her bed was large and plush, the wooden bed frame carved into images of doves in flight. Ornate paintings hung on the walls, of Taniyn and her bow and arrow, of lovers in passionate embraces, of Abalus and its splendid scenery. There were accents of white, gold and pink everywhere, and a large mirror hung above a white-marble table filled with cosmetics. When Livia craned her head, she realized the ceiling was painted to resemble the sky in the earliest hour of morning. Dawn twinkled above her head, and the clouds moved slowly, crafted with a magical hand.

Livia had always thought she had been given everything she wanted in the Thuarin household, but this? This was what she deserved.

And what she didn't deserve, was Arevik's treatment of her. Leaving the food and wine untouched, Livia wasted no time. She only walked over to the mirror and raked her fingers through her long tresses, smiled at herself, and left her room again.

There was no one else in the corridor when she knocked on Arevik's door. It only took three seconds for the other girl to open it, and Livia wasted no time.

''You abandoned us. Abandoned me.''

Did Arevik realize? Did she know the extent of which her pain burrowed through her, carving itself like a river?

She didn't seem surprised to see Livia standing there, nor did she seem taken aback by the torrent that suddenly fell from Livia's lips. It only made it more aggravating.

''I didn't abandon you, Livia. I chose me. I chose to leave before I would get hurt.''

Livia shook her head, and pushed her way inside the room, despite no invitation being extended to her. It was the opposite of hers. Arevik's room looked like it was crafted from the forest itself, all dark woods and greens, cream sheets and plants growing along the stone walls.

And all Livia saw in that splendid divinity, was her.

Slowly, Arevik closed the door, her back still to Livia. Her dark hair hung in a braid against her back, still as she remembered it. Once, Livia had been the one to braid her hair for her.

''He gave you everything. We had a good life, we were happy. But then you left, and I — ''

''Have you ever considered,'' Arevik said, voice maintaining that perpetual calm as she turned to face Livia, ''that I wasn't happy?''

No. Livia hadn't. Because how could Arevik not be happy? How could she want for anything when they were given all that they needed as Thuarins?

Had she not needed her?

She shook her head. ''It was always meant to be you and me, Arevik. You trying to escape it doesn't change that. We are connected.''

''No, we are not.''

It struck her, how she said it with such simplicity. As if it was mere fact, something Arevik had always known. But it couldn't be.

How easy it would be for Livia to change that. She could just reach in, strum those strings, bind them together and knot them in a way they could never be cut. How easy it would be for her to bind Arevik to her again, if only for a moment.

But that wasn't how it was meant to go. Livia knew how to make people love her, didn't she? She was the jarl's right-hand, loved by all in Hrisar. She was their salvation.

''You are wrong,'' Livia argued. ''You'll see.''

Arevik said nothing, merely stepped aside when Livia moved towards the door. Before she left, Livia turned to her again, and gave her that soft-silk smile. ''I missed you, Arevik.'' She didn't wait for her response.

Back in her room, Livia opened the armoire, eyes wide at the assortment of gowns that were laid out for her. She had to make sure she would stand out, to show the gods and her who she was. What she had become. Who she could be.

Swathed in fabrics of the purest silks as she dressed herself in front of the mirror, Livia thought she looked like a deity. The subject of a poet's laments, the gleam in the centre of a pearl. The fabric fell from her shoulders and wrapped around her wrists in a sheer rainfall, the candlelight reflecting in the glimmering fabric each time she moved. Her skirt was long and skimmed the floor with each step, loose and embroidered with a recurring pattern of feathers.

She thought she looked beautiful. Ethereal. Divine.

She looked like she could make herself into a goddess.