After watching Vah’mor for days, the only pauses in fighting happening when Vah’mor went to retrieve a new weapon or the waves of demons receded, D’Argen finally decided to make his way back to Evadia.

He knew that if he did not return within a certain time, Acela would deem him another death and task someone else with supporting Vah’mor. He also knew that the task was a death sentence for most. He did not, however, hurry too much on his way back.

Instead of taking the direct route, he circled further north, away from Sky Mountain and the memories that still lingered there. They were distant now, so far away that it felt funny to even avoid them sometimes, but the thought of him having killed more mortals by mistake than Vah’mor had killed demons on purpose was mortifying.

On his detour, he ended up crossing the invisible border into a newly created mortal nation. When he realized that a new culture had arisen, he only thought it was the norm. The closer he got to the bigger towns though, the more he learned of this culture.

The sun was rising over the horizon, but the sky was already bright with red and orange flames when he entered one such town. Though the tall column of flames brought up horrible memories of small villages burning in the east and Abbot’s still body, it looked like all of the citizens of it were already awake and the fire was not burning in anger.

No. When he approached, he heard prayers.

There were some mortals, kneeling before the fire with their hands covering their chests or throats, while others just threw out a prayer to the flaming column as they passed.

“Protect us.”

“Kill them.”

“Fight for us.”

“Destroy them.”

The prayers ranged, but they all had the same general root.

D’Argen stopped an elderly man that just got up from his kneeling position to ask who they prayed to.

“The God of War,” the man rasped out.

D’Argen glanced around them, noticing multiple eyes focused on him. It was obvious they knew who he was or, more importantly, knew who he was not, because they returned to their prayers and business as if he was not there at all.

A few more towns, more villages, and D’Argen got the impression that this nation was built from the refugees and survivors of those whose homes were destroyed by the demons.

By the time he returned to Evadia, Adda-on had another sack of weapons ready to deliver to the new God of War.

D’Argen felt the name was wrong. No. Not wrong. He felt the title did not belong to Vah’mor, but had no idea who should have claimed it instead. When he shouldered the new pack of weapons, Thar’s shade appeared. It had not visited him once since he left Evadia and watched Vah’mor fight. Now, it stood off to the side with a glower and arms crossed over his chest.

As D’Argen focused on the shade, he saw the man’s white robes become stained red. A ribbon appeared on his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes, and lines of hot blood spattered on his face and shoulders. Thar’s hands were drenched in blood.

D’Argen gagged.

“Wait! Before you go, Upates called for you,” Adda-on called for D’Argen.

After asking for directions, D’Argen made his way to a squat stone house near the great hall. The door was heavy and thick, and he pounded on it hard enough to be heard. When it finally opened, Upates did not say anything at all. Instead, the head artificer turned back into the house.

D’Argen followed, confused, until Upates led him to a small room in the side. Upates’ private workshop, away from Adda-on’s work and people, and much smaller than the rooms he had in Kaariai.

Upates still did not say anything once D’Argen entered the room, but he did motion to the table in the middle. On it was a strange contraption with three metal parts attached together, almost as long as his whole arm and thicker than it when grouped together.

“What is it?” D’Argen asked and touched the metal. Something about it felt familiar.

Thar’s white shade appeared in the corner of the room and smiled.

“A weapon,” Upates finally answered. His voice was low and raspy. D’Argen sincerely doubted he had spoken much to anyone at all since Tassikar’s death was first announced over a decade ago.

“Ah. Would Vah’mor know how to use it?” D’Argen asked and dropped his pack. If it was something else to give to Vah’mor, he should keep it safe with the other weapons.

“For you.”

Those words made D’Argen’s hands freeze on the strings holding the sack closed. He was not sure he heard right. When he turned to face Upates, the artificer was looking at the wall.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

“For me?” D’Argen asked, to confirm he had heard right.

Upates nodded and finally looked at him. Then his eyes went down and focused on D’Argen’s hands.

D’Argen rose from his crouch and reached for the metal again.

“Why?” he asked, the main question burning in his mind.

“Because you will need it,” Upates answered.

“Why?” D’Argen asked again, more firmly, and turned away from the metal contraption to look at Upates.

“Because you asked for it,” Upates answered, eyes narrowed in on D’Argen. “When you raised your hand in that hall, when you told Acela what you wanted to do, when you started goading the mortals into fighting the demons instead of themselves. You asked for this.”

D’Argen rocked back on his heels at those words then nodded. He felt drawn to the strange contraption and though he knew he should remember it, the memory was only teasing at the corner of his mind. Finally, he gave in and touched the centre piece. The other two were connected to it. He swung it out over the ground, positioning his hand to be more comfortable, then straightened his arm.

The weight of the metal was familiar even if the form was not. With a sudden jerk of his hand toward his chest and then out like a punch, the two piece of metal he was not holding snapped out. A string sang as it pulled to its full length and then the mechanism that held the pieces folded clicked into place to keep the bow’s arms steady and straight.

Upates did not look surprised that D’Argen was able to figure it out. Instead, he reached for another bench and then presented D’Argen with a quiver filled with metal arrows. Instead of taking the quiver, D’Argen pulled a single arrow out. It was light, much lighter than its metal frame would suggest, and the fletching was of a material he was not familiar with. He knocked the arrow into the bow and pulled the string.

It was heavy, the muscles of his back protested, but once he pulled the string as tight as he could, it felt like everything inside him settled. He relaxed into the pose, aimed down the arrow’s shaft, and knew that he would hit whatever mark he aimed for. He slowly relaxed the string and looked at Upates.

“Here,” the artificer said, holding out something else again. It was soft leather this time.

D’Argen took the matching leather gloves that left three of his fingers bare and had a metal line along the inside of his forearms. This time, he pulled the string without an arrow notched and ready. It felt much more comfortable and easier to hold with gloved fingers, even if the muscles of his back pulled and protested at the pressure. He released the string, and it sang as it scraped against the metal of the glove. The sound was such a high pitch that he was surprised he was able to hear it, but his mahee ate it up. It tasted sour.

He had no words. He turned to Upates, not sure what to say to thank the man. Upates shoved the quiver at him and D’Argen noticed that it was on a horizontal belt rather than a diagonal one. He fitted the belt around his hips.

“Here.” Upates took the bow from him and then pointedly clicked the two round mechanisms of the arms. The bow folded back up to its strange form from earlier. Each of the mechanisms also had an additional purpose. Upates bent close to D’Argen’s middle and showed him how to click the bow on the quiver using the mechanisms there.

“Now go. Vah’mor needs more help than they will ever admit.”

With those words as parting, D’Argen collected the sack of weapons again and left.

As soon as he stepped out of the house though, D’Argen was greeted with loud cheers. Upates joined him at the door a moment later and both looked around to try and find the reason for the palpable joy around them.

When they both saw Vah’mor walking toward the hall, mortals and gods alike stepped out of their way and either dropped to their knees or bared their throats. D’Argen felt the temptation to do the same.

Vah’mor was back.

The cheers around them both made sense and made him cringe. The others thought Vah’mor was back because they had won. D’Argen remembered otherwise.

Vah’mor kept eye contact with D’Argen for a few steps before they passed through the doors of the stone hall. Upates nudged D’Argen around and then passed him, going into the hall as well. After some hesitation, and at least two dozen other gods, D’Argen followed and went into the hall as well.

Most greeted Vah’mor back with hugs and kisses and smiles and cheers. Acela hugged them tight and clutched at their long hair. Her grasp around them looked almost desperate. She was whispering something to them as the two hugged, but the cheer and jubilation around them drowned out the words.

D’Argen wanted to join in the happiness. He did. But Thar’s white shade was standing in the corner with a frown on his face and D’Argen had scars on his fingers from the bow’s string that he had not pulled yet.

Then Vah’mor said something that made Acela’s smile fade and her frame stiffen.

D’Argen did not hear the exact words or even knew what it was that Vah’mor said, but he knew what it would lead to. He watched as Acela slowly unwrapped herself from around Vah’mor, her face paling to the point that she looked sick. The crowd around them must have noticed the fear so clear on her face because, slowly, the cheers quieted down.

They all waited, with bated breath, for news.

D’Argen did not dare to look away from Vah’mor. He had not caught it the first time, but he needed to know who came up with the idea and who made the initial request.

Acela nodded and then bared her throat, right there in the hall surrounded by everyone. There was no ceremony at all, no warning, no speech, no way to prepare for it at all. When Acela’s scent came out, that of sunshine during a warm summer day in a field of flowers, everybody felt relaxed. She urged them to relax further.

D’Argen tried to fight her mahee, the compulsion that had him obeying her without a thought. Around him, everyone started bearing their throats. D’Argen fought the urge and glared. Since everybody else had their eyes to the ceiling, D’Argen was probably the only one who saw what actually happened.

Vah’mor leaned into Acela, tucked their face into her neck, and then breathed in deep. Their hand came up as well, a glint of metal in their fingers, and then Acela gasped. Everyone was still looking at the ceiling so only D’Argen saw the swell of blood right before Vah’mor lapped it up.

The wound on Acela’s neck healed almost immediately. By the time her scent disappeared and Vah’mor had pulled back, there was no sign of what exchange had happened at all.

But D’Argen had seen it. And then he remembered.

Vah’mor had once asked him what he thought happened to a drop of blood in the ocean. D’Argen had laughed. Now, knowing exactly how the spell had started, D’Argen realized that his answer was like that of a child. The blood did not disperse and fade away, get lost in the ocean and buried until not even its memory existed. No.

The blood that was Vah’mor’s mahee, the one thing that they controlled as they consumed, stained the ocean. It faded away into invisibility, but its source remained. Always.

When Acela made the announcement that Vah’mor would need all of their help, she did not need to persuade them. It was Vah’mor that had already persuaded her, and that was enough.