The God of Rot had been called a ghost, he had been called a snake that slithered in the night, but—more often than not—he had been called a walking corpse because of his sickly appearance. There were festering wounds that covered his arms and legs, and they itched terribly. They also smelled vile; when gods caught wind of him, they would promptly run away to empty their stomachs.

It was not their fault—he could not stand to look at himself, either. But he hated them all the same.

Somel especially hated the Gods of Healing for swearing they would find a cure. Most of them remembered how he was as a child: a loud and jovial boy—a boy whose parents adored him and who wanted for nothing. A boy that had been in love. But as the years passed, even they had grown tired of the smell and left.

The God of Rot continued down Nira's Path and itched at his arms. He should not have come here; there were too many memories in this place. If the God of Death had not asked, he would have outright refused and scurried back to his domain. Here, he was burdened by memories of his family and friends, memories of Hilda.

Sweet, sweet Hilda.

The Goddess of Imagination had eyes like dancing emeralds and a smile that made his heart flutter. They were childhood friends, and he would have followed her to the ends of the earth if it were not for his... condition. Yet, even when his flesh was rotting and covered in scars, even when the itching had become wild and unbearable, she didn't understand why he wanted her to leave. She had asked, Why, Mel? Do you not love me anymore?

Turning at a fork in the road, Somel scratched his head. Part of him wondered if her commitment was fueled by her gift of Imagination—daydreams about what could have been, not the shredded god in front of her, not the walking corpse. He had not been able to accept her love, and so he told a lie.

I love someone else.

A cool breeze drifted through the valley, but he could not smell the wildflowers over the rot. Not a day went by that he did not think of her—see the tear sliding down her cheek as she flickered away. Somel looked up at the sky, but even the stars had lost their tangled faces and stories; they simply burned.

He made camp a short distance from the road. A few children passed by as he stoked the fire, paying him no attention. Most of them dragged their feet in exhaustion. He waited until more lights flickered on the horizon, then pushed his way through the high grass.

Somel walked until he heard laughter. Two godlings talked over a fire, their relaxed posture suggesting that the hardest part of their journey was already over. A young goddess paused their conversation and asked, "Do you smell that?

"Hello," hissed The God of Rot, stepping into their campsite. The children jumped to their feet. On the other side of the fire, the boy pulled a knife from his belt and flipped it in his hands. Somel raised his hands in the hair. "Sorry for not announcing myself sooner. I don't mean you any harm."

The girl scrunched her nose and asked, "What do you want?"

"We have our godship." The boy held his knife higher. "It would be in your best interest to leave."

"New gods," breathed Rot. He clapped his hands together. "That's wonderful news—a blessing from Alta. What sort of power did the two of you obtain?"

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The children glanced at each other. After a moment, the girl stepped forward. "I am the Goddess of Wind."

In response, the wind rustled over his shoulder, but Somel could not help but notice how she pulled his scent away from them. Turning to the other godling, he asked, "And you?"

"Knives," said the boy with a smirk. "Got a problem?"

Rot resisted the urge to frown. Boys like him often ended up in the city of Druge, a place where barbaric gods slayed one another in coliseums. It was not uncommon for a Drugan to die within a year of their godship. Somel turned to the Goddess of Wind and said, "I assume you'll be going to Florum to be with your people." When she nodded, he turned to the other. "Ah, but you have the makings of a Drugan."

"Why do you care?" the boy spat.

Somel huffed. "You're braver than I am. Living amongst those gods is a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone—and you, you don't seem like them at all." When the boy opened his mouth to argue, Rot lifted a hand. "I mean that a compliment."

"Jason will come with me to the city of Florum," said the girl.

"The God of Knives in a city like Florum?" Somel raised an eyebrow. "Gods of Nature are known for turning up their noses to violence. Do you think they'll be accepting of a god who was born for it?"

"I'll make them understand." The girl raised her chin and added, "Who are you to come here in the night and say these things?"

"Lila," said the boy softly, lowering his knife. He turned to the God of Rot. "It's not like I have a choice."

A choice. As Sommel scratched his leg, he knew he understood that feeling very much—more than anyone else in Alta. More gently now, he said, "It's not right for things to be this way. Why shouldn't the Goddess of Wind and the God of Knives live in harmony together?"

"Harmony?" asked Lila hopefully, but Jason turned away.

"There is no such place."

If Somel were not afraid of scaring the boy, he would have put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him. "It exists. A man called Noctavius has opened the doors to Frost Holm. There, gods live happily amongst themselves with no division of power. It is a place of peace—a place where The Court of Balance cannot force their hand."

"Frost Holm?" asked the boy, finally sheathing his knife. "I know that name; it's the domain of Death. To go to such a place would be betrayal."

"He'd have us all go to war."

The boy spun to Lila quickly. "War?"

"It's true that war is coming, but only because we fight for the Godlands to be free." Somel heaved a long sigh. "Now that the two of you are proper gods, the Court of Balance will expect you to fight regardless. They would have you fight for things to stay exactly as they are— a future where Lila goes to Florum and where you fight for your life on Druge." Rot shook his head. Even though he was trying to recruit them, he could not help but feel sorry for the young gods. "In Frost Holm, no one is forced to do anything, and the two of you would be allowed to live peacefully. While we would appreciate your help in the war, neither of you would be expected to fight unless you choose to do so yourselves."

Lila stumbled over her words. "What exactly are you offering us?"

"A home."

The two of them fell quiet. Jason pulled his knife out again, more slowly this time, and twirled it between his fingers. He asked quietly, "We won't be expected to fight?"

"Not if you don't wish to," said Somel, shaking his head.

Lila glanced at Jason. The two of them shared a long look, and then Jason stared down Nira's path thoughtfully. They stood in silence for a long time. Finally, the boy turned to Lila and said, "I'll only go if you come with me. If you think it would be wrong, Lila, I'll go to Druge right now, and we'll figure it out." He paused, cheeks flushing. "But I would very much like to stay with you."

The Goddess of Wind hesitated and then grabbed his hand. "I'd like to stay with you, too."

Somel thought of Hilda then. He thought of her, and his chest ached. Even as the young gods gathered up their campsite and shouldered their packs, he saw a reflection of them as godlings, willing to face all of Alta if it meant staying together. When they were ready, the three of them walked until the sun long crept over the horizon.

"We never asked," said Lila after a while. "What is your name?"

"You can call me Somel."

Jason studied the scars on his face carefully. "And your godship?"

For a moment, he considered not answering. He itched his hands and watched light wash over the world, painting Nira's Path the color of roses—no, the color of blood. Of death. Slowly, he turned his scarred face to the sky. Much like the stars, the clouds held no visible shape.

"Rot," he said, "I am the God of Rot."

And the wind passed over him like a scream.