Page 75 of Ruin of Revenants

My smooth-talking reputation back at court wasn’t serving me well here, when I felt wrung out from the crushing weight of despair and the odd trepidation rising in me like a cresting wave. Besides, could anyone smooth-talk a god?

“But since you have faithfully fueled my power these past months, I’ll offer you more information without an additional price.”

How generous, I thought wryly, but I knew better than to say that aloud.

Mortius’ shadows hovered nearer. “The blood bond was, as you already have gathered, formed by a deity. But not me. And, according to our long-held laws and customs, one god cannot undo what another god has created. I can do nothing for you.”

“That’s your information?” I bit out, my churning fear exploding into anger. I couldn’t breathe; couldn’t think. I wanted to tear apart the trees around me and shout at this god until he finally did something useful. I’d sacrificed and sacrificed to him, and he’d given me bloody nothing.

I opened my mouth to protest further, to share my rage, and Mortius’ shadows formed an arm, its hand extending until its fingers tightened around my neck. The pressure was as real as that from any living body, squeezing my neck until it strangled my air supply. Darkness spotted around my vision.

This is it. I’ll die here in the middle of this cursed jungle, leaving my kingdom to be destroyed. Maybe I’ll come back as a revenant myself. And, oddly, if I’d had the air to do so, I would have laughed at my own foolish joke. Laughed as I’d died, because as much as I dreaded death and abandoning Emberglade, it would also be a blessed relief from Mortius’ curse. I’d finally found an out, at the god’s own hand.

As the blackness grew thicker, a new thought emerged like a punch to the gut.

But Isa. She’ll die too.

Isoria

“Oh, you are bold, princeling.” It was a gravelly voice, full of venom, that yanked me out of sleep.

Panic had my pulse racing, even when I wasn’t sure what I had to fear. It felt as if I’d woken from a forgotten nightmare, or some half-slumbering instinct had woken and warned me to prepare for danger.

I sat up, scanning the darkness through the screen in our tent. Starlight filtered through the forest canopy, casting strange shadows on the edges of the clearing, ones thick enough to conceal all manner of creatures, fae—or revenants. Near the tent’s entrance, Bren was sleeping soundly on his bedroll, one arm cast over his face as if to block out the barely existent light.

But Archer was nowhere in sight.

My stomach tightened. What are you up to, prince?

And that’s when it hit me. The rising tide of panic, the nausea climbing my throat. Those were Archer’s feelings. Either his curse was dragging him into terror, or he was in danger.

The sound of voices guided me toward the edge of the clearing, where I crouched behind a tree. Careful to avoid stepping on a fern, I steadied myself against the trunk, the bark biting into my palm. A few yards away, Archer’s profile was highlighted by a streak of starlight piercing the forest canopy as he faced a being unlike any I’d ever seen before. It was tall—taller than him—and made of endlessly shifting shadows. The grating, masculine voice came from it.

My skin prickled, raw terror making me want to conjure my fire and hurl it toward the dark being until it dispersed into nothingness. But it also oozed power and danger, alerting my senses that it would not be easily slain. That it could overcome any and all of us with barely a thought.

Rage pierced the panic I felt through our bond, white-hot and all-consuming. “That’s your information?” Archer’s voice was like a growl, a primal threat.

The being reached for the prince, its shadows forming something that resembled an arm. Its fingers seized Archer’s neck.

The strangled cry that threatened to erupt from my throat was snuffed out as surely as if the creature was squeezing my throat too. Blackness danced at my periphery and I grew light-headed, my lungs burning for air I couldn’t gasp for.

“Have you forgotten what I am?” The shadows leaned toward Archer. Though I saw none, I sensed eyes or something akin to them deep in those shadows, staring into Archer’s soul. “You’re here to serve me. Your very existence is to serve me. You lesser beings live and breathe for the gods’ amusement.”

He released Archer, dropping him to the earth where he choked for air. There were no marks on his neck, like the god had never touched him at all, but I could feel his pain like my own. The first breaths of air ached and burned, and my throat was raw.

As oxygen rushed back into my lungs and I could form coherent thoughts, the being’s words flooded my mind. He’s a god. My stomach coiled tightly, and my muscles tensed, ready to flee.

This wasn’t how statues and artwork depicted Mortius, god of death, but it had to be him. He was known to thrive on suffering.

Archer had mentioned information. Had the prince pleaded for help from him, thinking that he would know how to stop the revenants?

Oddly, I wasn’t angry. I was struck with a bone-deep grief. Oh, Archer. You would do anything for your people. It was chased by another realization. Was that how he’d been burdened with his curse?

“So you’re toying with us,” Archer managed, his voice nearly as gravelly as the god’s as he stood, brushing dirt from his trousers. “Has everything you’ve given me been a lie? Do you actually know who the necromancer is? You want to see Emberglade suffer.”

The shadows stilled, and for a breath, it was almost like sorrow tinged Mortius’ tone as he spoke next. “No, the spirits are not going to the afterlife. They’re restless, trapped in those undead bodies. This necromancy is not my doing, as I’ve told you, and if I knew who was responsible, I would help you undo it.”

Though Mortius was known as a trickster god, his words rang of truth. Why would he want souls to stay here, when his entire purpose was to take them to the afterlife, where he ruled?