Noctavius stepped across the bloodied field, taking care not to trip over the array of bodies lying still and lifeless around him. The air was laden with fear—so laden that, despite his curiosity, his heart hammered wildly in his chest. Even if the sight around him was just a vision from the Goddess of Memory, the hopelessness fixed in that endless sea of marble eyes was so prominent it was almost contagious, and it coated the battlefield like a disease.

"From what I can read within the orb's memories, this is a future Athema frequented." Dalla's voice rumbled through the sky like a roll of thunder. "I cannot tell which branch it's derived from—only that she spent a great deal of time considering it."

Noctavius knelt down. The warrior before him wore a gold-stiched band around her arm, and he twisted it between his fingers. "Most of the dead belong to the Wings of the Court. They are not my people."

"You don't sound pleased."

"Knowing an army's number is one thing," he admitted, frowning, "but seeing it is another entirely."

She asked softly, "Shall I show you the next one?"

"Go ahead."

The bloodied field disappeared beneath him. For a moment, the God of Death stood in an abyss of endless nothing—a place nestled between Dalla's memories. He lingered there, waiting. When she seemed to be taking too long, he cleared his throat and said, "There is nothing here, Dalla."

"Try looking around," she insisted. "This memory was just as strong as the last."

Noctavius squinted into the dark. Brushing his hand along the wall, he noted that it was made of jagged stone. A cavern, perhaps?

He felt his way through the long passage until something caught his eye—a faint flickering. When he tried to move forward, an invisible wall blocked his path. Frustrated, the God of Death asked, "Why can't I move any further?"

"The memory holds nothing else."

"Nothing else?" he muttered, waving his hand forward. "There is clearly something up ahead."

"I'm sorry, but the orb holds nothing else of this memory."

Sighing, he took one last look and said, "Then let's move on."

The world shifted.

In the third memory, Noctavius appeared outside of his castle in Frost Holm—but all was quiet. The noise that usually embodied his domain was gone and was replaced with a lingering silence. Tensing his jaw, he moved toward the gate and stepped inside. His castle looked undamaged, for the most part, and everything looked the same—except for one important detail.

All of the snow was gone.

Even as it fell around him in a cloud of white, the snowflakes melted the second they touched the ground. Circling the courtyard in disbelief, he breathed a laugh and pressed his hand into the earth. It was warm. The heat that radiated from the ground was unlike anything Noctavius had ever felt. Despite the frigid air, the ground was caked in such warmth that it felt like a Florum summer. In all his years banished in Frost Holm, the God of Death had only dreamed of such things.

"What could cause such a thing?" asked Dalla, giving voice to his thoughts.

His mouth twisted into a smile. "I think I have an idea."

Right below him, where the warmth radiated the most, was the heart of the dungeon. The same place where The God of Volcanics was being kept as a prisoner. If anyone could melt a wasteland of snow, it was Theon.

"There is only one more vision," said the Goddess of Memory hesitantly. "Do you want to see it?"

He tilted his head and asked slowly, "What's wrong?"

"It's... strange."

"That's fine," said Noctavius. "It's better to be more thorough than not."

When the world changed, Noctavius shielded his eyes. The room around him was suddenly bathed in white, and there was a small figure before him. It might have been a child, but its face was blurred into nothing. Taking a step back, he muttered, "What's the meaning of this?"

"Either Athema was unsuccessful in obtaining the vision, or she found a way to hide it from us." Even from far off, Dalla's voice sounded uneasy. "There is something else unusual. A word associated with the memory."

"What is it?"

"Newcomer."

"Newcomer," he repeated to himself. He circled the small figure. "That's curious, indeed."

Wincing, Dalla said, "That's all I have for now."

At once, the white room faded and took the blurred face with it. Noctavius found himself back in his war room on Frost Holm with Dalla seated across from him. The goddess panted, beads of sweat running down her forehead. He patted her shoulder and said, "You've done well. We'll continue tonight after you've rested."

"I'm worried, Noctavius." When he raised an eyebrow, she continued, "I cannot pull memories from the orb in order. If we rush things, we could misinterpret something vital."

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Death strode over to the pitcher of water and poured two heaping glasses. "We don't have the luxury of time, so it's a risk we'll have to take."

"As you wish," she said, accepting the water gratefully. "I'll see you tonight, then?"

"Tonight," he agreed, "so rest well."

Noctavius waited until she was gone and fell into the cushioned chair. He rolled his neck, massaging the place where Dalla had her fingers only moments before. It ached terribly. Even though he knew they were being reckless with the orb, they were out of time and options. Consequences be damned.

"W—Where am I?"

The God of Death stilled. A boy stood on the other side of the table. He was thin and trembling, like a cracked sheet of ice across a lake.

"I'm lost," the boy said, shivering. "I can't find my way home."

Feigning boredom, Noctavius waved him off and said, "There's no one that can help you here."

"P—Please..."

He turned away from the boy. After more and more dead had been showing up, he didn't want to take any chances with encouraging him. These dead weren't at all like the warriors he raised from the ground—there was no controlling them. The source of that, it seemed, was the memories they carried of their past lives. Shivering at the thought, he remembered the bloodied woman who visited more and more frequently, insisting that he take up his crown in the afterworld.

Why now, when he was on the brink of something so important? Sighing, he looked up—but the boy was already gone.

Noctavius rubbed a hand over his face and stood. He trailed out of the war room, locking the door behind him, and made his way down the long corridor. When he reached the spiral stairs, he stepped down them. The torches flickered as he walked by, and the cold air was replaced with something more tepid.

A door waited at the bottom. He exhaled, letting the remnants of the orb and the boy's visit fade away, then straightened up. Smirking, he walked through the door.

Three Gods of Science spoke in hushed voices. Before them, Theon was chained to the wall, and they motioned to him as they spoke. There was a collar around his neck that the God of Death had conveniently stowed away from his days at the Court. When they saw him, they scurried out of his way and stood at attention.

"My lord," said one with graying hair.

Ignoring him, Noctavius knelt in front of his prisoner. He waited for that flicker of anger in Theon's eyes, but it never came. "How is he doing?"

The gray-haired god looked around, waiting for someone else to answer, then stepped forward. He gulped and said, "The same. The God of Volcanics barely moves and does not speak, only mumbles occasionally. He's shown no sign that he knows where he is." Anxiously, the god rubbed his arm. "We might be able to treat him better, my lord, if you wouldn't mind explaining this process to us more thoroughly."

The Sciences held their breath as one. Noctavius studied them carefully. Coming to a decision, he nodded and said, "Much like humans, gods age over time—only slower. There are only a select few of us that can bypass that altogether, and they are considered the strongest of us."

"Like you," one of them murmured in awe.

"Like me," he agreed. "I have lived for over three hundred years, but I am able to remain young because of my godship."

The gray-haired one asked, "How?"

"I am the God of Death," he said simply. "When humans die, the energy they release goes to me."

"Does the same happen with gods?" asked a younger goddess.

Noctavius tapped the collar around Theon's neck. "Do you know what this is?"

"A nullifier."

"Exactly," he said. "Long ago, the Court of Balance used nullifiers to keep gods in check. It renders their powers useless."

"How will this aid you, my lord?"

"I may be the God of Death, but even I cannot drain a god's life force. They are too powerful." A smile played on his face, and he added, "But if I were to weaken that power..."

Understanding washed over them at once. The Gods of Science shifted, their curiosity getting the better of them. Noctavius was almost certain the gods cared more for their studies than they did for war, but he didn't mind—not as long as they stayed on his side.

"Allow me to demonstrate."

Slowly, he placed a hand on Theon's head. The God of Volcanics didn't move, as if he didn't notice he was there at all. Perfect.

Closing his eyes, Noctavius searched until he found the thread of life—the center of a god's power. Death steadied himself and gathered all of his strength. Now that Theon was weakened, the god's life force was his. Breath trembling, he coiled his power around the thread and pulled.

Theon's eyes flew open.

The god roared, fighting against the chains bolted to the wall, but there was no use. Noctavius stood firm as Volcanic's power flooded through him. The feeling was foreign and made his skin feel oddly warm, but he didn't mind. It was the feeling of raw power coursing through him.

More—he needed more.

Noctavius pulled again. Even as the god's screams became deafening and his gut writhed, he pulled and pulled on that thread until he couldn't take anymore.

Suddenly, the room burst with an orange glow. The Sciences shielded their eyes as the warmth soaked every corner of the room, and their faces slacked with surprise. It was the same feeling Noctavius had when he touched the ground in the vision—the feeling of complete and utter warmth—something he had not felt in a long time. Despite himself, he exhaled a choked laugh and let go.

The room darkened. Noctavius staggered to his feet, batting off the Sciences trying to help him, and steadied himself on a table's edge. He looked over each of them carefully and said, "Your job will be to keep him in good condition during this process, do you understand?"

They nodded as one.

"Good." He turned back to the gray-haired god. "Make sure everyone is here at nightfall tomorrow, and we will continue."

Before Noctavius turned to leave, he eyed Theon on the floor. Even now, the glow on the god's skin seemed dull—almost human.

He thanked the Gods of Science and made his way back up the stone stairs. With the new power swirling inside of him, each step felt painful and nauseating, but he had expected that. It would take time, but one day soon, he would be powerful. Perhaps the most powerful god in Alta.

There was only one piece that didn't fit: the God of Fire, Maruble.

While the boy had been useful to him at first, the boy's hesitation made him uneasy. Not only that but there was one thing he noticed from the visions Dalla showed him from the orb—and he was sure Athema had noticed it too. While the fields had been bloodied, they had not been scorched—as if the God of Fire hadn't been there at all.

Noctavius trudged back to the war room, leaning on the wall for support. Soon, he would have no need for Maruble's flame. If the God of Fire wouldn't fight in the war, then Death would do it himself, with the power he obtained from the boy's father. And if Theon's Volcanics weren't enough—well, perhaps it was time for a new prisoner.

When he opened the door, Athema's orb waited for him on the table.

Even though his body and mind were exhausted, he would keep going. He would find a way to meld the future to their will and win this war—no matter what. The door creaked open, and Dalla strolled in with two mugs of tea. He accepted one gratefully and took a long sip, the warmth radiating through him.

Gently, she asked, "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Of course."

"Then we will keep going." The Goddess of Memory placed one hand on the orb and another on his temple. She smirked and said, "Just tell me when I've had enough, God of Death. We can't fight a war if you're in the afterworld."

Before he could reply, movement caught his eye in the corner of the room. The boy had returned. This time, his face was twisted in agony as he watched him, his features haunted and pleading. Closing his eyes, Noctavius ignored him and drifted into visions of the future.