Page 258 of Starside

Stellaris. She glimmers in my palm, awakening.

“Fine,” I say, falling into a stance he helped me master. “If you can’t strike me down … then duel me, Raker.”

I’ve never been able to duel before.

We’ve done it countless times. Now he shakes his head. But he doesn’t get to make that decision.

There is a way. Kill the God of Death.

With a bellow, I rush forward, going right for his neck—and in a flash, his sword crashes into his hand, wrenched from the god’s chest, flying into his grip. It’s up and meeting my metal before I can blink.

Memories from our quest echo. Me, in the cave, trying to get his attention. Cleaving my blade toward his to get him to listen. His meeting mine. Bending sound and space.

The same thing happens now.

The ringing our swords produce is poetry. It’s the stars scaping across the galaxy. It’s the sun melting into the sea.

But Raker is not the same human I dueled with before. He’s not even just an immortal.

He is a god.

The force of his newfound strength sends me flying back, sliding across the stone, my head cracking against it.

For a moment, the world gutters out. But no. I cling to consciousness. I cling to the image that flashes in my head—my family and me, everything broken turning whole again.

Mind swimming with pain, I rise, only to find him right in front of me.

He could kill me in a second. I see that. I feel it. Part of me wants him to try, to show us both exactly who he is, the merciless God of Death.

But he doesn’t.

I slam my blade down with all my strength, over and over, in a furious frenzy, using every move he taught me. I go for his neck, for his chest, for his legs, and every single time, his metal meets mine. He doesn’t even attempt to hurt me. All he does is block my advances. And it’s easy, the way he fights. Like he is lifetimes faster and stronger than I am, like all my years of training are absolutely nothing. Like I am the lowliest of metals against the highest grade of steel.

He’s not even trying.

“Fight me,” I say through gritted teeth as I fling my sword toward him again, with both hands and all my strength.

His sword echoes against mine. And the sound—it’s a song. Life and death, sun and darkness, summer and winter—I feel them all, merging for that one resonant second, and I don’t know if it’s us or our swords, two halves meeting, glimmering, wanting.

“No,” he says as our blades meet again.

A growl escapes from the back of my throat as I rush forward once more. He’s not even looking at my sword.

He’s looking at me.

“Fight me,” I bellow, putting every piece of myself into my next hit. And this time, when our swords collide, they unleash a blinding light. I gasp—backing up a few steps, away from him and his weapon.

I expect him to strike, or say something else, or just leave and decide I’m not worth another moment of his immortal life, but all he does is throw his sword to the ground.

All he does is stalk toward me, until his hands are cupping my cheeks, like we could both forget everything that happened and start anew. I let him. I want to let him. My arms go slack by my sides.

“Aris, stop this,” he breathes, right into my face, and I shiver, remembering how we panted words against each other’s lips, how our eyes widened, how we both begged and gave, held tight and released. Over and over and over until we were boneless and spent.

He shivers too, as if he’s doing the same thing. “I don’t want to fight you. Not anymore.”

He’s staring at me so intently, looking into my eyes as if somehow he’s seeing something new. His own eyes widen. He’s so focused. So entranced. His lips part in surprise, then lower, as if he’s going to kiss me.

“You left me,” I whisper, chest heaving. Eyes prickling.