CHAPTER FORTYݍFOUR
OF WAR AND HOPE
leep evaded me.S The visions came again and again, sliding beneath my eyelids like thieves as I willed consciousness to fade. Wars not yet fought, crowns not yet forged, blood not yet spilled. A thousand faces turned toward skies I had never seen, their lips moving in prayers to gods who no longer listened. What were these threads, these shimmering strands of possibility that whispered of things beyond the walls of my prison? Things I was not meant to see, yet somehow did?
I watched the threads drift from my chest, twirling toward wherever they went like smoke from dying embers. They curled around my fingers when I reached for them, responding to my touch as if they were alive. As if they
were a part of me.
Perhaps they were.
Each thread had its own story, and, after a large dose of confidence—or foolishness—I discovered I could experience them through touch. I wandered battlefields where armies clashed beneath banners I did not recognize. I watched kings and queens kneel before thrones made of bone and shadow, their crowns heavy with the weight of choices not yet made. I saw a woman with hair the color of fire and hands that dripped with something darker than blood, standing before a crowd that screamed her name—not in fear, but worship. These visions flitted across my consciousness, chaotic and fragmented, yet somehow connected by these threads.
The visions were not like dreams. They felt solid, real. I could smell the charred flesh on the battlefields, taste the salt of tears on the faces of the mourning, feel the cold press of metal against my brow. And always, always, there were the pleas—desperate supplications whispered by those about to die, begging fate or luck or gods for mercy that would not come. Sometimes I thought they were speaking to me, though I knew that was impossible. I was no goddess to grant clemency or deal death. I was merely Mireille.
And yet.
The silver threads were peculiar. They pulsed with life, with potential, with power I did not understand but recognized deep in the marrow of my bones. They slithered from my heart and spread outward, filling my cell with their gleaming light, visible only to my eyes. They twisted and turned, forming patterns too complex for me to decipher, yet familiar in a way that ached. They seemed to be waiting for something. For me to do something.
I wondered if Death knew what he had awakened in me. If he had sensed the change when he’d healed me, when he’d taken that piece of my essence into himself. If that was why he had proclaimed such words of care.
Although, he’d given no sign of it. I was sure he would have asked had he suspected anything different. He had simply held my hand through the long hours of the night, his thumb tracing slow patterns on my skin as I had pretended to sleep. I had felt his gaze on our joined hands, heavy and searching, but I had kept my breathing even, my eyes closed.
In the darkness behind my eyelids was when I first noticed the two that were different.
They were thicker than the others, more rope than strand. Both consisted of dozens, maybe hundreds, of thin gossamer, spiraling around each other like lovers in an eternal dance, but there were distinct differences between the two.
The first was a twisted cord of silver and crimson, the two colors twining together in a helix that seemed to shimmer with heat even in the dark. It extended above my cell, disappearing through the solid stone as if the ceiling were no barrier at all. This one terrified me. I knew, without knowing how, that it connected to Valen—a leash to the blood god, the indication of his ownership over me.
The second was a silver-white rope, luminous as moonlight on fresh snow. Its threads twisted together so tightly they seemed to merge together, pulsing with a gentle light as one. This rope curved toward the wall that
separated my cell from Death’s, vanishing into the stone as the other had done, but with a different quality—a yearning that made my chest ache each time I looked at it.
Now, I sat cross-legged on my thin mattress, watching as the two ropes swayed gently before me, as if stirred by a breeze I couldn’t feel. What would happen if I touched one? If I grasped it fully in my hand? Something warned me that such an action could not be undone—that it would change me in ways I might not be prepared for.
And yet, the urge to try grew stronger with each passing moment.
I lifted my hand, fingers trembling slightly as I extended them toward the silver-white cord. Its light played across my skin, casting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. I hesitated, my fingertips hovering just above its surface.
The sound of approaching footsteps made me jerk my hand back, my gaze turning toward the bars. My threads dimmed as if acknowledging my attention was needed elsewhere.
The familiar face of my oldest guard appeared, flanked by his companions. Although, the youngest seemed to display a careful wariness. I watched him in confusion.
“Princess,” the guard said, his voice gruff in greeting, catching my attention.
I stared at him, waiting for the familiar order to stand and present my wrists for the manacles, for the ritual of pain that had become so routine.
When it didn’t come, I felt a flicker of unease. Changes to the pattern rarely boded well.
The middle’s keys jangled, the sound echoing against stone walls slick with condensation. The lock clicked, and the iron swung open with a groan that had become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
“You’ll be bathing again tonight,” the oldest said, holding the door open as if to usher me out.
I stayed sitting, my lips twisting into a smile that must have looked unhinged considering the youngest guard’s wince. “So our king knows I’m alive?” I asked, the words sharp on my tongue as I winked toward the young one.
The oldest sighed, giving the youngest an exasperated look. “Yes, Princess. Come along, now. A bath has been prepared in the same room as before.”
I nodded solemnly, some of the tension unwinding from my spine as I stood. Stretching, I felt the pull of muscles that should have been torn but had been knit back together by Death’s touch. My joints popped, reminding me that while my wounds had healed, my body still remembered every moment of torment.
The guards stepped back to let me pass. I walked out of my cell, my bare feet silent against the cold stone. The middle guard positioned himself beside me, deliberately blocking my view of Death’s cell. I considered fighting to see him—but something in the guard’s stance told me it wasn’t worth the attempt.
We moved down the dungeon corridor, torchlight casting our elongated shadows against the walls. I could still feel the wariness of the youngest guard, and it became so unbearable, I couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
I stopped, the youngest almost walking directly into me before catching himself. I turned and squinted at him, watching him squirm. “Why are you acting so uncomfortable around me?” I asked.
The youngest guard fidgeted, his eyes darting to his companions as if seeking rescue. I simply waited, head tilted slightly, the silver threads around me dimming further as I focused my attention entirely on him.
The oldest guard sighed heavily, running a weathered hand over his face.
“We should really get moving to the bathing chamber, Princess. The water will grow cold.”
But the young guard seemed to find his courage, straightening his shoulders as he meets my eyes directly for the first time. “I was the one who found you last night,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “When they sent me to check your cell after... after the king left. I thought—“ He swallowed, the apple of his throat moving with the motion. “I expected to find you dead, but instead you were... healed. Holding the other prisoner’s hand.”
I nodded slowly, processing this revelation. My fingers twitched at the memory of Death’s warm grip, the anchor that had kept me tethered to the living world.
“And did you tell the king?” I asked, keeping my voice deliberately neutral though my heart pounded against my ribs. “About what you found?”
He shook his head, the torchlight catching on the crooked bridge of his nose. “No. He only knows you’re alive and healed. Nothing more.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop
them.
His eyes widened slightly, surprised by my gratitude. He nodded once, a quick jerking motion, before looking away.
The oldest guard cleared his throat. “Come now. We’ve lingered too long.”
As we continued down the corridor, I considered what this meant. The young guard hadn’t told Valen that I had connected with the prisoner beside me. Why? What did he gain from such discretion? Valen must know that Death had healed me, considering I couldn’t have healed myself.
The bathing chamber door stood ajar, golden light spilling out into the otherwise grim passageway. The contrast was jarring—warmth and comfort nestled within the heart of my prison. Steam curled from the doorway, carrying the scent of clean water and soap.
“Take as much time as you’d like,” the oldest guard said, standing aside to let me enter.
I paused at the threshold, turning back to face all three of them. The room behind me was a momentary sanctuary, but these men had been unexpected constants—witnesses to my suffering who had, in their own small ways, tried to mitigate it. The youngest avoided my eyes again, the middle maintained his usual scowl, but the eldest held my gaze directly.
“Thank you. All of you,” I said, offering them a smile that felt strange on my face—genuine gratitude, an emotion I’d almost forgotten existed. It wasn’t just for the bath. It was for the small mercies they’d shown throughout my captivity. The extra water when I was parched. The gentleness when cleaning my wounds. The lack of pleasure they took in my pain.
Something flickered across the oldest guard’s weathered face—surprise, perhaps, at this moment of humanity between us. He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin, before gesturing for me to proceed.
I stepped into the warmth of the bathing chamber, the heavy wooden door closing behind me with a solid thud. Honey wax candles lined the walls, their flames dancing and multiplying in the rising steam. The sunken stone bath at the room’s center was filled with water so clear I could see the bottom, so hot that tendrils of vapor rose from its surface.
For a moment, I simply stood there, breathing in the humid air, letting it fill my lungs and soften my skin. This small luxury—hot water, privacy, time unmetered by pain—felt almost impossible after what I’d endured. I pressed my palms against my eyes, willing away the sudden sting of tears. Weakness
had no place here, not even in solitude.
I untied the sash of my robe, the soft fabric slipping from my shoulders like water. I placed it carefully on a wooden bench, then stepped out of my undergarments, the steam from the bath clinging to my naked skin. It was only when I glanced down at myself that I froze, a gasp catching in my throat.
My body—perfectly healed by Death’s power—was covered in a crust of dried blood so thick it had turned black in places, flaking from my skin like rust from old iron.
My fingers trembled as they traced the dark patterns across my abdomen, my thighs, the curve of my breasts. Not a single wound remained—Death had seen to that—but the evidence of my suffering was painted across every inch of me. I remembered now, how the blood had gushed from me as Valen’s control had snapped, how I’d felt my life draining away into the stones of my cell. I’d been dying. Not merely injured, not just in pain, but truly at the threshold of death before my harbinger had pulled me back.
A laugh bubbled up from deep within me, unbidden and wild, echoing off the stone walls of the bathing chamber. The sound crackled with an edge of madness that caught in my throat before spilling free, and I twirled on my bare feet, arms stretching wide as if I were about to take flight.
I spun, feeling the warm air wrap around me as if it were trying to embrace the chaos within. My feet glided over the cool stone, and for that moment, the blood on my skin transformed from a mark of shame into a tapestry—every drop a story of survival woven into my very essence.
I stumbled toward the bath, giggling uncontrollably as the steam swirled around my legs, rising to envelop me in a cloud of warmth. I reached out with steady fingers, trailing them through the water’s surface.
How absurd my life had become. I was whole, yet broken into pieces that glimmered like shards of glass beneath candlelight. Maybe I had finally lost the last thread of sanity that had tethered me to the weight of my suffering.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. I froze, listening to the silence that followed. Another knock, this one barely audible, as if the person on the other side was uncertain. The guards had said I could take as long as I wanted. Why would they interrupt so soon?
I moved toward the door, naked and bloodied, some primal instinct urging caution. I cracked it open just enough to peer through… and found myself staring into the black eyes of my husband, my tormentor, my king.
Valen stood there in the dim corridor, not in the imposing regalia he wore at court nor the casual attire he preferred for our torture sessions. He wore a simple black tunic, unlaced at the throat, revealing the golden skin beneath.
His trousers were loose and wrinkled, almost as if he came to me from his bedchambers. But it was his expression that made my heart stutter in my chest. Gone was the predatory grin, the cruel amusement, the godly arrogance. In their place was something I had never seen before— uncertainty.
“May I come in?” he whispered, and then, shocking me to my core, he added, “Please.” The word cracked slightly as it left his lips, as though it were a language foreign to his tongue.
I studied him through the narrow opening, trying to decipher this new game. Was this another form of torture? Kindness followed by cruelty, a fresh way to break me?
“Why?” I countered, my voice steady despite the thunder of my pulse.
He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes dropped, then lifted to meet mine again with an intensity that almost made me step back. “Please,” he repeated, and this time there was no crack in his voice, only a quiet command wrapped in the veneer of a request.
I made my decision in an instant. Let him see what he had done. Let him face it.
I pulled the door wide open, exposing my naked, blood-encrusted body to his gaze. A challenge. An accusation. A truth he couldn’t deny. The steam from the bath curled around me, but I felt no shame, no urge to cover myself.
His jaw tightened—the only outward reaction to my state. No horror, no remorse, just that subtle tensing of muscle beneath skin. But his eyes lingered on the dried blood caking my thighs, my stomach, the underside of my breasts. Something flickered in their depths before he looked away.
He stepped into the humid bathing room, bringing with him the scent of night air and something metallic that always clung to him—the scent of the Blood God beneath the mortal façade.
I closed the door behind him, trapping us together in this strange moment of peace between battles. “You’re welcome to stay,” I said, my voice firm despite the unnatural intimacy of the situation, “but I am bathing.”
Valen nodded once, his movements stiff, almost awkward. He who had commanded armies, who had slaughtered my family without hesitation, who had tortured me for weeks without remorse, suddenly seemed unsure of
where to stand, what to do with his hands.
I turned my back to him, a calculated risk. It left me vulnerable, yet demonstrated my lack of fear. The dried blood cracked across my shoulder blades as I moved, a macabre armor that reminded us both of what had transpired between us. I heard his measured breathing behind me, felt the weight of his gaze on my skin.
Inside this room, written in the uncertain edges of Valen’s face, the balance shifted. This wasn’t my cell, where pain was the only currency. This place had become neutral ground, steam-draped and candle-lit, where I could set the terms of our encounter for once.
“You look better than when I last saw you,” he finally said, his voice low and controlled.
I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his eyes with deliberate steadiness.
“My neighbor is quite skilled at undoing your work,” I replied, the barb delivered with perfect calm.
Something passed across his face then—a shadow, a warning, a reminder of what he was. But he made no move toward me, offered no threat. He simply stood there, watching me with those unfathomable eyes, as though I were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.
I turned back to the bath. Whatever he had come for, he would have to act like a grown man and work for it. I had blood to wash off.
I stepped into the heat, lowering myself with exaggerated care, each movement slow and deliberate with the awareness of Valen’s unwavering gaze. The water embraced me, hot enough to sting, sending tendrils of steam rising around my shoulders. I watched as it turned faintly pink where it touched my blood-stained skin, wisps of crimson curling through the clear water like clouds. My own blood, returning to the world in this small way. I sank deeper until the water lapped at my chin, at the leather collar I still could not remove, and closed my eyes against the piercing relief of heat.
The sigh that escaped me was involuntary, a sound of such pure contentment that I might have been embarrassed had I not already surrendered so much of my dignity in this place. The water cradled me, washing away not just the blood but the memory of its spilling. For one merciful moment, I allowed myself to forget where I was, who I was with, what awaited me beyond this room.
Then I slipped beneath the surface entirely, holding my breath as the water closed over my head. The world beyond became muffled, distant. I
opened my eyes underwater, watching the blood lift from my skin. When my lungs began to burn, I resurfaced, turning back to my husband.
Only my eyes remained above the waterline as I regarded Valen, who hadn’t moved from his position near the door. He watched me with an intensity that should have felt invasive but instead sparked something dangerous in my chest—not fear, but curiosity. What did he see when he looked at me now? The princess he’d married, the prisoner he’d tortured, or the wild thing I was turning into?
We held each other’s gaze across the steam-filled room, a silent battle of wills that had become as familiar as breathing. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries, Valen moved toward me. My muscles tensed beneath the water, ready for... what? Attack? Cruelty? Even now, I couldn’t predict him.
But he surprised me again. Instead of looming over me as he so often did, using his height to intimidate, he lowered himself to the stone floor beside the bath. He sat there, one knee drawn up, his back against the sunken tub’s edge, looking strangely mortal despite the power I knew lurked beneath his skin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, unable to keep the suspicion, the ice, from my voice.
He glanced at me sideways, something flashing in the depths of his eyes.
“Why is it that every time you open that pretty mouth it’s to say something biting?”
I scoffed, bitterness obvious in my tone. “Now you want me to keep quiet? After days of begging me to speak while you carved me open?” The memories rose unbidden—his voice coaxing, threatening, pleading for my screams, my words, any sound to prove he was breaking me.
A grin spread across his face then—predatory, familiar, a flash of the Valen I knew. “I do enjoy the sounds you make,” he said, his tone dropping to something darker, “even when you are defying me.”
I refused to look away, though every instinct screamed to retreat from that hungry gaze. “I’m sure you do.”
He suddenly reached for the small clay pot of soap that sat at the bath’s edge. I lunged for it instinctively, water sloshing over the side, but he held it away from me, that wicked smile playing across his lips. I glared at him, hating how easily he could provoke me, how transparent my reactions were to him.
“Give it back,” I demanded, all too aware of how childish my words
were.
“Ask nicely,” he countered, holding the soap aloft like a prize.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I won’t beg you for soap,” I said flatly.
Something shifted in his expression then, the sharpness softening into something I couldn’t name. His eyes, usually hard as obsidian, seemed to warm. “I wasn’t asking for begging,” he said, his voice quieter. “May I help you?”
The abrupt change from teasing to warmth startled me so severely that I jerked backwards, my widened eyes flicking between his unusually soft gaze.
No demands. No cruelty disguised as kindness. Just an offer that seemed, impossibly, genuine.
I narrowed my eyes again, suspicious of this unexpected gentleness. “Are you going to rip out my hair or something just as cruel?” The question was only half-jest. I wouldn’t put it past him to use even this moment of peace as another form of torment.
To my continued surprise, he chuckled. Not his usual savage laugh, but something almost real. “No.” Just that. No explanation, no justification.
I studied him for a long moment, trying to decipher this new version of Valen, this god playing at humility. Finally, I nodded once, a quick dip of my chin that could barely be called consent.
He dipped his fingers into the soap, the creamy substance smelling of lavender and vanilla. Then, with a hesitation I’d never seen in him before, he reached for my hair.
His touch was almost reverent as he worked the soap through the tangled strands, his fingers occasionally brushing against my scalp, my neck, the sensitive skin behind my ears. I fought the urge to lean into his touch, to close my eyes and surrender to the simple pleasure of being cared for.
It was a dangerous intimacy, more unsettling in its gentleness than his violence had ever been. This was not the Blood King who had slaughtered my family, not the cruel god who had tortured me for weeks, not even the frustrated jailor succumbing to my provocations. This was something else, someone else—a man washing blood from a woman’s hair with careful, steady hands.
I kept my eyes fixed on the water’s surface, watching as small islands of soap bubbles drifted across its pink-tinged expanse. I had the sudden urge to laugh again, but I swallowed my tongue, not willing to show him this new version of myself.
His hands continued their gentle work, and despite my resolve, I found my eyes drifting closed, my shoulders relaxing, my guard slipping. Just for a moment. Just this once.
With my vision darkened, I reached inward, searching for the silver threads that had become my companions since Death had claimed his second piece of my soul. They appeared at my summons, shimmering against the blackness behind my eyelids, a web of possibilities and connections spreading outward from my center like the strands of an ethereal spider’s web. Each filament pulsed with life and potential, beckoning me to follow its path into futures I could barely comprehend.
My eyes caught on our silver-crimson connection, watching how it stretched from the center of my chest and directly toward where Valen kneeled. What did it mean that I was bound to him in this way? Was it merely the bond of captor and captive, of husband and wife, or something deeper, more fundamental?
Valen’s voice cut through my contemplation, murmured so softly I almost missed it beneath the gentle lapping of water. “I apologize for almost killing you. Again.”
The words were so unexpected, so alien coming from his lips, that I lost my grip on my threads. They faded, slipping back to whatever realm they occupied when I wasn’t observing them. I kept my eyes closed, not trusting myself to hide my shock if I looked at him.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice deliberately confused, not able to resist the small defiance. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
A growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through his fingers where they still worked soap through my hair. “I said,” he repeated, each word bitten off with reluctance, “I apologize for almost killing you again.”
I opened my eyes then, turning my head slightly to catch a glimpse of his face. His jaw was tight, his eyes averted, as though the admission pained him physically. The God of Blood and Conquest, apologizing to me, the mortal he had tortured for weeks. It was almost laughable.
But I didn’t laugh. Instead, I offered him a slight, wicked smile. “My harbinger healed me again,” I said sweetly. “Even without another chain removed. Imagine that.”
His fingers paused briefly in my hair, and though his expression remained controlled, I could feel the tension radiating through his touch. It seemed he did not like being reminded of my neighbor, of the bargain he’d been forced
to make, of the power the other god held even in chains.
“You shouldn’t trust him.” Valen’s fingers resumed their work, but with more purpose now, almost possessive in their movements. “Your ‘harbinger,’ as you’ve called him. You definitely shouldn’t speak to him. Or allow him to touch you. You do not understand who he truly is.”
I turned fully in the bath to face him, water sloshing over the sides as I moved. “And you do?”
“More than you could possibly imagine.” His fingers traced the line of my jaw, leaving trails of soap suds against my skin. “We share... history.”
“History,” I repeated flatly, unimpressed by his vague warning. “Like spending a couple decades in a cell beside each other?”
Valen’s hand stilled against my jaw, his thumb brushing away a droplet of water that had gathered at the corner of my mouth. Something dark and ancient flickered in his eyes—not anger, but pain so deep it seemed to reach back through millennia.
“Eons,” he corrected, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ve known each other for eons, Mireille. Long before your father captured us. Long before mortals walked this earth and I can tell you with absolute certainty,” he paused, searching my eyes, “he is infinitely worse than me.”
I stared at him, water dripping from my hair onto my shoulders as I processed his words. Infinitely worse? The god who had held my hand through the darkest hours, who had taken my pain into himself, who had spoken to me with such unexpected tenderness, worse than the one who had slaughtered my family and tortured me for weeks?
“That’s impossible,” I said, my voice flat with disbelief.
Valen’s laugh was soft and bitter, his thumb still tracing the curve of my cheek. “Is it? Tell me, Princess—when he heals you, what does he take in return?”
I hesitated, that hollow ache beneath my breastbone still fresh. “Pieces of my soul,” I admitted reluctantly.
“And you think that’s merely payment?” His hand moved to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my wet hair. “Do you know what happens to mortals who lose too much of their soul, Mireille?”
I stared at him, the water beginning to cool against my skin. “No,” I whispered.
“They become unmade,” Valen said, his voice softening. “Not just dead, Mireille. Erased. The soul fragments and dissipates like mist under the
morning sun. They cannot pass to the void. They cannot be reborn. They simply... cease to exist.”
I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. My hand instinctively pressed against my chest, feeling for the hollow spaces where pieces of me were missing. I shook my head, unwilling to believe it. “But he’s saved me, twice, when you’ve nearly killed me.”
“Yes.” Something flashed across his face—regret, perhaps, or something deeper. “At least if you had died from my... loss of control, you would have gone to the void. Your soul would have remained intact. Nearly whole.” He paused, his thumb brushing against the pulse point at my throat. “I would never risk your soul, Mireille. Not in my anger. Not in my desire for revenge.
I would never risk you being fully unmade.”
The sincerity in his voice startled me more than his words. There was no mockery there, no hidden cruelty—just a raw honesty that made my chest ache with confusion.
Valen’s lips curved into a smile that held no humor. “Although, dying wouldn’t have freed you from me.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against my cheek. “Even if you had died in that cell, you wouldn’t have escaped.
Your soul would have been trapped in the void, unable to pass on to whatever comes after. And I would have followed you there, claimed you there, made you mine in that endless darkness just as I have made you mine here.”
I couldn’t look away from him, staring at the absolute conviction in his eyes, the casual certainty with which he spoke of claiming me even in death.
The contradiction of him, of him not willing to risk my soul, but would follow me to the void to ensure I stayed his possession… This was not passion or desire—this was ownership taken to its most fundamental extreme.
“You’re mad,” I breathed, but even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. He was a god. What seemed like madness to me was simply the natural order of things to him—power taken, souls claimed, eternity bent to his will.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, his thumb tracing my lower lip with devastating gentleness. “But I am your madness. Just as you have become mine. Now, dunk.”
“What?” I breathed, not able to drag my eyes from his unfathomable gaze.
His lips twitched. “Dunk under the water. You need to rinse.”
Oh.
I complied, sliding beneath the surface, feeling the soap slip from my hair
in cloudy tendrils. The water around me had turned a rusty brown from all the blood, but I didn’t mind. There was something satisfying about watching the evidence of Valen’s violence dissolve away, as if it could be so easily undone.
When I resurfaced, pushing my hair back from my face, Valen was watching me with an intensity that sent a shiver across my skin despite the heat of the bath. Water dripped from my eyelashes, blurring my vision momentarily. When it cleared, I found his hand extended toward me, offering the soap.
“Would you like help with the rest as well?” he asked, his voice low and careful, as though he was treading on ground that might collapse beneath him.
What an odd question for him to ask me. He had touched every inch of my body—with blades, with whips, with calculated cruelty and, yes, with desire. But this was different. This request for permission, this offer of care rather than pain.
I shook my head slowly. “No,” I said simply. Not a refusal born of fear, but of choice. I was not ready to trust him with my body, not like this, not tenderly. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
I expected anger, even a return to the Valen I knew—demanding, taking what he wanted regardless of my wishes. But he only nodded, his expression unreadable, and handed me the soap without another word.
This acceptance of my refusal was more unsettling than any rage would have been. It spoke of change, of something shifting between us that I couldn’t yet define. I took the soap from his hand, our fingers brushing briefly, the contact sending another silver thread spinning into existence before fading just as quickly.
He remained sitting by the bath, his back to me now, giving me some measure of privacy as I began to wash the rest of the blood from my skin. It flaked away in rust-colored pieces, floating on the water’s surface before sinking slowly to the bottom of the bath. With each patch of clean skin revealed, I felt lighter, as though I was shedding more than just the physical remnants of violence.
The silence between us had stretched into something almost peaceful—a strange reprieve in our storm of pain and power. When he finally spoke, his voice was different—softer, older somehow, as though he was reaching back through centuries to find the words.
“When I was created, I was merely the God of Flesh,” he said, gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the stone walls. “Not blood, not conquest. Just flesh and the making of it.”
I stilled in the water, my hands pausing in their work of cleaning away the blood.
“I thought of creatures,” he continued, “and they came to be, just from my thought. Birds, with their hollow bones and fragile wings. Beasts that crawled and swam and burrowed.” His hands moved in the air, as though shaping these creatures from nothing, an unconscious echo of his ancient power. “Creation was effortless then. Pure. I filled the world with living things because I could, because the emptiness needed filling.”
I watched the profile of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the downward curve of his mouth. It was strange to imagine him as a creator rather than a destroyer. The water around me had cooled slightly, but I made no move to leave the bath, afraid that any sudden movement might shatter this unexpected moment of truth.
“But immortality is horribly boring,” he said, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Endless years watching creatures live and die, following the same patterns, generation after generation.” He glanced at me then, something almost vulnerable in his gaze. “So I created mortals—humans with minds that could dream and question, bodies that could feel pleasure and pain with a fleeting intensity gods can never know.”
I realized with sudden clarity what he wasn’t saying—that this god must have been incredibly lonely to create beings in his own image, companions to fill the void of his eternal existence. The thought was unsettling. I had never considered gods as lonely, had never thought of Valen as capable of such a mundane emotion as loneliness.
I sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at my chin, my eyes never leaving his face.
“I watched you—mortals,” he said, turning back to stare at the wall.
“Never understanding how you could flit from emotion to emotion with merely a blink. Love, hate, anger, happiness... these were just emotions for you. Emotions that moved mountains, started wars, built empires, all to wither away with time.” His voice held a note of wonder, as though even after all this time, human passion still mystified him.
I remembered Death’s words about how gods feel differently, deeper.
Resistant to change. I wondered if that was why Valen had felt this yearning
to create, to experience the fleetingness of life as we did.
“I loved mortals for a time,” he continued, the word ‘loved’ sounding strange in his mouth, foreign and unpracticed. “Watching you build your civilizations, your kingdoms. The way you carved meaning from chaos, found purpose in your brief lives.” He twisted slightly to look at me again, his eyes reflecting the golden candlelight. “But mortals are greedy.”
I said nothing, letting him speak.
“They prayed, over and over for help in their endeavors, and I began to ensure my favored ones would succeed,” he said, a shadow passing across his features. “I gave them strength in battle, strategy in warfare, the power to take what they desired. I chose champions, guided them to rule, watched them build their dynasties. I took on the new title of God of Conquest.”
The shift in his tone mirrored the transformation he described—from creator to conqueror, from life-giver to war-bringer. I could see how one had led to the other, how his fascination with humanity had twisted into something darker.
“Unfortunately, mortal greed has no limits. They were never satisfied with what I gave them. They always wanted more—more land, more power, more blood,” he paused, turning his head back to fully meet my gaze.
“Eventually, they turned on me. They captured me, again and again and again. Mortals always think they can control what they don’t understand, bind what they fear.” His fist clenched at his side, a gesture so human it was startling. “I always took retribution. Always. Kingdoms burned, bloodlines ended, lands salted and cursed. That was the price of their hubris.”
This was it then, the explanation of how my father had earned this particular brutality of Valen’s vengeance. A vengeance that had consumed his family, his kingdom, and now me.
“And no creature has ever made me terrified of my own power,” Valen said, his voice dropping lower, almost to a whisper. “Until now.”
His eyes searched mine, black and fathomless, looking for something I couldn’t name. In them, I saw not just the cruelty I’d come to know, but ancient loneliness, the weariness of eons, and something like… hope. Fragile and uncertain hope.
“There has not been any being who reminded me of the time before,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, “before mortal greed. One who reminded me why I loved mortals in the first place.”
The implication was clear, hanging in the air between us like the steam
from the bath. He was speaking of me. I didn’t know how to respond to this —this wasn’t a threat or a taunt or a punishment. We were starting down a road significantly more dangerous.
A strange, hollow ache spread through my chest as I looked at him—this ancient, terrible god who had created life itself, who had watched civilizations rise and fall, who had spent eternity searching for something he never found. The loneliness of it crashed over me like a physical wave. How many millennia had he existed, creating and destroying, hoping each time to find someone who might understand him? How many disappointments had he weathered, how many betrayals endured, before his heart calcified into the cruel entity I first encountered?
I knew loneliness. I had been unwanted, a bargaining chip. I had learned that duty replaced love, and my value lay only in staying silent. But my isolation was a mere heartbeat compared to his eternal solitude.
“I don’t know if I can be that for you,” I whispered, my voice catching on the words. I felt a single tear form and slide down my cheek, slow and hot against my skin. It was a tear full of complexity—of recognition in the terrible loneliness that could drive even a god to such extremes of creation and destruction. A tear for the lonely god who had created humanity out of emptiness only to be betrayed by his own creation.
Valen reached out, his movement careful and measured, and brushed the tear away with his thumb. The touch was so tender, his skin warm against mine.
“I’m not asking you to be,” he murmured, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moved, locked in this strange, fragile moment of connection.
Then he stood in a single fluid motion, his usual grace returning. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said, his voice back to its normal timbre, though something in his eyes remained different—a door opened that could not be fully closed again.
He turned and left the bathing chamber without another word, the heavy door closing behind him with a solid thud that echoed in the sudden emptiness.
I sank deeper into the now-tepid water, my mind spinning with what he’d revealed. The God of Flesh, lonely enough to create humanity. The God of Blood, betrayed by his own creations. The God of Conquest, searching for something he’d lost centuries ago.
It didn’t excuse what he had done to me, to my family, to my kingdom.
Nothing could. But it complicated things in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
I raised my hand, touching the place where he had touched me, where he had wiped away my tear with the same hand that had wielded blades against my skin, that had nearly ended my life in furious passion.
The silver threads flickered at the edges of my vision, the one connecting me to Valen pulsing stronger than before. Whatever bound us—hatred, vengeance, fate, or something with no name—it had just pulled tighter. And as I sat alone in the cooling bath, I wondered what price I would pay for seeing the man within the monster.
