Lining the border of Frost Holm, a long set of snow-covered pines greeted him. There was a violent chill in the air, and despite himself, Theon shivered as it brushed his neck. Yet, the pines surrounding him did not move—as if their very roots had been frozen solid.

Part of him wondered if he should turn back. Theon craned his neck to look up at the castle gates looming over the snow. The other part—the louder part—already knew that it was too late for that.

"State your name and business," called a boy from the battlements. He wore a soldier's helmet, but even from here, Theon could tell that there was no hair on his chin. "And—and tell me your godship, too."

Theon removed his face covering, the wind whipping across his face. "Tell Death that the God of Volcanics wishes to speak with him."

"I'll—" the boy faltered. "Sorry, I'll be right back."

Watching the boy scamper off, Theon cracked his knuckles one by one. His body was thick with adrenaline. If Noctavius was itching for a fight—well, he had certainly found one. He would make him suffer for turning the Goddess of Memory against him. Hell, he would burn all of Frost Holm if it came to it.

The boy returned, his helmet bobbing up and down on his head as he approached. "I'm opening the gates now, so pl—please step back."

At once, the doors screeched open. It was a horrendous noise—like trapped souls screaming into the wind. He winced as it worsened, louder and louder, until it finally came to a halt. Shaking his head, Theon stepped forward.

The snow was much more manageable inside the castle gates. Looking around, he was grateful for the high walls that blocked the sting of the wind. While it was still disgustingly cold, colder than any place he had ever been, one would almost call it well-kept. Almost.

The quiet bothered him the most. Theon's eyes scanned the vicinity, but even the godling had disappeared. He lifted his head and noticed movement along the battlements, barely a glimmer in the swirl of snow. It seemed every god and goddess in Frost Holm had taken to the castle walls, lining them shoulder to shoulder. There were so many that it was impossible to take a count.

What struck him more was the weight of their collective presence. While their ages varied greatly, sheer power radiated from above. Power, and something akin to hunger. It seemed like some of Death's Army were itching for a fight as much as he was.

Ignoring them, he called out, "Are you too afraid to face me head-on, Noctavius? Or do you expect these children to do all the work for you?"

A few gods hurled insults in his direction, but brushing the snow from his shoulder, Theon made a point to ignore it. He wasn't here for them. Even though their sneers were irritating, many of them had been brainwashed by Death's promises. There was no need to spill their blood—not yet.

Crunching snow sounded from the far corner of the castle, and the God of Death appeared around the corner. Theon clenched his jaw at his leisurely pace. At his seemingly unbothered appearance.

"Theon, what brings you here?" he asked with a smirk. "If I had known you were paying me a visit, I would have prepared a party. Tell me, do you like dancing?"

He growled, "You have been meddling in things you have no business, Noctavius."

"I see," he said, tapping his cheek with a frown. "You must be here because of Dalla, correct? Have you finally decided to leave the Goddess of Sight after all, or do you prefer going behind her back? Does it make it more fun?"

"Watch your tongue."

"Poor Athema, first her son betrays her, then her people, and now you?"

Theon dropped his cloak, steam wafting from his body. "I've come to right my wrongs. Give me the orb, and I might be kind enough to spare your life."

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Sighing, Noctavius clicked his tongue and said, "Did you really think you could come into my domain and take the orb from under my nose?" The God of Death closed a few feet of distance between them. "I've seen many, many interesting things already. I know what my future will hold—even yours, Volcanics. She must have seen it long ago."

"You speak lies," he growled.

"Did she not tell you?" Noctavius snapped his fingers. "You're fated to be my puppet."

A heavy wind raced through the distance between them. Eyes swirled inside of it. At first, he thought it was a trick of light, but then those faces took shape before him. The Army of the Dead was made of bone and flesh, like the life had been sucked clean from them, and all of their features were crooked and contorted.

Suddenly, Theon found it hard to breathe. He took a step back as they jerked toward him, moaning, and a chill raced down his spine. If Death wasn't present, he would have been sick right there in the snow.

"You— You've been meddling in the afterworld."

"Meddling?" Noctavius snorted. "I am the God of Death, don't you see? To meddle in such a thing is my rite as their king."

Theon exhaled shakily and said, "You've lost your mind. You never cared about freeing this land—you want to rule over it yourself!"

The ground rumbled. Theon steadied his feet in the snow, raising his arms. Even if it destroyed him, he had to put a stop to Death here and now—before this army destroyed all of Alta.

Theon sliced his hand through the air and then pulled up. Lava, flowing deep in the ground like a river, warmed his hands. He gripped it with his mind, pulling that sensation higher and higher until it spewed from the earth like a hot spring.

Along the battlements, godlings screamed and covered their eyes, blinded by the sudden light. Some of them ran for safety—but Death did not move. He didn't so much as flinch. His army of bones stood between them, unfaltering as his castle walls.

Theon snapped his hand forward. Lava poured over the creatures, and the smell of smoke and charred flesh poured through the air. Death smirked, and the army started running towards him. Even as they burned—even as they screeched—they moved like wild animals after their prey. He sent another pool of lava in their direction, but they ignored it. Any dead that fell were replaced by others without a second thought.

He stepped back. No matter how much lava he sent soaring through their bones, they didn't stop. The first one that reached him gripped his arm, and Theon screamed, pain like fire and ice burning into his skin. More and more grabbed him until they finally shoved him to the ground, tearing into his skin with their jagged nails.

Fate—that's what Death had called it. Perhaps if he had stayed by Athema's side, she could have warned him about the vision. He could have taken up his place in the Court with pride, but there was no time for that now. The God of Volcanics had failed, and he was going to die at Noctavius' hand.

Who would tell Maruble?

The thought snapped into his mind, and he jerked up. No, he could not die here. Not when his last words to his only son had been so vile. Theon looked around wildly, searching the sky for an answer, when he had one last idea.

Pulling himself together, Theon closed his eyes and summoned all of his strength. Even as pain raged through him, he pushed through the bones of the dead and sunk his hands into the ground. It was all he had—it needed to be enough.

The ground split in two.

One second, he was being torn apart by Death's ghouls; the next, he was falling—and the army of the dead was falling with him. Screeching reached his ears but then plummeted into silence when they hit the lava. He sunk into that pool, watching the faces of the dead burn to nothing in that fatal light.

For a moment, all was silent. There was only Theon and his lava. He floated until all those skeletal hands burned to dust and then pulled himself from the ground.

He gasped for air. Lava dripped from him, sizzling as it hit the ground. Even as he smirked, his body trembled. "Is that all, God of Death? Don't tell me you thought an undead army could destroy me."

"Destroy?" asked Death, tilting his head to the side slowly. "My army wasn't trying to destroy you, God of Volcanics. They were trying to keep you."

Hands bursts from the ground. Hundreds—no, thousands of them. The dead wailed and crawled from the earth like worms.

"No," he whispered, filled with dread. "It's impossible."

Glancing around wildly, Theon suddenly froze. Dalla was on the castle balcony. She stood there, and when he met her eyes, her mouth curved upward. His love, the Goddess of Memory, yawned at the dead that gripped his ankles.

His power flickered out.

Theon knew Dalla had betrayed him and sold his secrets to Death, but he had not expected to see her here. A fresh wave of pain rolled through him. He had expected her to hate him and be cruel—had expected her to laugh—but he had not expected the indifference. Falling to his knees, he stared up at her pleadingly.

"Did you ever love me at all?" Theon asked, almost to himself.

"Dalla was only playing her part," said Death gently. "Just as you must play yours before this is all over."

"I did not ask for this."

"You are a pawn of fate, just like the rest of us." Death clasped something around his neck, and the last of his power emptied out. "Despite what you want, Theon, God of Volcanics, you will play the most important part of all."