"Troublesome,” muttered Somel. The God of Rot itched his flaking arms. "Troublesome, indeed."

Frost Holm bustled with life around him. The air cut through his robes like a knife, and even the snowflakes fell in continuous flurries that were too thick to see through, but Death's followers didn't seem to notice. They continued moving large wooden crates onto wagons, strapping saddles onto horses, and chatting with one another excitedly. Crossing his arms, Somel watched with a hint of dissatisfaction.

He wouldn't be riding a horse. No, Somel would have to be carried on a wagon since his skin was so brittle, and even a short journey on horseback was unbearable. And yet, Death had insisted that they ride out together at the front of it all. Regardless of his weakness, Noctavius wanted him by his side and had assured him there would be a spot for his wagon at the front, which was reserved for his strongest warriors.

Lila and Jason caught his eye. The two godlings were in good spirits— perhaps too good. They had taken to Forst Holm almost instantly, and within a few weeks, they had learned to wield their powers better than some of their elders. Leaning against the castle, Somel watched them with a frown. Their cheeks were round and their eyes wide as they swung the swords they'd been given. Hells, even the smallest helms were almost too big for them to see from.

It had been the one thing he and Death disagreed upon. Lila and Jason were children, plain and simple. When Somel had recruited them from Nira's Path, he had expected them to become Noctavius' followers, and he had even expected them to support his cause, but he had not expected this. Children— fighting in a war! He shook his head at the thought.

Noticing him, Lila waved and jogged over— her helm bouncing on her head as she ran.

"It's finally happening," she said breathlessly. "Can you believe it?"

"We'll be departing soon."

"You're coming with us, right?" Her eyes scanned the courtyard with a frown. "Jason told me you couldn't ride a horse."

Somel bobbed his head in a nod. "Due to my condition, I'm unable to ride horseback, but Death is having a wagon prepared. I'll ride at the front with the others."

She sighed with relief. "Good— that's good."

Lila shifted awkwardly. She rubbed her hands together, looked out at the chaos, then looked back at her gloves. Finally, she met his eyes and said, "I wanted to thank you."

"What for?"

"If it weren't for you, Jason and I would have been separated. We would have never found a place where we belonged." She smiled to herself, and Somel pursed his lips. "This place is our home now, and these people are our family. We never would have made it here without you, and I just wanted to say thanks. For the both of us."

The God of Rot scratched his leg with the heel of his boot and said, "There's no need for that."

"Too late," said Lila, giving him a winning smile. "Guess you'll just have to live with it."

Somel opened his mouth to say something— to say anything— but then Jason called out from behind. Lila raced off without another word, with all the excitement of youth, and the sentence died on his lips. No, not a sentence, an apology.

"You did a good job finding them. They'll be a good asset to us on the field."

Somel flinched. The God of Death stood next to him, wearing leather armor and stretching out his arms. He wore a smirk, but there were dark lines underneath his eyes— even darker than the last time Rot had seen him. Noctavius, adjusting his crown of bones, nodded to the bustling and asked, "How are we coming along?"

"We're ready to go, my lord." Turning away slowly, Somel's eyes flicked back to the camp. "The army is three thousand strong, with five hundred of those being Derutons. The Deruton archers will ride on the frontlines with the hundred-or-so gods with battle affinity riding close behind." He paused and added, "I've mixed in the godlings like you asked, but I urge you to reconsider. Outsiders may find our use of children troublesome."

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Death snorted. "Children are still gods, old friend. They deserve the right to victory like everyone else."

"But they are so young, Noctavius—"

"And our numbers are so few." Narrowing his eyes, Death studied him before continuing, "I understand you've grown fond of the godlings, but their powers will prove useful to us. If they were powerless Derutons, I might reconsider, but those children could change the tides of this war." Suddenly, Death clapped a hand on his back, and Somel winced in pain. "You can air your grievances after our victory. For now, we ride."

Noctavius lifted his chin and strode toward his horse. Gods and Derutons alike stared as he passed— some bowing reverentially while others gleamed with admiration. Not a single one had agreed with Somel about leaving the children behind, instead choosing to side with Noctavius, and that bothered him. As the God of Death slid into his saddle, Somel found himself frustrated with their indifference. Frustrated with Death for allowing all of this.

"Where did it all go wrong, Somel?"

The Goddess of Memory appeared next to him, gazing over Frost Holm's courtyard. Even with the icy winds, she didn't seem bothered by the cold, and her skin was so pale that it looked to be made of ice. Rot glanced at her and then at Death, who was rallying the soldiers. He murmured, "This was his dream."

"He doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, and has started talking to the walls." Dalla glared at him, and a shiver went down Somel's spine. "Some dream."

"The war is weighing on him."

"It's more than that."

Somel scratched his face thoughtfully. "He's... changed."

Dalla frowned and tilted her head towards the castle, where the God of Volcanics was being dragged from the dungeons. He wore a collar around his neck— one that drained his power and allowed Noctavius to wield it for himself— and his face was so pale that it looked gray. Theon looked over the camp without really seeing anything.

Somel grimaced. That was another source of their disagreements lately. He eyed the collar, and his stomach swirled at the sight. The other gods in Frost Holm must have felt the same because they quickly looked away from Theon— at the unforgivable crime that their leader was committing. Stealing another god's power.

"Remember when it was just the three of us?" Dalla watched the Gods of Science strap Theon to a wagon and continued quietly, "After Gemma died, he was left alone in this horrible place, and we refused to leave him. When he started making plans about revenge and war, we followed along without question."

"There was light in his eyes again."

Dalla turned to him and asked, "Do you know why I agreed to approach the God of Volcanics?"

"Why?"

"I thought if we played along with Noctavius' plans, then he would get better again."

Somel itched his stomach and sighed. "Don't blame yourself, Dalla. The result would have been the same."

"I know, I know. It's just— I loved him, Somel. I loved him so much."

"I know you did," he said gently.

They stood quietly for a long time and watched the scene before them. It felt like just yesterday that the two of them were comforting their mourning friend. The change happened so fast— Death's grieving forged itself into unrelenting anger, and he became bitter towards any god that didn't agree with his ideals. He had changed. And perhaps, if Somel was honest with himself, this change wasn't for the better.

The God of Volcanics twitched on the wagon, and the Gods of Science leaped back. Even though Theon was nothing more than a shell, and even though they had watched his power slowly dwindle for themselves, the gods were still terrified of him. Terrified of the god he once was.

"I'm the one who gave Maruble his human memories."

Somel eyed the goddess. "What sort of memories did you give him?"

"I gave him pain," she admitted quietly, "but then I gave him two friends to help bear the weight of it."

"What kind of pain?"

"Grief."

Somel closed his eyes, fighting a lump in his throat. "You gave him us."

"I altered the memories to avoid suspicion, but the essence of them is still there." Dalla smiled softly to herself. "No matter what happens, even if we lose this war and the godlands forget, our memories will remain. The pain we felt will live on."

"Through the boy."

"If he makes it back from the underworld." Dalla noticed Somel's slack face and added, "Didn't you hear? Noctavius trapped his friend's soul there to test him."

Somel's body went cold, and his throat suddenly felt dry. He watched the God of Death open Frost Holm's gates and had to remind himself to breathe. It had been obvious that Noctavius was furious with the boy, and Rot knew that he had spent some time taunting him— but this? Humans were helpless, even by Deruton standards, and throwing one into the underworld was cruel. Wasn't Maruble barely more than a child? The drums of war rumbled through the camp. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Dalla's head snapped to him.

Slowly, she asked, "Somel, where is your wagon?"

He blinked. Noctavius led his forces from the gates with Deruton arches flanking either side. Looking around, he realized that every wagon in Frost Holm had been filled to the brim with supplies, and all of them traveled at the back of the group. Somel wouldn't have complained if he was unable to ride next to Death— but that wasn't the issue. The problem was that there was not one empty wagon in sight. Not a single one.

The God of Death had forgotten him.