Noctavius yanked the God of Volcanics from the cart. The horses whinnied, slamming their hooves to the ground and pulling against their reins as Theon staggered forward. Somehow, he managed to sleep through the initial attack on the Court of Balance, but now the divine gaped at the battlefield.

The collar on Theon's neck whirred. Built from ancient magic, the device was created to drain criminals of their abilities until they were deemed safe to re-enter society, but the mechanism was discarded almost immediately. Weakened gods were much more likely to have their energy siphoned by someone stronger— a crime punishable by death under Balance's law.

"Why are you doing this?" rasped Theon.

Noctavius considered not answering. He gripped Theon's restraints, listening to the distant shouts from the battlements. When he glanced down, the God of Volcanics looked so pathetic, so wrenched from his former glory, that Death sighed and gestured at the clashing force.

"My people deserve a home. A real home— not the wastelands of Alta." Death leaned back on his heels. "The powerless are outcasts. The weak, the strange, those that struggle with their godship..."

He blinked. Looking behind him, Noctavius cursed.

Somel was nowhere to be seen. Long ago, he promised the God of Rot to lead their militia side-by-side, affliction be damned, but he had been so fixated on gathering fighters that he had forgotten. Memory sorted it out, most likely, and yet he couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't see them anywhere among the fighting. Noticing Theon's stare, Death cleared his throat.

"I'm creating a legacy." Before Volcanics asked, he added, "And you're going to help me."

Theon roared and tried to pull away, but several troops shoved him toward the hilltop. Death trailed behind them, fighting the urge to search for Rot and Memory in the onslaught. If they died because of his negligence...

No, there was no time for such thoughts.

Watching the scene, his youngest recruits frowned as Theon was dragged across the valley, but they were not alone. More than a few soldiers eyed the scene warily. Even in Frost Holm, some rebels openly disapproved of the collar, voicing their concerns more than once while Volcanics was their prisoner.

"Don't do this," wheezed Theon. "Why would you attack the Council— those you've worked alongside for all these years? Have you no heart?"

"You don't want me to attack the wife you've been cheating on?" Death kicked Theon to the ground. "The Court, who sent your son to live among humans? The boy who couldn't stand you so much that he'd rather live as a mortal than step foot in Alta?" Grabbing Theon by the shackles, he growled, "Don't preach to me about morals when your own heart is tainted, God of Volcanics."

"Mortal? You don't mean..."

Death snorted. Of course, those were the only words that got through to him. He released the band, letting the divine drop.

"Maruble's abandoned his home to become human." He said each word slowly, savoring them completely. "But with The Sea's changing tides, I wonder if he's still alive?"

"You're lying," Theon growled.

"The God of Fire told me himself."

Before Theon could respond, Noctavius snatched the collar. Since he hadn't absorbed anything in months, power had accumulated in the device and funneled into his bloodstream with delicious speed. Smoke seeped from his skin. The air was tinged with the smell of ash and mountains as it vibrated with energy. He pulled until his body shook with delight, and when he couldn't take anymore, he called out to his legion.

"Clear a path!"

The Goddess of Wind, taking a spot on the hill next to him, repeated the order. It zipped down the battlefield until the combatants on the wall stopped what they were doing and ran away from the stronghold, leaving a large gap down the middle— right to the front gate.

The God of Death lifted a hand.

Lava gushed down the hill, gurgling like a hot, surging stream as it consumed the valley before him. Everything it touched bubbled and burned. His soldiers, saved from stray droplets due to Wind's diligence, squinted at the light. The heat pressed against them. Shouts of fear echoed in the valley, but whether it was the Balance's or his company, he couldn't tell.

Death laughed and slammed Theon's power into the front gates. It crackled against the wards. He moved closer, ignoring the stray fires that singed the leg of his pants. Wind followed alongside him, as well as a boy whose name slipped his memory, and they approached.

A barrier of distorted air protected the doors. The thick film glowed, keeping the liquid fire from moving any further. He pressed harder. The magma sizzled, hissing like boiling water as it broke through one layer and then two.

A small group of renegades dragged Theon closer, and Volcanics slumped in their grip— his face a dangerous ashen gray. There wasn't much time until he burned out.

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Frowning, Death inspected the entrance. No ward was perfect, not even a ward made by the Court of Balance's elite. He scanned the glowing barrier until something caught his eye: a flickering caused by lava snaking in further than it should. With a wave of his hand, he redirected his target. Noctavius gathered the flow and sliced through the weak point.

Lava barreled forward. The Wings yelled and pointed, firing at the walls of molten rock protecting them, but to no avail.

A breeze swirled through the air and cooled the sweat on his forehead. While Theon's skills protected him from burns, everyone else relied on the young goddess to keep it breathable. She remained focused, both arms raised high, and her face scrunched with concentration.

The barrier flashed.

Death remained still, unable to see anything. When the light faded and the world around him returned to normal, the ward on the entryway was gone. He smirked and lifted his hand.

"Wait!"

The boy with the Goddess of Wind stumbled forward. His face was pale, and his hands trembled as he clasped them together.

"You have to stop. Please." He glanced at Volcanics. "You're killing him."

Theon was sprawled on the ground, and his breath came out in quick huffs. The troops who carried him had run off, and an unfortunate few had stumbled into the lava and burned, their corpses slowly sinking into the bubbling stream before disappearing.

"Who are you?" snapped Noctavius.

"Knives. I am the God of Knives."

"Knives." He clenched his jaw. "You're the boy that Somel took in."

Wind blocked an arrow from sinking into the boy's chest. He flinched, and all he could do was nod.

A scared child— one brought to the battlefield by him. Noctavius was so consumed with the war that he had forgotten how young some of his recruits were. Studying him now, the boy didn't come up to his shoulder in height, and there wasn't a shred of hair on his chin, and yet he had witnessed fellow soldiers be burned alive.

"If you're not going to fight," Death said softly, "I suggest you retreat to the hill before getting yourself killed."

"What are you doing?" hissed Wind.

The boy whirled on her. "Is staying together so important that all these people have to die?"

"I—" she started but then stopped, frowning. "I don't know what else to do."

She lowered her hands, and the lava's heat rushed over them. Death grimaced and motioned to the battalion lingering a few feet away. Out of the entire regiment, the only ones brave enough to stand close to that stream of fire were the children, and even the fighters he called upon hesitated before approaching.

"Get them out of here." He nodded at the moaning god on the ground. "And take Volcanics with you."

Eager to leave, the divines grabbed the children and Theon, hauling them back to the hilltop. The guilt buried in Death's gut stirred again, but he ignored it.

He would be dead soon. The people who fought, his army and his friends, would live on, creating a better life for themselves and future generations. Even if they didn't like him— didn't agree with his methods— he would stand by them until his last breath. His last gift to his people would be hope.

A figure appeared before him, standing deathly still. While it was dressed like a warrior, its clothes were tattered and tinged the color of swamp water.

Noctavius sucked in a breath and stepped forward.

"It's time, God of Death." The corpse's voice gurgled. "Return to the Underworld."

"How about we make a deal?"

He put his shaking hands in his pockets. Trying to maintain his composure, he stared past the disfigured warrior and to his rebels on the hilltop.

It snarled, "A deal?"

"I'll go under one condition." Noctavius motioned to the Court of Balance. "Help me win this war. Help me, and if I survive until the end, I'll come with you peacefully. Regardless of the outcome."

"You leave the souls of our families rotting in caves. We helped you capture the God of Volcanics, and now you ask for more?"

"I'll be useless if you take me now," said Death, trying to hide the trembling in his voice. "But if you make this deal, I'll hand myself to you, and I won't rest until every last soul in the Underworld is set free."

The creature mulled it over. Noctavius held his breath, sweat dripping down his forehead from Theon's volcanic streams.

Finally, it muttered, "What will you have us do?"

"Break through the gate and take the walls." His heart pounded as he continued, "Kill anyone in the Court of Balance. Empty their halls so my people can claim them."

The corpse hesitated. "And you'll come with us?"

Death nodded, keeping his face composed. If he died before then, the dead wouldn't be able to take him to the netherworld, and his soul would be lost in the caves. They would have no authority over him.

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

The creature laughed, but it sounded like a wheeze. "No army can defeat the dead— not even an army of gods."

At once, thousands upon thousands of bodies rose from the earth. The restless souls of the Underworld stood tall, most of them wearing the frayed garb of an ancient legion. They donned armor caked with rust and carried swords, some of which were broken in half, and a select few carried termite-ridden shields as long as their torsos.

Before their targets could react, the dead moved. They pressed against the gateway. With the wards gone, the threshhold groaned under their weight. Some of the corpses slashed at the hinges while others threw their rotting bodies into the wood. Commanders shouted orders to their soldiers on the wall, their voices strangled and desperate, but it was too late.

The gate cracked, and the doors slammed inward.

Death observed the horde overtake the sanctuary with dread and awe. They slayed all in their path, their bones creaking as swords carved through the air, and he knew his time was coming soon.

Squeezing the neck of his shirt between his fingers, he gazed up at the battlements. Somewhere up there, the people he once promised to protect were fighting for their lives against his dead. If any of the council were still alive, they would be dead once his troops took the Court.

For a moment, his thoughts lingered on the God of Knives. Without knowing him, the boy tried to protect Theon, if only because he couldn't bear to witness his pain.

Somel taught him well.

Perhaps one day, long after he was gone, Knives would understand the urgency behind his actions. He would live out the remainder of his youth freely, without the shackles of Alta's laws binding him, and would not have to hide his ideals. This home would be his last gift to those like him— a chance to live far from Frost Holm's unending winter. It was the only way.

Yes, he was ready now.

The battlements loomed over him. Noctavius's thoughts drifted to the God of Rot and the Goddess of Memory. He would have liked to speak with them one last time, to thank them for all they had done, but he was out of time. Perhaps now, they could live behind the walls without fear, and Somel wouldn't have to hide.

With that thought in mind, Death raised his swords and charged with the Underworld's warriors. They charged inside the Court of Balance as one. The remaining lava scorched the entrance, billowing around them in plumes of smoke. He breathed in, gathering all his grief, misery, and fear into his lungs, and released it in a loud cry as he followed the path of the dead.