Jasia's mind had started deconstructing the palace almost immediately upon arrival. Her fingers brushed stone and metal, and she wondered how the palace moved on stone shoulders. Her eyes swept across arched ceilings and veined marble, and she wondered how it felt so alive. Her feet trailed through winding corridors, past paintings that moved and threw whispers in the shadows of her footsteps, and she wondered how it was that Jasia Odajick had been given the honours of residing in the gods' palace.

She wondered how it was, that she stood in the most splendid room she had ever seen. To call it a room was to steal something essential from it, but Jasia didn't possess the vocabulary to properly articulate each area of the palace.

Their day had been a whirlwind of activity. An arrival to steel-wrought tension. A welcome by the gods who stood upon their dais, out of reach, unattainable, and yet there to reach for them. Servants had brought each of them to their rooms, hers a reflection of her room at home, fitted with everything she needed for her inventions and more. It had been a dream, to walk through her room of silver and gold, vivid blues mingling with green. Laia's room wasn't next to hers as she had hoped, but that was okay. They would live.

She had been dressed by the same servant, her hair pulled into a braid that circled the crown of her head, and they were told their welcome to the palace would be marked by an evening of joy and splendour.

And splendour it was indeed.

The arched ceiling stretched above their heads like a mountain peak, little windows revealing the moving stars that watched as silent witnesses. The room was dressed in white marble streaked with gold, and in the middle, precious gemstones created a symbol of many crafted into one. A large star cradled by the tides of the ocean, the sun pierced by an arrow and engulfed by feathered wings, a scorpion with its tail curled around an hourglass.

The gods.

Low tables were pushed against the walls, filled with food and drinks that seemed to refill whenever a bite was taken. Downy fabrics of silk and satin hung from pillars, sectioning the room in smaller areas for privacy, though Jasia did not see what lingered behind them. And the room was filled with the gentle thrum of music, played by an invisible hand, serenading the Anunnaki from a place of mystery.

Crystal cups floated around the room, filled with liquid of varying shades. There were dancers who flitted between the Anunnaki — some who breathed fire, others who were trailed by shimmering starlight or fabric which moved on the wind. Laughter rose and fell from behind the curtains, beckoning her to come closer. Everywhere Jasia looked, she saw the magic of the gods.

To think it wasn't a mere stay.

To think that she, she, little Jasia with the grease stains on her hands and the perpetual aches in her shoulders from hunching over her workbench, would be given the chance to become a god.

To prove herself worthy.

To do some good, hand-in-hand with her most trusted friend.

If Jasia hadn't wanted to do good, she might have been convinced by the presence of Zilar alone. No, she knew that would have been enough for her to take that leap, to cross the desert she had never left before, to follow after the god she had admired her whole life.

Oh, would she be able to show him her inventions?

The thought alone was enough for a grin to stretch onto her lips, ridiculous, she was sure. Biting her lip to stop it from taking permanent residence, Jasia shook her head, moving her saffron-coloured skirts so the little cat by her side wouldn't by drowned by the fabric. Its gears shifted and clicked as it sat back on its gunmetal legs, and Jasia smiled.

''I wonder if anyone is jealous of our little companions,'' she said, grinning up at Laia. The younger girl had extended her hand, balancing an argent butterfly on the tip of her index finger. It would only live for a little while longer, but Jasia hadn't been able to resist bringing the creature to life for her friend. As much as Laia smiled with the ease of a spring sun hanging amongst the clouds, she knew something else lingered underneath.

Anguish, which reared its jagged teeth whenever Laia was called away by her family. She'd never told Jasia what it was she hid underneath her bandaged fingers, even now, the white a set of brittle bones against her dark skin. She'd never told Jasia what it was that made them the same, that made them the Legacy of Evîn, Wielders of his Sacrifice, Branches of his Love.

And Jasia had only asked once. But it had been as if she'd pressed her finger into an open wound. Laia had startled, and she had sunken down to a place Jasia couldn't reach her. It was as if the girl disappeared. After that, Laia didn't visit for a week. When she appeared onto her doorstep again, basket overflowing with honeyed sweets, Jasia vowed never to ask again.

''I think it more likely they are jealous of you and your mind,'' Laia said with that ease in which she spoke, as if her words were water and her voice was a river. Once, Jasia had been envious. The Saitadas were the richest tribe in the capital, Laia's father the head of their council. His children were his prizes, and Laia had always seemed so; moving, speaking, dressing like a child of gold.

When compared, Jasia was the bumbling fool who had tripped over the hem of her dress upon entering the grand room in which they stood.

But Laia had been by her side, as she always was. She had been there to hold her arm and keep her steady. By now, Jasia was used to the brush of bandage against skin, of Laia's hands, while her touch gentle, feeling rough.

And no one had seen her trip, too immersed in the magic of their surroundings.

Or at least, she hoped.

''Look where we are, Lee,'' Jasia said, waving off her friend's compliment with a wave of her hand. ''We're dressed in the finest fabrics, surrounded by Anunnaki from every corner of the country, hosted by the gods and given all that we could ask for, and you expect them to be impressed by me?''

Laia shrugged, and grinned at her, the jagged line across her eye contorting with the movement. It didn't take away from her beauty. ''Yes.''

Perhaps things were more simple when you were Laia Saitada. The way she stood, laughing as her butterfly flew up from her hand to settle in her cherry-cloud of curls. She was wearing a shimmering gown of azure blue, the bright fashion of Abalus incorporated into the designs woven onto the fitted top and flowing skirt. Gold stitching gleamed across her collar, mimicking the imagery of desert sand weaving through water, wrapping around her slender arms and melding with her skin like tattoos.

Jasia, in contrast, had chosen for a rather simple gown. She had always felt more comfortable without the heaviness her mother cloaked herself in, the ladies at the market whose earrings gleamed in the morning sun as they stood near the stalls far too long to partake in gossip. Her sleeves were capped at the shoulder, fabric bunched together to resemble flowers of gold. A dance of ribbons curled around the top of her dress, leaving her breathing space without being cinched at the waist, before her skirt fell down in a loose fashion.

It was uncomplicated, but pretty. It was perfect for her.

''Well, I think you're wrong.''

Before Laia could try and counter her words again, Jasia redirected her attentions, reaching out to softly tug on a strand of her hair. ''Are those sweets I see?''

Laia's eyes lit up, gold intensifying as she followed Jasia's gaze towards the other end of the room. It wasn't like she was trying to get rid of her. But sometimes, distractions were needed to ensure Laia wouldn't try and drown her in words unfitting.

That, and Jasia had told herself she had to at least attempt to speak to Zilar. Talking herself up was easier when she was alone. If Laia knew of her intentions, she would most likely take her hand and drag her to the god herself.

''Oh, you don't mind if I go, do you? I won't be long, promise.''

''Go. I'm surprised you didn't manage to whiff them out already.''

With a bright smile and a whirl of azure, Laia and her little butterfly were off.

Jasia craned her neck from where she stood, stretching onto the tips of her toes, eyes scanning her surroundings in search for a certain god. She was certain she could spot him even amongst the moving forms of others. Already, excitement fluttered in the pits of her stomach, as incessant as the little leaps her mechanical cat took around her slipper-clad feet.

''Is that yours?''

A low voice tore her away from her search. Jasia looked up to find an Anunnaki had taken the spot Laia had vacated. Eyes of deep red and muted grey were fixated on her creation, strands of inky hair nearly escaping the bun he had tied his hair into. Like everyone else, he was dressed like a god. A robe of gold on his shoulders, its hem reaching the floor in a dramatic fashion, the white underneath his robe accentuating the luxury of the fabric. Around his wrists were circles of gold, with a singular one wrapped around his throat.

Jasia grinned, pride streaking through her voice. ''Yes. Made it myself, but the little thing doesn't have long to live, sadly.''

He creased his brows, seemingly taken by the creature's short-lived fate.

Jasia had been the same. Was, still, the same. She remembered the first time she had brought one of her creatures to life. The sting in her chest burned brightly still, whenever their life-force drained out of their metal hearts.

''Perhaps we could change that, eh? When one of us becomes a god.'' He grinned at her, saying it with an ease as if it was already a written thing. As if one of them would become a god with the ability to change it all.

Jasia blinked as the realization struck her again. Like clockwork, its beat echoing through her chest.

Yes. One of them would become a god.

''It will be my most important godly duty. I will make sure of it — ''

''Marcus. Marcus Agosti.''

Jasia smiled, and touched her fingertips to her heart. ''Jasia Odajick.''

''Well, Jasia, since the gods have brought us here together,'' he held out a hand, ''would you care to dance?''

She hadn't seen Zilar yet. She hadn't been able to speak to him yet, to tell him of how much he inspired her, how much she wished to be like her.

Her eyes danced around the room for a final time, pausing when she spotted Laia looking overjoyed with her sweets. Laia, who wasn't alone. Who had managed to find the young man she had told her about earlier.

An unease settled in her chest.

''I won't mind if you say no, but my pride might be a little bruised if you leave me hanging.''

Jasia looked at Marcus, at his disarming smile, and echoed it with her own. Slowly, she reached for his hand, and wrapped her fingers around his.

She thought of Lieven.

''No need to patch your pride up just yet.''

The gods weren't there yet.

That, in and of itself, was suspicious enough.

Perhaps if Caidil were there, he would have scoffed at the doubt that still swirled in Icharen's veins. Would have told him to return to his duties in Suddene, to submit to the mantle they had placed on his shoulders.

Shaman. Sage. Caidil's helper.

The Pale Death.

And perhaps Icharen would scoff in return, tell the god how the Suddeni linked the two as if they were part of the same chain of life and death. Death and life. One, who touched the living and urged them towards Irkalla, who could hold their thread of life and mend it a little while longer. The other, reaping souls and making their home in Irkalla. Watching and waiting for Icharen to release the hold he had on a waning heartbeat.

Long before they met, Icharen had been haunted by Death.

And now she haunted him. His eyes fell on her as she came into his line of vision. She was dressed in deadly black. The fabric wrapped around her like spidersilk, sharp and dark, as if it was cut from obsidian stone. Her shoulders were studded with silver spikes, and around her waist, a belt of steel encircled her in varying scaled patterns. It was more warrior-worn than gown, even the skirt looked like she could move through an army of thousands with ease. Silver chains fell from the capped sleeves, brushing her pale arms in a mesmerizing rhythm.

She looked like Death herself.

And there he was — her dog, her shadow, moving where she did. They nearly matched in their dark silhouettes, his cut from a darkened leather the colour of blood. Trousers, where hers was a skirt, but he had similar chains on his belt. As if they were dressed to form a union.

Icharen's grip tightened on his cup.

When Erra caught his eye, a scowl moved over his features like a darkening cloud.

Icharen smiled, and lifted his cup in greeting. This only seemed to agitate the other man further, who curled his fists by his side.

He took a sip of his wine, hiding a satisfied smirk behind the gilded rim.

Good.

Icharen wasn't a violent man (lieslieslies), but Erra seemed to speak no other language but. Where he had witnessed Naenia speak in a different language, the ache in his leg reminded him of Erra's.

But perhaps that had been the Naenia from before. The Naenia he had left behind, who had been all alone in that shack in Buyan, alone with the ghostly apparition of a mother who was only there in flesh.

He could still feel the press of metal against his throat. Burning into his skin, coaxing his blood to come to the surface, to face her wrath and her fury. It felt like a sacrifice. It felt like atonement.

Did she know he would have wrenched her grip away? Did she know he hadn't moved, hadn't shoved, hadn't fought, not out of fear of her, but of himself?

He still remembered the look of betrayal on her face when he had left her.

He didn't think he would see it mirrored on her sharpened face, as cutting as the knife in her hand.

Underneath his gloves, his skin itched. Death twitched.

And he?

He simply stood, and waited.

''You look like you need a drink.''

Cain's voice piped up beside him. Ever cheerful. Peering into the cup in Icharen's hand, he amended his statement. ''You look like you need another drink. Afraid you might get stabbed again?''

''It would be a shame of the clothes.''

Laughter fell from Cain's lips in a continuous melody, and Icharen smiled — serene, practiced, even. It was only a partial lie, because the clothes he had chosen to wear that evening were made for luxury. A cape was clasped to his shoulders, fastened with a silver collar that wrapped around his throat. The fabric was of a shimmering white, stitched with silver threads that made it look like crushed diamonds glimmered with each of his movements. The fabric of his trousers matched the material, and because he had a semblance of modesty, he had opted for a white-lace undershirt.

He didn't look like a shaman any more.

''That it would. Did you ever think we'd meet again? At the palace of the gods, of all places?'' Cain shook his head, and took a sip of his drink. Wine, it seemed. ''And to think I was singing songs a few nights ago.''

Icharen hadn't thought he'd see Cain again. Not after their meeting in Abalus, when Icharen still carried the scars of life in Buyan on him. He had been afraid they would smell it on him, sense that he had come from the poisonous waters that seemed to swallow every resident whole.

Perhaps they could sense that he had left his own trail of blood, each scarlet drop still clinging to his footsteps, carving a path from victim to executioner.

But one evening, in a tavern on the outskirts of Abalus, there had been Cain. And Icharen had understood that not every Anunnaki lived as they did in Buyan. That was all he remembered from the encounter, because Cain was a popular guest in the tavern, and their cups kept getting filled whenever they emptied out.

Another lie. He remembered waking up in a stranger's bed, not knowing where Cain had ended up. He left the town that afternoon.

''I can't say I've thought of you much,'' Icharen said mildly, smiling at Cain as he let the words flow from his mouth.

Cain didn't look deterred. There didn't seem much that would deter him. ''Can't blame you. If a pretty girl held a blade up to my throat, I would not think of much else, either.''

''Is that what you were doing when I left you that evening?''

''Ah, I don't kiss and tell, my friend. Except — ''

Cain leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. ''I did kiss a certain dragon goddess.''

Icharen shouldn't have taken a sip just then. He choked on the wine, and he head to turn away to not look like an utter fool as he coughed. When he no longer felt like he was being punished for listening to Cain, he took a deep breath and looked at the white-haired man.

''You kissed Taniyn?''

Something told him it hadn't been a mere kiss. Something, being the incredibly pleased smile on Cain's face, who nodded enthusiastically. ''Kind of makes you wish she had been the one to pick you up, huh?''

It kind of did.

But Cain didn't need to know that.

So he settled on, ''Congratulations on the start thrilling start of your journey.''

Bowing in flourish, Cain was all smiles and soft fabrics. They nearly seemed to match, in how they had clad themselves in motifs plucked from the sky. But where Icharen was the white centre of a star, Cain was the velvet darkness that held its light. It was a contrast to how he had looked upon his arrival in the palace. The sheer fabric of his shirt was tied to his collar with a golden necklace imbued with stones that matched his eyes, his sleeves leaving his shoulders bare and billowing down to his wrists, where golden wrought the image of flames, before tying itself into a knot on his finger.

Icharen was glad he wasn't the one who was dressed in most dramatically. Where he had one cape, Cain had two. One that fell from his shoulders, but the fabric also fell from his corseted waist like a waterfall, the inside of his clothes resembling what he imagined Itri wove into the sky.

Yes, he supposed he could always count on someone else to be more dramatic.

At least Cain looked at home in the clothes. He had spotted Ward earlier, leaning against the wall near the door as if he wanted to make sure he could exit as soon as he had decided it was enough. When Icharen had entered and greeted him, Ward looked like that time had come already.

He was no longer leaning, instead situated by the table closest to the door, which meant he hadn't moved that much. He tugged on the collar of his shirt, the leather seeming to constrict him, pressing against his throat. Icharen nearly wanted to offer for the two of them to switch their attire, but he seemed like he would perhaps crush Icharen's skull with his bare hands than be seen with something as gaudy as what he was dressed in.

And he saw the girl with the wine-stained hair, Laia, he had learned, hold a honey-dusted sweet up to Ward. He was unmoving, stiff, like he didn't know what to do with the offering, as if the girl was standing at an altar, creating a sacrifice out of dough and sugared nuts.

She, on the other hand, smiled up at him as if she had done this a thousand times before. As if she had always reached up, watching and waiting, like a child luring a dog to play.

Icharen looked away. It felt like an intrusion.

''Excuse me,'' he muttered to Cain, handing him his empty cup. Cain took it, but opened his mouth, a silent question already forming on his face.

Icharen turned before he could finish voicing his thoughts. He pushed his way past a sheer sheet of green silk, and stepped into an alcove.

It was quieter, there.

Quiet enough for Icharen to lose his breath, attempt to pry open the knot in his chest with the expulsion, try to shake the unease that had lingered on his shoulders like a cloak ever since he had arrived.

Had he made a mistake to come here after all?

The alcove was different from the rest of the marble space. Here, the veins of gold seemed brighter, bigger, almost pulsating as if they were part of a living creature. Crystals protruded from the walls in cracked little spaces, kaleidoscopic shades he had never witnessed in such brightness in Buyan. He brushed his fingers against a stone of amethyst. It immediately glowed underneath his touch, and it felt warm like flesh.

It felt sacred.

It felt like a secret.

Footsteps sounded behind them, and then they stopped. Abruptly, like someone had gleaned something they wished they hadn't.

Icharen turned, and saw her, standing there and staring at him. Her hand was still on the silk curtain, her other hand by her side. He saw her fingers twitch. He wondered if she itched for a weapon.

''Naenia — ''

Do you love me? She had asked. He remembered how it had startled him so, how it was more effective than her piercing blade drawing blood, more effective in making her utterly terrifying than any of her argent weapons could.

He had answered in silence.

He had let the question hang in there between them with the heaviness of a noose.

He had answered with his cowardice the following day, becoming judge, jury and executioner.

Had he ruined her?

She still stood there. Waiting, looking at him as if she might give him the opportunity to speak.

In those seconds of agonizing silence, each word caught in his throat, caught there by barbed wire.

What could he say?

''Naenia, I — ''

She turned, and the curtain fell behind her.

He was alone again.