The Ascended — Chapter no 28

Chapter 28

The Court of Death

THE DINING HALL WAS NOTHING LIKE I HAD IMAGINED. INSTEAD OF THE macabre spectacle I’d half-expected, the space was elegant in its restraint.

No skulls for goblets or chairs made of bones. Dark walls rose to meet a ceiling covered in silver-gilded appliqués, while the table was carved from a single slab of dark wood, polished to a mirror shine. White candles burned in bronze holders, casting just enough light to see the faces of those gathered.

I sat opposite Xül, with Morthus and Osythe at either end of the table.

The God of Death was even more imposing up close—handsome with black hair and pale skin that seemed almost luminous in contrast to his completely black eyes. When he looked at me, it felt like being examined by the universe itself.

And then there was Osythe. Though clearly mortal, she possessed a presence that rivaled her divine husband’s. Her rich dark brown skin held the vibrancy of youth; she appeared no older than her early thirties despite the centuries she had lived. She had sage-green eyes and wore her hair in intricate braids that flowed all the way down her back, the ends transitioning into soft curls. Unlike the gods, who seemed to exist slightly apart from reality, she was vibrantly, definitively present.

The silence stretched as servants moved soundlessly around us, placing plates of food I couldn’t identify before each person.

“You are the star-wielder my son has chosen to mentor.” Morthus said finally, his voice a low rumble.

I straightened, feeling the weight of his gaze. “Yes, my lord.”

“Tell me,” he continued, lifting a goblet to his perfect lips, “what do you make of our Xül as a teacher?”

Xül shifted in his seat, his discomfort almost palpable. He hadn’t touched his food.

“He’s…” I paused, considering my words carefully. “Effective, even if not particularly patient.”

“That sounds like our son.” A low, rich laugh escaped Osythe. “Always rushing ahead, expecting everyone to keep up—a trait he inherited from me, I’m afraid,” she said with a look toward Morthus that held such affection it momentarily transformed the God of Death into something almost soft.

Morthus’s lips twitched. “Indeed,” he conceded, turning his attention back to me. “I’m the one blessed with restraint. Immortality tends to make one forget how quickly time passes for others.”

“You survived the trial of Davina and Thorne,” Osythe observed, changing the subject with graceful ease. “No small feat. What was it like?”

I felt Xül’s eyes on me. Warning me. The memory of his earlier threat

still burned beneath my skin.

“Terrifying,” I answered truthfully.

“As the best Trials often are,” Morthus said, cutting into his dinner.

“What have you learned about yourself in the process?”

The question caught me off guard. I had expected interrogation about my abilities, my strategy, perhaps even my background. Not this probing into my soul.

“That I’m capable of more than I thought,” I said finally. “For better or worse.”

Morthus nodded as if I’d confirmed something he already knew. “And what do you hope to gain from these Trials, beyond mere survival?”

Vengeance. Justice. The downfall of your entire corrupt pantheon.

“The opportunity to become more than what I was,” I said instead. “To transcend my limits.”

“A diplomatic answer,” Morthus observed, the faintest hint of

amusement coloring his tone.

Xül cleared his throat. “Father—”

“Oh, let the poor girl eat, both of you,” Osythe interrupted, shooting a quelling look at her husband and son. “She’s been through quite enough without enduring an interrogation over dinner.”

To my surprise, both men acquiesced immediately.

“My apologies.” Morthus inclined his head toward me. “Osythe is right, as usual. Please, enjoy your meal. There will be time enough for questions later.”

The food before me smelled delicious. It was some kind of roasted meat in a wine reduction, accompanied by colorful root vegetables browned to perfection. I took a bite, and flavor burst across my tongue—tangy and sultry and warm.

“This is incredible,” I said, leashing my desire to devour everything on my plate with unseemly haste.

“You’re too kind.” Osythe smiled. “Though I can take no credit for the preparation. That belongs to our chef.”

Throughout dinner, Xül remained uncharacteristically silent, offering only brief responses when directly addressed.

I’d never seen him so subdued. Here, in his family home, surrounded by the trappings of his birth, he seemed almost uncomfortable. As if he were wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit.

“You’ve hardly spoken all evening, my son,” Morthus said, his black eyes narrowing. “Is something troubling you?”

“Nothing worth discussing at dinner,” Xül replied.

A wordless exchange passed between father and son then—a tension I couldn’t quite decipher.

“I see.” Morthus set down his utensils. “Well, perhaps we can continue this conversation in my study afterward.”

“As you wish, Father.” Xül’s voice was cold as ice.

Osythe sighed. “Perhaps I’ll show Thais the gardens while you two… talk.” The emphasis she placed on the last word made it clear she knew exactly what kind of talking would occur.

“A wonderful idea,” Morthus agreed, his gaze softening as it returned to his wife. The transformation was remarkable—from intimidating deity to devoted husband in the space of a heartbeat. “The foliage is particularly fine this season.”

As the meal concluded, servants appeared to clear the table.

“Shall we?” Morthus rose, nodding to Xül.

Without waiting for a response, he strode from the room, his form seeming to pull shadows along in his wake. Xül lingered just long enough to cast me a warning glance before following his father.

Osythe watched them go with a slight shake of her head. “Men,” she said, gesturing lazily.

She turned to me with a warm smile. “Come, dear. The gardens are much more pleasant than listening to those two batter against each other’s stubbornness.”

I rose to follow her, casting one last glance at the doorway where Xül had disappeared. Something told me that whatever conversation awaited

him would not be pleasant. * * * Dark flowering vines climbed the gates of the garden, their blooms deep crimson and ivory. Twisted trees bore fruit that gleamed like garnets, dew speckling their surface. A small stream wound through the grounds, its water clear and reflective, mirroring the darkening sky above.

“My contribution,” Osythe said, noticing my interest in a cluster of plants whose flowers resembled red spiders. “When I first came here, there were no gardens. Just empty space.” She ran her fingers along a petal with obvious affection. “Morthus didn’t understand the point at first.”

“What did you tell him?” I found myself genuinely curious.

“That death is meaningless without life,” she replied simply. “That one defines the other.” She smiled at the memory. “He stood silent for a long time after that, but he ordered the creation of this entire space the very next day.”

We walked in companionable silence for a moment, following the path as it wound deeper into the garden. A gentle draft slid across my arms, crisp enough to raise gooseflesh. It carried hints of spice and damp earth “You must have questions,” Osythe said finally, her tone gentle. “About this place. About us.”

“A few,” I admitted. Thousands, in truth, but most were too dangerous to voice.

“Everyone knows the tale,” she said with a small smile. “The God of Death falling for his mortal priestess. It’s become quite the romantic fable in Elaren, I’ve heard.”

“There’s often a difference between fable and truth,” I ventured.

“Indeed.” She paused beside a small pond where strange fish with scales like black pearls swam in lazy circles. “Mortals do love their dramatic tales.”

“You came here willingly,” I said, not sure if it was a question or not.

“I did.” Her green eyes held mine. “I was thirty-two years old, unmarried. My life was the temple. And I was… curious.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Terrified,” she admitted. “But sometimes terror and exhilaration are separated by the thinnest of margins. I think you understand that, given your

current circumstances.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Osythe paused, her fingers trailing over a dark blossom. “The Winter Solstice was always my favorite time at the temple. When the Gods walked among us, accepting our offerings and renewing their bonds with Elaren.

I’d been High Priestess for five years.” Her eyes softened. “Morthus attended every one after that first meeting. He claimed it was to ensure the cemeteries were properly maintained, but…” She shrugged elegantly. “Even gods can be transparent in their affections.”

“We never attended any solstice celebrations,” I admitted. “Too many people, too many eyes. I used to wonder what it would be like to see a god in person.” I gave a hollow laugh. “Careful what you wish for.”

Osythe’s expression held understanding. “The divine rarely matches our mortal imaginings. I expected Morthus to be cold, terrifying. And maybe he was—on the outside. But not truly. The farthest thing from it.” She bent to examine a cluster of pale flowers that glowed in the dim light. “Though the differences between us became apparent soon enough.”

Osythe looked up to the bleeding sky and let out a deep sigh.

“The hardest part was adjusting to the divine perspective of time,” she continued, resuming our walk. “Mortals measure life in days, weeks, years.

The Aesymar think in centuries, millennia. It creates challenges.”

“Such as?”

“Patience, on my part, at least,” she said with a wry laugh. “Conversely, teaching a being who has existed for eons that waiting three days for an answer feels like an eternity to a mortal.” She eyed me. “My son has not learned such lessons yet either.”

I thought of Xül’s irritation when I couldn’t master something immediately and understood exactly what she meant.

“Is that why he seems so…” I searched for the right word, one that wouldn’t offend his mother.

“Disconnected?” she supplied. “Part of it, certainly. He was raised between worlds—too divine for mortals, too mortal for the divine. It creates

a particular kind of isolation.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “I suspect you understand something of that feeling as well.”

The observation struck too close to home. I looked away, focusing on a nearby tree.

“My apologies,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s alright,” I managed, though my chest felt tight. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Life always is.” She touched my arm briefly, her hand warm and solid and undeniably mortal. “Especially when the divine decide to involve themselves in it.”

We reached a small clearing where a bench of polished stone provided a view of the garden’s central feature—a fountain carved from dark marble with gargoyles perched in mid-flight.

“Morthus created that for our five-hundredth anniversary,” Osythe said, her voice soft. “He always had a more brutalist taste in decor. I pretend to enjoy it.” She laughed.

Osythe vibrated with life, her skin smooth and glowing, betraying no sign of the vast time she had experienced.

“Extended life is one of the few gifts he could give me that I would accept,” she explained. “I age, but incredibly slowly. I remain mortal—I can still die relatively easily—but time’s effect on me has been… diluted.

Enough time to love him properly, but with mortality still defining my existence.”

“Is that why you never ascended?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could consider its implications. Instead of offense, her expression showed approval.

“Ascension would have been an entirely new battle amongst the domains of Voldaris. And I’d already grown tired of war.” She sighed, looking toward the palace where her husband and son were engaged in their mysterious discussion. “Besides, to become divine is to become other. And I never wanted to lose that part of myself.”

She traced her fingers along the edge of the bench, her expression thoughtful. “There are other ways to bind yourself to a divine being.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

“Morthus and I swore the Sev’anarath,” she said, her voice dropping to

a whisper.

“What is that exactly?”

“It’s ancient—older than the Twelve themselves,” she explained. “A ritual that binds two souls together across time, distance, even the barriers between life and death.” Her hand absently moved to rest over her heart.

“We become… extensions of each other. I feel his pain, his joy. He feels mine.”

“That sounds…” I searched for the right word, “intense.”

She laughed softly. “That’s one way to put it. It’s considered… extreme, even among the divine. Most Aesymar would never consider such a binding. It’s too intimate, too permanent.” Her eyes took on a faraway look.

“Once done, it can never be undone. Not even by death.”

“Why tell me this?” I asked, suddenly aware of how personal this revelation was.

“Because stories are how we preserve truth, even when others would see it forgotten.” She gazed toward the palace again. “The history of the divine is often sanitized, rewritten. This—what Morthus and I share—is a truth many would prefer remained buried.”

She looked back at me, respect in her eyes. “And you strike me as someone who values truth, no matter how uncomfortable.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I thought of my own circumstances— the Trials, the path to ascension I’d never wanted, the divine blood already flowing through my veins against my will.

“He cares for you, you know,” she said suddenly.

I startled. “Who?”

“My son.” Her eyes, warm and knowing, met mine. “He tries very hard not to, but he does.”

“As far as he can throw me, maybe.” My palms were already damp.

“If that were true, he wouldn’t have brought you here,” she pointed out with a smile. “Xül doesn’t introduce us to anyone. He never has. You’re the

first.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she assured me. “I just thought you should know. My son builds walls like others build temples—with dedication, precision, and absolute commitment. The fact that you’ve glimpsed what lies behind them is… significant.”

Before I could formulate a response, she rose gracefully from the bench.

“I should show you to your quarters. It’s getting late, and I suspect tomorrow will bring its own challenges.”

As we entered the main hall, voices drifted from a nearby chamber— raised in what sounded like an argument. I recognized Xül’s immediately; his tone was colder than I’d ever heard it.

“—not your decision to make,” he was saying, his cadence clipped and cutting.

Osythe sighed, placing a gentle hand on my arm to guide me toward a different corridor. “Family discussions,” she explained, though her expression suggested the euphemism didn’t begin to cover whatever was happening behind those closed doors.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, glancing back toward the source of the voices.

“It will be,” she said with the resignation of someone who had witnessed similar scenes countless times before. “My husband and son are more alike than either would care to admit. It makes their disagreements… particularly intense.”

We climbed a spiraling staircase, its steps wider at the edges than the center, creating the unsettling impression of ascending through the interior of a massive shell. At the top, a corridor stretched in both directions, lined with doors of dark wood inlaid with silver.

“Your chambers,” Osythe said, opening one of the doors to reveal a spacious room beyond. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

The room was elegant but not ostentatious—a large bed with dark crimson coverings, a writing desk beside tall windows that looked out over the gardens, a sitting area with comfortable chairs arranged around a small hearth where flames burned.

“This is more than comfortable,” I admitted, running my fingers along the smooth wood of the desk.

“What did you expect?” Genuine curiosity tainted her voice.

“Something less…” I gestured vaguely. “Inviting.”

She laughed. “Death isn’t cruel, my dear. It simply is. The same applies to its domain.”

I glanced around, noticing a smaller door that presumably led to bathing facilities, and another that might be a closet. “It’s strange, having the queen herself show me to my room instead of servants.”

“Queen.” She smiled, amused by the title. “I suppose that’s accurate, though no one calls me that.” She moved to the window, looking out at the

deep crimson horizon. “As for servants—I find I prefer handling certain matters personally.”

“I’ll leave you to rest,” she said, moving toward the door. “If you need anything, simply pull the cord beside the bed. Someone will attend you.”

She paused, her hand on the doorframe. “Though I would suggest remaining in your chambers until morning. The palace can be confusing to navigate at night.”

With that gentle warning, she departed, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I moved to the window, looking out over the gardens where Osythe and I had walked. From this height, I could see how the paths formed an intricate pattern, like veins through a heart. Beyond, the Eternal City sprawled toward the horizon, its lights gleaming against the darkness.

The formal attire felt stifling after such a long day. I slipped out of it, relief washing over me as the heavy fabric fell away. In the wardrobe, I found a nightgown that seemed almost too delicate to touch—silver-white and impossibly thin, made of some expensive fabric I couldn’t identify.

I pulled it over my head, the material cool against my skin. The gown clung to my form, the fabric so sheer that it concealed almost nothing. The chill of the room made this fact even more apparent.

I climbed into the vast bed, sinking into a softness that enveloped me like a cloud. Sleep should have come easily after such an eventful day, but my mind refused to quiet. The fragments of conversation I’d overheard between Xül and his father kept replaying.

I tossed and turned, the sheets twisting around my legs as minutes stretched by. What had they been arguing about?

Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer. The need to know overpowered caution. I slid from the bed, snatching the matching robe and slipping it on, tying it loosely at my waist. It didn’t hide much of me. But then again, I didn’t intend on being seen.

I knew I should stay put. Knew that wandering the palace of the God of Death uninvited was the very definition of foolishness.

But I couldn’t allow Thatcher to do all the heavy-lifting. I needed to investigate too. If their conversation had anything to do with what we’d learned at the prison—if I could figure out exactly what this meant for Sundralis and Bellarium, I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

Consequences be damned.

I waited long enough to be reasonably certain Osythe had retired to her own chambers, then cracked open the door, peering into the dimly lit corridor beyond. Empty.

Slipping out, I retraced our steps down the spiral staircase, moving as silently as possible. The nightgown whispered against my skin with each step.

At the bottom of the stairs, I paused, listening. The palace was eerily quiet now, with only the occasional distant sound of movement to suggest it wasn’t completely deserted.

I followed the corridor toward where I thought the voices had originated, passing several closed doors before stopping at one that stood slightly ajar, a thin line of light spilling out onto the dark floor.

“—cannot continue to delay,” Morthus was saying, his voice tightly controlled but edged with frustration. “The time for childhood rebellion has long passed.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Xül’s response was coated in ice.

“Rebellion?”

“What would you call it? You reject every suggestion, every candidate put before you. You hide on that island of yours rather than taking your place here. You shirk responsibilities that have been yours since birth.”

“I fulfill my duties as Warden,” Xül replied. “I maintain the Prison. I interrogate those who threaten our domain. What more would you have of me?”

“A successor,” Morthus said bluntly. “An heir. A wife who can stand beside you when you eventually take my place.”

My breath caught in my throat. This was not a conversation I should have been hearing.

“Nyvora is a suitable match,” Morthus insisted. “And Davina supports the union.”

“Then perhaps Davina should marry her,” Xül replied scathingly.

“You speak like a child,” Morthus’s voice lowered. “This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what must be. Sacrifice—”

“Don’t presume to lecture me about sacrifice, Father,” Xül shot back.

“You have responsibilities,” Morthus continued, implacable.

“Responsibilities you’ve ignored for too long.”

“Is that what mother was to you? A responsibility?” The question hung in the air. “A suitable match?”

Silence stretched so taut I could almost hear it humming.

“You know better than that,” Morthus said finally, his voice quieter but no less intense. “What your mother and I share has nothing to do with this discussion.”

Xül’s laugh was bitter. “You chose a mortal woman against all tradition, all expectation, all divine law. You nearly started a war.”

“The circumstances were different,” Morthus replied. “You’re well aware of that.”

“Right.” I could hear the sneer in Xül’s voice. “This is my fate—after ascending on my own merit, not through accident of birth like so many of

the others.”

“There’s that self-pity once again.”

Footsteps approached the door. Xül. “This discussion is over, Father.”

I barely had time to duck behind a nearby column before the door was thrown open. Xül emerged, his face a mask of cold fury. He strode past my hiding place without a glance, heading toward the gardens.

I pressed myself against the column, hardly daring to breathe until he had disappeared from sight. From within the study came the sound of a heavy object being slammed—Morthus venting his frustration on some unfortunate object.

I should return to my room. I’d already heard far more than I should have, far more than was safe. And I certainly didn’t want to be caught in the

middle of his family drama.

And yet.

Don’t do this, a sensible voice whispered in my mind. Remember what he did today. Remember he threatened you. Remember the coldness in his

eyes.

I did remember. Of course I did.

But my feet carried me forward, out into the misty evening air where Xül’s silhouette stood against the crimson horizon.

Curse the gods.

I was reaching for ghosts again.